Fatal Frost (38 page)

‘I see.’ Mullett would always remain cynical until he actually saw someone arrested. He found it difficult to allow his confidence to rise. He glanced at Clarke, standing just behind Frost. ‘And where exactly are you two off to?’

‘To find the boy’s sister, Emily.’

Friday (5)

‘FOREST VIEW, EH?’

Simms tutted, removing his sunglasses. It seemed ludicrous to imagine that anything so brutal as Tom Hardy’s murder could occur in such a serene setting. Had a bizarre satanic ritual really taken place within this modern detached house in a leafy cul-de-sac?

Simms was unconvinced. ‘I ask you though – how? How on earth could they get the body to the golf course? And why?’ he implored.

‘Man, I don’t know,’ Waters conceded as they got out of the car.

‘These schoolgirls can’t drive. What did they do, fly him there on a broomstick? No, he was killed in Denton Woods, he had to be, and then the body was moved to the golf course.’ He popped the boot and regarded the cat-size package distastefully. ‘Not sure how this is going to go down, either, especially the bin bag.’ The original Jiffy bag was now wrapped in additional layers of black plastic to contain the smell.

He spun the package irreverently in his hands and then stopped abruptly, looking at the bin-liner wrapping. ‘Hey, maybe they used some sort of liner? A giant polythene bag. It would keep the body clean and also the killer could drag it’ – he sighed – ‘for whatever perverted reason.’ He rang the doorbell.

The supermarket manager led Frost towards the checkout till, behind which sat Mrs Ellis. At the morgue on Tuesday her beauty had been largely disguised by a mask of grief, but today she was strikingly attractive, with glossy red hair. Seeing her working at a checkout, Frost felt a pang of indignation; the spotty schoolgirls either side of her belonged here, but Mrs Ellis seemed to deserve better. As they drew nearer and she looked up, recognizing him, her face betrayed a rapid flurry of feelings. Frost was saddened that her initial look had been one of hope; maybe her little girl wasn’t really dead, maybe it was all a bad dream? The look vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

Frost and Clarke stood politely to one side while she finished serving a customer. In an effort to find out more about the so-called Five Bells, Frost had decided to talk first to Mrs Ellis, who he was sure would be more candid and helpful than the slippery pair from Two Bridges, although he realized he needed to tread carefully so as not to upset her unduly. Mrs Ellis had said on the telephone that it was likely Samantha and Tom had spent Friday night together, although where they went she couldn’t say. Frost now believed it was Forest View.

The store manager left the three of them in his office, shutting the door behind him as he left.

‘I thought it best that I went back to work as soon as I could,’ said Mrs Ellis, her unsteady hands struggling with a pack of cigarettes. ‘Nothing can bring my little girl back now, so sitting around at home isn’t going to help me.’ She looked across the desk at Frost. Viewed closely, her eyes were lined beyond her years. ‘Most people think I was mad to come back to work,
what
with Sam not even buried …’ She ground to a halt.

‘Besides,’ the woman continued, ‘the bleeders won’t pay me if I don’t turn up.’

Frost was perplexed; here was Mrs Ellis, a bereaved mother, worrying about the paltry earnings from a supermarket job, whereas her relatives, the Hartley-Joneses, were sitting comfortably in Denton’s most exclusive neighbourhood. The Ellis family were clearly the poor relations. It seemed a shame, not to say peculiar, that Samantha’s uncle couldn’t have helped out in a practical way instead of just making a fuss about the
Echo
running the story about the suicide theory. Frost was yet to come across Mr Hartley-Jones, a man he’d dismissed as a mate of Mullett’s who’d been burgled and who was, in short, a pain in the arse, but he felt a sudden keenness to pay him a visit.

‘Mrs Ellis,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you could help us. It hadn’t really occurred to us that your daughter could be linked to Tom Hardy’s death, but we’ve uncovered certain information that suggests a connection.’

‘Really? And what’s that?’

‘It’s difficult to explain. As yet the lines aren’t entirely clear. But we’re very keen to know who Samantha’s closest friends were, and the sort of things she and her friends got up to. For instance, we understand that she used to be a Girl Guide.’

‘Yes, that’s right. She was particularly close to a few of those girls – there’s Sarah and Gail out at Two Bridges, and Emily, Tom’s sister. She’s known them all for years.’

‘Mrs Ellis, when we interviewed those girls they denied knowing your daughter. Would you have any clue as to why that might be?’

The mother’s pleasant face morphed into a haggard mask of anger. ‘Because,’ she said, trying to regain composure and hold back the tears, ‘since my husband’s death, those snooty bitches and their parents considered themselves too good for my girl.’

Frost looked at the woman intently. Class snobbery was something he met all the time and yet still found hard to comprehend. Considering himself ‘classless’ he struggled to understand those who acted from such motives. Burleigh was a lawyer; surely he must know the implications of lying to the police? Did he seriously consider his class prejudice to be more important than that?

‘Fucking snobs,’ sniffed Mrs Ellis.

‘Anyone else?’ Clarke asked. Frost had all but forgotten she was there. ‘Anyone else she was close to?’

‘Her cousin Nicola. She lives at Forest View.’

‘Her
cousin
?’ Frost exclaimed. ‘What, the Hartley-Joneses have a daughter?’

Mrs Ellis nodded. Frost pulled out the list Simms had given him and ran his finger down it, although he knew he would have spotted a name like Hartley-Jones. ‘Nicola not a Guide, then?’

‘Well, she was.’ Mrs Ellis peered over to see what Frost was looking at.

‘It’s a list of all the Girl Guides in Denton,’ he said, passing it over.

‘There she is – Parke. Nicola Parke. She’s more often than not the ringleader. Very pretty and very full of herself. Captain of the hockey team at St Mary’s, no less.’

‘Parke?’ Frost’s mind raced. The name Parke had appeared in the Records file Mullett handed him yesterday. It was one of the names of the original Five Bells.

‘Her mother’s maiden name. She doesn’t get on with her stepfather – my late husband’s brother.’

‘But you’re
Ellis
?’

‘I told you, he’s dead. I reverted to my maiden name. Sam started using it as well. I’m not sorry to be no longer part of that family. Those men were spoilt brats, the pair of them,’ she said bitterly, lighting a second cigarette.

Frost scratched his head. So, Mrs Hartley-Jones had a
daughter
. Where on earth was
she
last weekend? Evidently not at home, otherwise the niece wouldn’t have been drafted in to feed the cat. ‘And this Nicola, where was she last weekend?’

‘With her natural father, I’d guess. He doesn’t live round here. The girls had a bit of a falling-out, so that’s probably why she decided to go there.’

‘Any clue as to why they’d fallen out?’ Clarke asked.

Mrs Ellis shot her a glance. ‘Girls can be very cruel to one another,’ she said. ‘Especially when it comes to boys, don’t you find?’

‘At a certain age, yes, I suppose so,’ Clarke answered diffidently. ‘Was it because Sam had a boyfriend, then?’

‘Not especially.’ Mrs Ellis sighed. ‘They’re evil to each other for no apparent reason.’

Frost glanced at Clarke. He couldn’t fathom where this was leading. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘and I appreciate this must be painful for you; when Gail Burleigh and Sarah Ferguson were interviewed about your daughter’s death they denied they ever knew her. They must have known there was a huge risk of us finding out the truth, and yet they felt the risk was worth it. Can you think of any reason why?’

Mrs Ellis looked unmoved. ‘No idea, but they could lie for England, that lot. And make no mistake, they’re not stupid, not by any stretch.’

‘Thanks for that, Mrs Ellis. Very helpful,’ Frost said.

Clarke met his eye.

They had found their fifth Bell.

‘What’s your take on this Two Bridges lot?’ Frost asked, perplexed, as he and Clarke stood on the street outside the supermarket. ‘If they’re that clever, why would they blatantly lie to the police?’

‘Like she says, they would have lied for a purpose.’

‘But what purpose?’

Clarke shrugged. Frost sparked up a Rothmans, noticing as he did so the estate agent’s over the road, and in particular the fair-haired young gent he’d seen yesterday with Simms at Eagle Lane, visible through the plate-glass window.

‘Maybe Mrs Ellis was right first time, it’s simply the snob in them not wanting to be associated with the riff-raff. Anyway, let’s pop over there for a second.’ He moved to cross the road but suddenly spotted a traffic warden eyeing the Cortina, which was parked half-on half-off the kerb. He knew full well that the High Street was a double-yellow zone and that the supermarket had a car park, but if you couldn’t break the rules when on a murder investigation …

‘Oh, for the love of … Oi, you! That’s a police vehicle!’

‘I am well aware of that, sir,’ said the warden who, buttoned up tightly in his pristine uniform, resembled a youthful Mullett. ‘You left your windows down and the radio has been—’

Frost reached inside and snatched up the handset. It was Bill Wells. Frost had left Martin Wakely stewing in Interview Room 1. He’d clean forgotten.

‘Blast!’ Frost said. ‘Just lock him up.’

‘What for?’ came the crackled response. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Oh yeah, Jack, we’ve got some leads on the chimney sweep; a couple of calls have come in following the
Echo
splash …’

‘Get Simms on it. I’m tied up in town and about to nut a traffic warden. As for Wakely, wave a Receiving Stolen Goods or a Possession of a Fire Arm charge under his nose; the smell of that should bring him round.’ He chucked the handset on the passenger seat. The traffic warden had gone, but had left his hateful yellow calling card under the windscreen wiper. Frost swore and made to cross the road.

My God, he’s coming here! thought Chris Everett in panic. The policeman in sunglasses, whom he recognized from the station,
was
heading his way across the road, along with his attractive sidekick. What on earth did they want? He’d done what had been asked of him. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

Trying to remain calm, Everett adopted a welcoming pose as the two CID officers entered the office.

‘Good afternoon, may I help you? I’m Chris Everett, the regional manager.’ He proffered his hand.

‘Getting muggy out there,’ said the scruffy detective, ignoring the handshake gesture.

Everett speculated that he was only in his late thirties but he looked worn, and what was that smell on him?

‘Wouldn’t surprise me if the weather broke again later,’ Frost persisted. He was smiling disarmingly, presumably expecting Everett to respond.

‘Er … yes,’ he said, wishing they’d get to the point of why they were there.

The female detective moved around the office and began to chat to the girls.

The policeman glanced cursorily at the For Sale board. ‘Business good this time of year? Or is it too hot for punters to go traipsing around houses?’

Did he presume Everett knew who he was? He’d not introduced himself. Was this some sort of trick? ‘I’m sorry,’ he pre-empted, ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure …?’

‘DS Frost, Denton CID, and my colleague’ – he waved at the young woman, who now seemed to be genuinely studying the To Let board – ‘DC Clarke.’

‘Ah yes, I thought you looked familiar. I think I saw you yesterday,’ the estate agent said hesitantly.

‘Yes, you may well have done,’ the detective said casually. ‘Tell me, Mr Everett, did you notice earlier today three youths on bikes matching a similar description to the ones who mugged you loitering across the road, outside Bejam’s supermarket?’

How on earth did he know that? Everett glanced nervously
at
the office girls, who were looking intently at him; he couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t here. Could he even lie and say he’d not seen them? He felt perspiration break out on his top lip. ‘Er … no,’ he forced out. ‘When was this, exactly?’