Fatal Frost (39 page)

‘This morning, at about ten. Think hard, Mr Everett.’

The woman detective moved away from the window. Everett was having trouble keeping his eye on both of them at the same time.

She spoke up: ‘They were there for at least half an hour. It would be surprising if you
hadn’t
seen something, given the proximity of the supermarket across the way.’ Her look was inscrutable.

He knew he daren’t admit to seeing them, or they’d be questioning why he didn’t report it. ‘I just don’t recall,’ he said. ‘My office is at the back …’ He gestured vaguely behind him. Would the girls give him away? Would they remember him peering nervously through the window at the boys in question?

‘Ladies,’ the detective said, addressing Vicky and Claire. ‘Did either of you notice anything? A bunch of kids loitering, pulling wheelies over the road?’ They both looked nervously at Everett before shaking their heads in unison.

The door chimed and a woman entered with a brown and white spaniel at her heels. Clarke made to fuss over the animal but Claire was quickly on her feet.

‘No animals allowed, madam,’ she said, pointing to a notice on the door. ‘Mr Everett is allergic to them.’

‘Is he?’ Frost said, giving Everett a look that sent his blood cold. ‘Well, he’s not alone there.’ The moment passed and the detective smiled thinly. ‘We’ll leave you in peace now, but keep a look-out. It’s possible that whoever attacked you may come back for more. Anything
untoward
happens, you let me know.’ Frost handed him a card. ‘Well, good day, sir.’

Untoward?
What on earth did he mean? Everett watched from the window as the pair returned to their unmarked vehicle.
The
detective pulled a parking ticket from beneath the wiper and made a show of ripping it up. Everett didn’t know what to think. Perhaps the police were merely concerned for his safety, but did he misread the penetrating look the detective gave him regarding the dog? Was he beyond suspicion? He felt a tingle of adrenalin. If only he could think of a way to deal with those little thugs …

‘So, Mrs Hartley-Jones, can we run through this one more time? All the …’ Simms began but then paused as a tall, slim, dark-haired man in his late fifties appeared in the doorway of the front room. The man was clearly dressed for golf, in an argyle sweater and plus-fours. The husband, Simms thought, and the pain-in-the-arse mate of Mullett’s who kept pestering them to nail the jewel thief, and who complained about Frost’s screw-up over the Ellis girl’s supposed suicide.

Waters got to his feet and approached him with his hand outstretched, whereas Simms elected to ignore him and continue to push his scatty cow of a wife to get her facts straight.

‘To recap.’ He cleared his throat. ‘All the beds were made and there was no evidence of people sleeping here. Of, shall we say, teenage activity. And the rubbish bin was clear, exactly as you’d left it on the Friday afternoon.’

‘Correct. When Nicola has been left alone before – only for a night, mind’ – the woman looked shifty, clearly unsure of whether at sixteen her daughter could legally be left alone, and Simms saw no reason to put her mind at ease – ‘there is usually a trace of something or other. Cigarette ends, cider bottles, takeaway wrappers – you know the sort of stuff.’

He did; he was more than familiar with that sort of debris at his Fenwick Street police digs.

‘I still find it odd that you didn’t mention you had a daughter when we called on Monday,’ Simms probed.

‘You didn’t ask. And why would I need to mention it when
she
wasn’t here?’ The woman looked indignant. ‘She went to stay with her father for the weekend, which is why her cousin was feeding the cat. I’m still not entirely sure what this is about. Are you suggesting that there was some sort of a wild party held here while we were away, and that unfortunate boy was here before being murdered on the golf course?’

‘It’s a possibility we have to acknowledge, yes,’ he said, and added, addressing them both, ‘There was carpet fibre found on the boy’s sock.’

‘Ridiculous!’ the tall man exploded, causing Waters to step back into the room. ‘Do you think we’re the only people in Denton with a new carpet! Vera, you’re not to talk to these people any more. I shall call Superintendent Mullett this instant!’

Simms reached down and pulled a few strands from the recently laid carpet before making to leave. The woman looked flustered by her husband’s outburst, and stood up from the sofa, unsure what to do next. Hartley-Jones stepped aside to allow them out.

As he passed him, Simms couldn’t resist a parting shot. ‘Sir, it is highly likely that Tom Hardy was in your house on Friday evening to see your niece. Both children are now dead. It would be useful if you assisted us with our enquiries rather than turfing us out on to the street.’

‘Wait. Excuse me,’ Waters said suddenly as they reached the porch. ‘Last time we were here I remember stepping over a pile of large candles. They were here where the wellingtons are.’

‘We do have electricity out here, just like you do in London,’ snapped Hartley-Jones.

‘Mrs Hartley-Jones, do you remember, you asked me to mind my step?’ Waters persisted.

Simms noted the expression on her face: anxiety and confusion. He tapped Waters on the elbow to go. The woman was frightened – there was no point pushing her now.

* * *

At five past four Frost was on the verge of opening the Basildon Bond envelope that had been glaring at him accusingly all week from the untidy desk. The detective in him read the sharp capitals and understroke as signs of a missive written in anger. He toyed with the edge of the envelope, recalling that she’d said not to read it.

‘Sergeant Frost.’

‘Ah, PC Miller, come in.’ Frost jolted upright in his chair, sliding the unopened letter to one side and reaching for his cigarettes.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ The police constable looked hot and bothered, like everyone else in Eagle Lane, but his sweaty sneer and the way the standard-issue black tie had been tugged casually to the side gave him the air of a malevolent school bully.

‘How are you finding your new housemate?’

‘Beg pardon, guv?’

‘You live, do you not, in police accommodation at Fenwick Street?’

‘Y-yes,’ Miller stammered.

‘Well. How are you coping with your guest? DS Waters, the black officer?’ Frost waited for the PC to open his mouth, then snapped, ‘Or had you not noticed? I won’t beat around the bush, Miller. I have your personnel file in front of me …’

‘You’ve no—’

‘No what? Right? I think I’ll be the judge of who has the right to do what, Constable.’ Frost paused for a drag on his cigarette. ‘I also have your duty roster here. You’ve done ten days straight – without a day off, including the bank holiday. For the overtime, no doubt.’

Miller nodded reluctantly.

‘And you’ve the next three days off according to this, finishing today at the end of an early shift.’ Frost flicked a buff folder on to the desk.

‘Yes, guv.’

‘Wrong, guv,’ Frost stated. ‘You’re on a stake-out tonight. And tomorrow night, and probably into the small hours of Sunday.’

Miller’s face fell and he opened his mouth guppy-like in protest.

‘You’ll be on duty outside the Pink Toothbrush with your accomplice from eight o’clock this evening. Understood?’

The chubby PC wasn’t as stupid as he looked, Frost thought. He knew that by ‘accomplice’ he was referring to whoever else had jumped DS Waters on Wednesday. Frost had no authority over uniform, but Miller was not about to question Frost’s request – he’d got off lightly, and they both knew it. Through formal channels Frost would probably get nowhere – racism polluted the ranks of the force from top to bottom – but this way the message might just get through. He could have gone to Mullett; Mullett would in principle have supported him, but then be too afraid to upset the apple cart to act. Life was too short. Frost had put his marker down.

‘Good,’ Frost concluded. ‘There’s a big do at the golf club tonight – lot of bigwigs who may well fancy a rub-down after a hard day’s strolling around the greens. You’re not to make an arrest. Observe only; watch the comings and goings, is that clear?’

‘Yes, guv.’

‘I’m glad we understand each other. And if DS Waters so much as breaks out in a sweat, I’ll have your balls in a kebab.’ The constable made to go. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ Frost added, ‘you’ll pay for the damage to Sergeant Waters’ Vauxhall, too. Dismissed.’

Friday (6)

FROST HAD ACTED
, and Clarke felt for him.

It had just gone six, and the four of them were sitting in the main CID office, all eyes on Frost sipping lukewarm Harp lager.

She could tell he was unsure of his decision; that it was only his instinct that told him it was the right move. But instinct had let him down previously.

First, he brought in both the girls from Two Bridges. He wanted to nail them for the murder of Tom Hardy, but couldn’t press charges yet as he had no actual evidence. All he had on them so far was a charge of giving false information, and indeed, they’d lied so boldly that he was sure they were guilty of something. He hoped that with cross-examination they might unwittingly give one another away.

Second, an even bolder move, he’d sealed off the Hartley-Joneses’ place at Forest View.

‘Forensics are all over the place,’ Waters said. ‘Mrs H-J really wasn’t happy. She was straight on the blower to the golf club, where her husband was playing with Mr Mullett—’

‘I don’t give a monkey’s whether she’s happy or not. Besides’ – Frost checked his watch – ‘they don’t play golf in the dark, and Mr Mullett and co. will already have been on the lash for a good few hours. Did you tell them to check the garden for access to the woods?’

‘Yes, they’re checking everywhere with a fine-tooth comb.’

‘That doesn’t stack up,’ Simms interjected. ‘All right, there is access to Denton Woods that way but it’s not as the crow flies, it’s …’

Frost shot him an angry glance. ‘I’m not interested in your avian observations. Schoolgirls could not have driven the body to the golf course, and they’d never risk it on foot, whatever the hour. No, they had to go via the woods.’

Clarke could tell Frost was tired and frustrated. She knew as well as Simms from the OS maps that this was an unlikely route and she reckoned that Frost probably knew as much, too.

‘What about a motive, Jack? Or do you think they just did it for the hell of it?’

Frost’s brow creased. She knew he was having difficulty believing pure witchcraft to be the rationale, even though everything was pointing that way.

‘Revenge? For getting the girl pregnant?’ he offered. ‘We’ll find out soon enough, I promise. Right, what are we waiting for?’

‘Solicitors,’ Waters said.

‘Sod them,’ Frost spat. ‘Burleigh is one himself, for starters, and we’re not even charging – yet.’ He got up to take another lager off Simms. ‘OK, Waters and I will take Sarah Ferguson, as we had her on Wednesday. Simms and Clarke: Gail Burleigh.’

Frost had not met Sarah Ferguson’s father before. It was the mother who had greeted them at the family home on Wednesday. He appeared to be an ordinary middle-aged man, already worn down by life. Here, in the airless interview room he
seemed
more inconvenienced than cross, as if he’d rather be at home with his feet up in front of the telly.

Sarah herself looked a far cry from the pouting minx he’d interviewed on Wednesday. The heavy eyeliner and mascara were gone. Sitting before him was a schoolgirl version of her balding father, with acne. She flicked a strand of mousy hair out of her face.

For a moment he felt guilty about the accusations weighing on his mind. This was a schoolgirl! He tried to push away the doubts and focus on what was at stake – as a friend of Emily Hardy this girl was crucial to the investigation. He assessed her behaviour and appearance. He had to remember she was smart; it was always possible she’d ‘dressed down’ to give the impression of guilelessness and innocence.

‘Thank you for coming in,’ Frost opened, sitting down opposite the father and daughter. Waters remained standing. Frost had requested he observe only.

‘That’s quite all right. We’d be grateful if you could kindly let us know what the problem is, exactly.’ The man spoke softly, not looking at his daughter.