Fatal Frost (35 page)

‘All right, all right,’ Simms said in a placatory tone.

‘’Ere, who’s yer chum?’ Wilson said, having suddenly noticed Waters, who was nosing around some ancient taxidermy at the front of the store.

‘Him? Drafted in from East London. A specialist in thieving swindlers like you. You’d better watch out.’

‘Bit of respect. I’m due it. I’ll tell Mr Frost.’

‘Calm down. What exactly did they try to pawn?’ Simms took out his notebook.

‘Necklaces – two of ’em – one diamond and one pearl.’ Wilson opened his tobacco tin and with shaky hands began to fashion a roll-up. ‘Now, if it were just the pearls I might have let it go; he said they were ’is nan’s, but the styles were poles apart. I’ve got a nose for this sort of thing. Knew he was a wrong ’un …’

‘OK, these kids – description?’

‘Two of them, there were; hooded tracksuits and sunglasses. Only got a proper butcher’s at one. ’E was wearing – whatchercall’em – mirror glasses. I knew there was something
fishy
about it. I mean, it’s sunny as you like outside, but in ’ere it ain’t quite the same.’

‘Certainly isn’t,’ Simms replied, eyeing a sickly-looking spider plant on the counter. ‘This lad, anything else you can tell me?’

‘Average height – about five nine, five ten, cropped hair. Crooked hooter.’

‘Crooked or broken?’

‘Like this.’ Wilson pushed his nose to the left.

‘Wait a minute – how old do you reckon he is?’

‘Dunno. Seventeen, eighteen?’

‘Hardly a kid, then.’

‘When you’re as old as me they’re all babies.’

‘What gives?’ said Waters, sidling up.

‘Martin bloody Wakely is what,’ replied Simms.

Chris Everett peered through the plate-glass window of the estate agent’s. Fooling about outside the supermarket on the other side of the High Street were three kids on BMX bikes. Yesterday evening down the station he had drawn a blank; he’d not identified any of the juvenile delinquents who’d attacked him from the photos he was forced to wade through. Though of course
had
he recognized anyone he wouldn’t have said. Fortunately, neither the jeweller nor the newsagent had come up with anyone either, but Everett couldn’t help but feel the detective had expected more from him – perhaps because he had also seen the attack?

Was he being paranoid or were those kids watching him? Wait a minute, were they the same three that had attacked him? They suddenly looked familiar. Or had he just seen them around a few times? Come to think of it, he’d definitely seen some very similar-looking kids yesterday, hanging around near his house.

The thought hovered sickeningly at the back of his mind. Blackmail. They’d been hanging around outside for most of
the
morning. When the mugging was mentioned in the paper his name and occupation were printed, so it was easy enough for them to find out where he worked, where he lived. They weren’t stupid – a man carrying thousands of pounds’ worth of jewellery around in a briefcase was clearly up to no good.

Suddenly the kids made off in haste; Everett nudged the Lettings board aside and saw the reason – a bobby on the beat. Two smaller children on bikes loitering by the rack of supermarket trolleys took off after the others.

‘Chris, there’s a Mr Mullett on the phone for you.’

It was the policeman whose house he’d valued. Not for the first time, he thought about cutting his losses and getting on a plane to Australia; holing up with his brother until things blew over. Although such action would throw Fiona into turmoil and probably make her suspicious, not to mention the effect it would have on the children, he might soon have no other option. The scales were tipping: he’d taken a risk too many.

Friday (3)

FROST WAS FAMISHED;
he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Was it yesterday lunchtime at Billy’s Café? He’d not had a thing this morning before he’d left the station for the lab. Perhaps a sense of progress with his caseload had made his appetite resurface with a vengeance. They had certainly made some headway; there were leads to follow up … and yes, if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t deny a sense of relief on learning that Sue Clarke had got herself a boyfriend. At first he’d felt put out by her confession, but the feeling was fleeting. It was telling that he suddenly felt better disposed towards her than he had done for weeks, and as a result they were on their way out to get some early lunch. Maybe a liquid lunch.

‘Jack, wait a sec,’ Desk Sergeant Bill Wells called after him as he reached the front door. ‘You’ve got some visitors.’ He nodded towards the bench in reception. Frost instantly recognized the two scruffy children from the gypsy camp. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed them.

Just then, Simms burst through the revolving door, almost
colliding
with Clarke. ‘Guv, we’ve had a breakthrough on the burglaries.’

‘Nothing all week and then bang – like buses.’ Frost swung round. ‘Kids, I’ll be with you in a sec. Derek, slowly now, what have you got?’

‘Sid Wilson, the pawnbroker, just gave a description of the kid offloading the gems; it was Martin Wakely.’

‘Martin Wakely? Bit big to be charging around on a BMX, isn’t he? I remember when his mum was up the spout with him. I was in uniform. I nabbed her shoplifting in Bejam’s when she was eight months gone. From the size of the bulge she had, you’d have thought she was pregnant with an elephant.’

‘He does have a younger brother, Gary. I just checked with Records. He’s fourteen.’

‘Has he? Interesting.’ This was starting to make sense; kids scooting around on bikes like little Dick Turpins, nabbing stuff and passing it to big brother to offload. ‘Did Sid take any gear off Wakely senior?’

‘Nope, he was too suspicious. Called us instead.’

‘Shame, Sid developing a conscience all of a sudden at his time of life. If we actually had an item we could nail the little bleeder and pinpoint where it had been nabbed. What exactly did Sid say? Nothing to get him spooked, I hope; that’s all we need, him heading for the hills and the kids all going to ground.’

‘He asked Wakely how he’d come by such quality necklaces. He said he’d inherited them from his nan or something. Sid told him they were too valuable for him personally, and suggested he try Sparklers in Merchant Street …’

‘Where they probably came from in the first place. What did Wakely say to that?’

‘Just shrugged and left.’

‘You’d best go wheel him in, then. Don’t go alone; our Martin’s a little bit tasty with his fists and has a short fuse. Take John. You two make such a lovely couple.’ Whilst they’d been talking,
Waters
had entered the building. He stood placidly behind Simms, although his black eye still looked nasty.

‘Oh and Simms, you haven’t got a couple of quid, have you?’ Frost asked.

‘Brassic, sorry.’ Simms patted himself up and down.

‘Here.’ Clarke pulled her purse out of her shoulder bag. ‘How much do you want?’

‘A pair of ones.’

Clarke handed him two pound notes.

‘Now,’ Frost said, bending down to the two kids, who had sat quietly on the bench in the lobby throughout the exchange with Simms. ‘What have you two found out?’

‘We did what you asked, Mr Frost.’ It was the boy who spoke first. ‘We went to the town centre and looked around for bigger kids on them smart new bikes – BMXs – and followed them.’

‘Yes, it was easy,’ the girl added, ‘’cos most kids were in school apart from them and us!’ She giggled.

‘They stuck mainly to Market Square, bumping up and down the kerb, then headed off down Foundling Street when it got dark. We didn’t cross the canal.’ He looked anxiously at Frost.

‘No, the houses are scary over there.’ The girl pulled a face. ‘Bad people.’

‘The Southern Housing Estate?’ Frost offered.

‘Yeah,’ the boy said sullenly, but quickly brightened up again. ‘Then this morning, we found them again at Market Square.’

‘They spoke to us,’ the girl chipped in.

‘Really? What did they say?’

‘They wanted to know why we weren’t in school,’ the girl said.

‘Yeah, they thought we were pretty cool.’

‘I’m also wondering why you’re not in school,’ Clarke added drily. Frost had forgotten she was there.

‘How old do you reckon they were?’ he asked.

‘Hard to say.’ The boy frowned. ‘Bit older than me … Fifteen?’

‘They sped off really fast when the policeman came up to them this morning while they were waiting for the man in the house shop,’ the girl said excitedly.

‘House shop? Estate agent, you mean?’ Frost asked.

‘Yes. We were hanging about on the other side of the High Street while they waited for the man to come out.’

Frost stood up straight, his back creaking from an uncomfortable night slumped on his desk, and addressed Clarke, ‘Hmm … Bit young to be thinking about getting on the property ladder.’

‘Don’t know,’ Clarke said. ‘Maybe they’ve enough for a deposit already with their ill-gotten gains?’ He could tell from her face that she disapproved of his unconventional use of informants.

‘Estate agent. Estate agent,’ Frost repeated. ‘Wasn’t there one in here the other day? Where’s Simms? Blast, he’s just left. Right …’

‘Hey, what about us?’ The girl tugged on his trousers. ‘We were here at twelve o’clock, like you asked.’

‘Yes, of course. Well done.’ He handed them each a pound note.

‘Now, I don’t think Mr Frost needs your help any more,’ Clarke cut in. ‘Stay out of town for a while. These boys might seem fun but they’re very, very dangerous.’

Frost noticed both children’s faces light up at the thought they’d been courting danger. He realized with hindsight that Clarke was right: it had been irresponsible of him, especially if those BMX kids had anything to do with the Wakelys.

‘Now off you both scoot,’ Clarke said, ‘and whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you’ve been here. Got it?’

They both nodded and ran excitedly towards the door clutching the pound notes. Frost made off down the corridor to look for Simms, already forgetting that he’d only just recalled sending him to look for the Wakelys.

‘Jack, that was dumb.’ Clarke was at his side. ‘What if those animals knew you were using the kids and found out they’d been grassing?’

‘Yes, yes, but it’s fine, no harm done. And even if they found out, the gypsies will be off in a week or so.’ Frost paused to hold the door open. ‘Besides, what have they told us other than the kids on bikes were doing a little house-hunting?’

Clarke entered the CID office. ‘That’s not the point; it’s irresponsible,’ she said brusquely.

‘No.’ He looked at her sternly. ‘The point is, why would a bunch of BMX bandits be interested in an estate agent – possibly one they’ve already mugged, one who could ID them?’

Superintendent Mullett placed the phone back in its cradle. It was the second time today he had spoken to the estate agent. The regional manager no less, a chap named Everett. A decent sort, well educated. Everett had valued the Mulletts’ detached four-bedroom house in Wessex Crescent at £27,000, a respectable amount; though, with the recession dragging on, how long it would take to shift the place was anyone’s guess. Mrs M would have to bide her time if she wanted a Victorian townhouse in Rimmington.

He sighed and spread the
Telegraph
out on his desk. Economic woes were prominent across the spread of the broadsheet. If only those damn Argentines would behave, the Iron Lady would have more time to focus on Blighty. Peruvian peace-plan? Whatever next, he tutted. What had Peru ever done for Britain apart from sending a talking bear in wellington boots?

Thankfully, Mullett still had his sanctuary that was unaffected by the nation’s dreadful state, and it was tee-off at three. The new club would open as planned this afternoon in spite of Wednesday’s awful business.

‘Stanley.’

‘Assistant Chief Constable.’ Mullett stood up abruptly. How
the
devil had he crept in here? He’d be having words with Miss Smith. ‘Just having a five-minute catch-up on the action in the South Atlantic. The Argies have only gone and sunk one of ours.’

‘Really?’ Winslow sniffed. ‘Your secretary said you were on the phone to your estate agent.’ The ACC flopped into the guest chair, rubbing his jaw.