Fatal Frost (45 page)

‘So, let me just run through your trip once more. You left on Friday afternoon for the South Coast. Where was it exactly?’

‘We didn’t go directly to Poole, we stopped at the Trust House Forte hotel, just outside Reading, to visit my brother, Norris. He’s been ever so poorly.’

Frost pulled out his notebook and pen. ‘Reading? Nice this time of year. And not too far away.’ Everything was slotting into place. Reading was certainly feasible as far as a furtive trip home was concerned. One thing remained a mystery, though.

‘One final question if I may, Mrs Hartley-Jones. My colleague DS Waters was convinced you had a number of large candles on the premises. They seem to have vanished. I was curious about what you used them for.’

‘They’re altar candles,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘I’m on the church committee and the vicar lets me have a few every year when we go away.’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow. When you go away?’

‘The caravan site in Poole has very unpredictable electricity. The big church ones last for ages. Michael puts them in the
boot
of the car, and if we don’t use them I bring them back and return them to the church.’

Bingo, thought Frost. That explained the wax on Hardy’s face. He didn’t get it from a bizarre satanic ritual in the woods; Hartley-Jones had the body in the boot of the car, where it must have come into contact with the candles. It also explained why the SOCOs couldn’t find them on their subsequent visit. She’d taken them back to the church.

Superintendent Mullett thoughtfully sipped his coffee on the patio. What a week, he mused. Although it was just after midday he still had the residue of a hangover from the previous evening’s gala dinner. Eyeing his wife through the kitchen window a sense of normality returned to him; he smiled weakly at her before noticing she was mouthing the word ‘phone’.

Closing the door to his study he picked up the telephone receiver lying on the mahogany desk. ‘Mullett here.’

‘Sir, I have him.’ It was Frost.

‘You have
who
?’

‘Michael Hartley-Jones for the murder of Tom Hardy.’

Mullett stared intensely at the aquarium before him, the words not registering. ‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘Hartley-Jones is the killer—’

‘Are you mad? Michael was on the South Coast. What about the girls? Witchcraft and so forth?’

‘No, that’s what we were meant to think, that it was all the kids. But it was Hartley-Jones. I can prove it with the mileage on the car.’

Mullett’s head was reeling. Deep down he had had an uneasy feeling all along, but nothing he could quite put his finger on. If this was serious, he needed to distance himself from his erstwhile friend as soon as possible.

‘I’m on my way in. Don’t do a thing until I get there.’

* * *

‘What did he say?’ Clarke asked.

‘Mr Mullett is on his way in.’ Frost frowned and scratched the back of his head.

That wasn’t good, she thought. ‘On a Saturday? Sounds like you’ve filled him with confidence, then …’

‘Sod this,’ Frost said, exasperated, chucking down his pen. ‘Why do we have to wait? Let’s nick Hartley-Jones now. I’ll ring the
Echo
and tell Sandy …’

‘The
Echo
? Can’t you wait five minutes, Jack? The super will be here in five minutes. What exactly did he say?’ She knew Frost was banking on Emily Hardy reappearing as soon as an arrest for her brother’s killer was announced, but she sensed panic creeping in, which meant he wasn’t so sure the girl was in hiding; rather, he was afraid she was in danger.

‘He didn’t say much.’ Frost flicked through the Rolodex. ‘Every minute counts for the Hardys. Every second that little girl goes unaccounted for …’

‘What
did
Mullett say, Jack?’ Clarke persisted, her finger on the telephone cradle.

‘Do nothing.’ Frost sighed.

‘If Emily Hardy is safe, a couple of minutes won’t make any difference.’ She tried to pacify him, but his doubts were infectious.

‘I doubt the girl’s mother would appreciate you saying that. What if she’s sleeping rough? Anything could be happening to her.’ Frost reached for his cigarettes, and turned his full attention to Clarke. Until this moment he’d barely registered it was her in front of him. ‘Now, tell me, where did Mr Hartley-Jones go in his Land-Rover? Some farm out near Rimmington or Two Bridges, no doubt, for a spot of shooting.’

‘Not as far as that. He parked in the overflow car park used on match days at the bottom of Foundling Street.’

‘Can’t imagine there’s much to shoot down there, except perhaps the odd footballer.’ He shrugged. ‘After the season
they’ve
been having, though, it might be an idea to have a few pot-shots at the back four. Wake them up a bit.’

‘What do you mean?’ Clarke asked. ‘Shoot what? He was off to the game. Denton are at home today.’

‘Not a chance,’ Frost said, sharply. ‘Not his scene at all. Besides, he’s dressed up to go decimating the wildlife. Wellies, Barbour and twelve-gauge.’

‘Sounds like a different man altogether,’ Clarke said. ‘He was wearing a denim jacket, footy scarf and trainers when I saw him get out of the car.’

‘Eh?’ Frost stood up from behind the desk. ‘Why would he do that? Unless—’

‘He was going somewhere he shouldn’t … or at least where he didn’t wish to be seen.’ She suddenly realized what had happened. God, she’d messed up.

‘Or going to see someone he shouldn’t. Someone he’s holding captive. Someone who’s been missing for the best part of a week. And what better way to lose yourself in a crowd – pretend to the wife you’re off with your cronies to bag a few pheasants, kitted out in full shooting garb, then slip off the Barbour and mingle with the hundreds heading for the afternoon match.’

Clarke nodded as it all became clear.

‘What else is round there?’ Frost asked.

‘Nothing much,’ Clarke replied. ‘Football stadium on one side, and the old mill on the abandoned industrial estate on the other. The canal runs along to the south.’

‘Did you see which way he went?’

‘There were people everywhere. I was stuck in the car, and I assumed he’d gone to the match. Sorry, Jack.’

‘Get on to Control,’ Frost said urgently, looking at his watch. ‘Get all available area cars down to the old industrial estate and seal off the Piper Road exit. If he’s on the estate we can net him – but we’ll have to move quickly, before the match is over, or we’ll lose him.’

‘And if he’s not there?’ Clarke asked.

‘Then he’s at the match, although I doubt it, and we’ll pick him up at home after a chat with the super. Ah, boys, how did you get on with the Everetts?’ Clarke turned to see Simms and Waters behind her. Waters started to speak but Frost cut him off. ‘No, tell me en route, we’ve not got time now. Simms, take Clarke and head for Oildrum Lane off Piper Street, towards the industrial estate. We’ll meet you in the middle. She’ll fill you in. Go, off!’

Simms looked at Waters in disbelief. ‘Is no one interested in … ?’ But it was too late, Frost was halfway down the corridor.

Saturday (3)

DESK SERGEANT BILL
Wells looked up from the
Sun
’s racing pages. Only minutes previously Frost and Waters had hurtled out of the front door; now DCs Clarke and Simms followed suit.

Frost had mouthed ‘not a word’ as he’d hurriedly exited the building, which usually meant ‘you’ve not seen me’. That could indicate only one thing – the divisional commander was expected. Wells shuddered. On a
Saturday
? Most unusual.

From what he could make out from Ridley on Control, a siege was planned on the old industrial estate by the canal. The estate had augured bad tidings for many years now; originally it had been occupied by the cotton mill, which had once been the heart of Denton; this had closed shortly after the Second World War, and since then a number of business ventures had started up on the site. None had lasted. The most recent attempt was to convert the old building itself into flats, but the construction company had gone bust when the recession started to bite last year.

‘Wells.’

‘Super.’ Wells looked up, surprised to have his thoughts actuated so soon, and fumbled to turn the wireless down, although Superintendent Mullett marched straight past the front desk and turned not left towards his own office, but down the corridor towards CID. Wells amused himself by trying to guess how soon it would be before the super returned; he was moving at some pace, so his money was on less than a minute.

‘Where on earth is everyone?’

Forty seconds.

‘It’s Saturday, sir.’

‘I know what day of the week it is, Sergeant. Where the hell is Frost? I said I’d be here directly.’

‘He left in a bit of a hurry.’

‘And where are the rest of them? I thought we were on the verge of a breakthrough?’ He appeared exasperated. Wells said nothing. ‘How can there be nobody here? And why is the back door wide open?’ He paced the lobby, troubled.

‘The builders are in, sir,’ Wells suggested, ‘to sort out the problems with your rear entrance.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The station commander stepped up to the desk.

‘The back door, sir. It’s going to have to come off.’

‘This really is the limit,’ Mullett huffed. ‘Get me Frost, immediately. In the meantime I shall deal with the tradesmen.’

Wells wondered whether he ought to tell him that they had the housebreaking suspect, Everett, in the cells. Surely that would lift his spirits? It was too late, though. Mullett had already stormed off back down the corridor to the rear of the building.

As he reached for the telephone, which had been mercifully quiet all morning, it rang.

‘Sergeant Wells.’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Miller. PC Miller. Is Sergeant Frost about? I meant to call him earlier but I was desperate for a kip.’

‘He’s out on a call,’ Wells said, ‘but no doubt he’ll be back later today.’

‘Let him know I called, will you?’

What would Jack want with that reprobate Miller? Terrible attitude, that lad. Then he remembered Miller had been seconded on surveillance duty in the centre of Denton …

The roar of the crowd carried on the breeze from the stadium half a mile away and reached the two men who were standing in front of a chicken-wire gate. Waters clocked a shabby BEWARE OF THE DOG sign hanging off the fencing. He doubted there was still a security guard in place.

‘What’s the plan?’ Waters asked, regarding Frost dubiously.

‘There isn’t one,’ Frost said nonchalantly. ‘I’ll go and poke around inside while you wait here.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if we both went in?’

‘Nah, I need you here to keep a look-out. And to keep in contact with Simms and Clarke on Oildrum Lane.’ He reached inside the car’s glove box. ‘We can keep in touch with these.’

‘Christ, where’d you get those, the War Museum?’ Waters said, wiping what could best be described as ‘matter’ off a walkie-talkie. ‘Wouldn’t we be better off with a plastic cup and a bit of string?’

‘Maybe,’ Frost said, frowning and thumping his handset on the roof of the car. It burst into life. ‘There, you see, it works. Seen better days, I’ll grant you … Go easy on the batteries, they may be low on juice, so we’ll keep usage down to a minimum.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘Of course I’m sure. Look, somebody’s helpfully left the gate open.’ He nudged it and it gave easily. Behind it was a cluster of vacant Portakabins, and beyond that the towering, derelict cotton mill.

‘OK, well, keep it on. And give me a shout in five minutes,’ Waters said reluctantly. He didn’t feel happy about this. Frost
looked
dog-tired, and although he was an experienced officer and an intelligent guy, Waters couldn’t help but feel concerned for him. ‘Are you sure it’s safe in there? I mean, the structure and that …’

But Frost was already halfway across the concrete wasteland.

Simms twiddled with the car radio.

‘I checked with Control. We should be able to pick up Frost’s frequency,’ he said reassuringly.

Clarke was standing outside the car, peering through binoculars; at what, she wasn’t sure. It was an old Victorian building with not a sign of life. A panda car pulled up beside them. It all seemed a bit excessive, and surely if Hartley-Jones caught sight of uniform he’d panic? And then what?