Morning Frost Read online

  Frost picked up the phone and cupped the mouthpiece. ‘Right, you two are dismissed.’

  Simms sat rooted, keen to listen in, but Frost was having none of it.

  ‘Go on, bugger off!’ He paused. ‘Superintendent Kelsey?’ Frost knew the station-commander only vaguely.

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’ came a broad Northern burr. Kelsey had been transferred to Rimmington the previous year after two decades in a bleak corner of West Yorkshire.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Frost.’

  ‘Ahh … Frost,’ the man answered, seemingly satisfied by this. ‘You’re going to enjoy this.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There’s been an incident … involving Superintendent Mullett.’

  Frost rather regretted dismissing Simms and Waters. ‘An incident involving Superintendent Mullett? I’m all ears …’

  ‘Ah. Come in.’

  She was unable to make out where the voice had come from; the room was in virtual darkness save for a light directly above a snooker table. A tall, lean man with a bald head, aged around forty, paced lethargically, eyeing the baize.

  ‘Over here, come and sit next to me.’

  Once her eyes adjusted she spotted the glint of the light reflecting off his crystal glass.

  ‘Come watch the game,’ he murmured softly, patting the plush seat next to him.

  A heavier man with a floppy curtain of hair now stepped up to the table, frowning anxiously.

  ‘Kevin here is in a bit of a predicament.’ She felt his stale breath on her cheek.

  ‘Why?’ she whispered, sensing tension in the room.

  ‘Shh …’

  The sharp clack of balls from the table made her jump. Her companion tutted, his heavy hand resting on her thigh. The floppy-haired man’s shot had not gone as planned. She saw the lean one’s face crease into a smile.

  ‘Kevin has been a silly boy,’ he whispered. ‘Nobbled his opponent last week in the regional snooker finals. A pretty thing like you won’t be interested in such … matters.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘It’s only a game, but people take it very seriously. Especially where money is involved.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed, beginning to understand the situation; his money.

  ‘The other poor bugger had to play with broken fingers.’

  She noticed beads of sweat on Curtain’s brow. The lean man was on the black.

  ‘So, we’re going to test just how good laddy here will be, under the same handicap.’

  The final ball cannoned across the table and disappeared in an instant in the corner pocket, as though sucked down.

  ‘Right.’ Her companion got up slowly, groaning as though with back pain, and moved towards the table. She watched fear take hold of the defeated Kevin.

  ‘Pumpy … please,’ he pleaded. ‘Pumpy …’

  ‘Now, Kev, let’s not be a baby about this.’ He had something in the palm of his hand. ‘Stick or ball?’

  ‘Pumpy … please.’

  ‘OK, never mind, let’s do it this way. Heads, stick; tails, ball.’ Moving into the light of the table, Pumpy tossed the coin he was holding. Seeing him properly now, she was struck by the sheer bulk of the man. He was enormous. ‘So, what’ve we got?’

  ‘Tails,’ Kevin whimpered.

  She watched the lean man’s face erupt into a broad grin. His eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses, which somehow made him even more intimidating. ‘Robert’s favourite. Isn’t it, Robbo?’ Pumpy said, while Robert just continued smiling and toyed with something that looked like a sock.

  ‘Ever seen Scum?’ said the big man, addressing her. ‘It’s a film about a bunch of horrible little toerags at odds with the British penal system.’

  She nodded, not that he could see her, but then he didn’t need to. Almost everyone of her generation had seen it. She knew what was coming, and gripped the seat tightly.

  ‘No, Pumpy, no!’ Kevin backed into two heavies who had been lurking in the shadows.

  ‘Raymond, help Kev place his right hand on the table, please.’ A tall, crop-haired man stepped forward, as Robert knotted the sock, now laden with snooker balls. ‘And you, young lady, come with me.’

  She heard a sickening crack before the gangster pulled the door shut behind him. Poor Kevin wouldn’t be playing snooker again for a very long time.

  ‘Now then, what can I do for you, my lovely Louise?’

  No longer disguised by the darkness of the snooker hall, the full brunt of Pumpy’s pockmarked ugliness caused an involuntary shudder in her.

  Thursday (8)

  It was too good to be true. Mullett being arrested for drunk and disorderly behaviour would’ve made Frost’s year, but the Rimmington station commander had been pulling his leg. All that had really happened, he soon explained, was that an area car had found Denton’s own commander wandering the streets alone, lost and looking for a taxi. The officer had kindly driven him home. No, the real reason Kelsey wanted to speak to Frost was Baskin.

  ‘I didn’t take the call, I was … off duty this morning.’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me, Frost. My condolences. It must’ve been a very difficult time.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ Frost replied, wondering how well known his affairs were in the county, ‘but I did visit Baskin in Denton General this afternoon.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s in the dark. Thinks it was some would-be stripper—’

  ‘And what do you think?’ Kelsey cut in.

  ‘We’re talking about Harry Baskin,’ Frost said, stalling, not really wishing to tell a man he didn’t know, albeit it a senior policeman, his budding theories. ‘Club owner, late fifties, been lord of the manor for the past twenty years in a quiet sort of way, ruffled a good few feathers but never really got seriously dirty – grubby, yes – but outright dirty, no. Friends in high places. Opened a sauna. Owns a successful building firm …’

  ‘Yes, the Assistant Chief Constable has certainly helped that along.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Frost asked disingenuously.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant, you remember how Eagle Lane got rebuilt by Baskin’s firm, after all the bomb damage last year – one of the first major contracts he was awarded. I heard that work dragged on for ages and went over budget. And then ol’ Harry’s sauna place was green-lighted, no questions asked.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember.’ Frost thought back to PC Miller spotting Winslow coming out of the Pink Toothbrush in May. Could the ACC be in with Baskin, as Kelsey seemed to imply? ‘Maybe the ACC is doing his bit to fight the recession.’

  ‘Quite.’ Kelsey sighed, then after a pause added, ‘And being gay in the police is hard work, no matter what rank.’

  Frost raised his eyebrows at the extraordinarily indiscreet revelation, then smiled as he sensed things falling into place. Winslow – gay, of course. As is so often the way, once the truth dawns how obvious it all seems.

  ‘Frost? Hello? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sir, just lighting a cigarette.’ In fact he already had one lit. ‘So, are you suggesting that the ACC had something to do with the shooting?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything … though it does give pause for thought when there are shady goings-on behind the scenes, eh, Sergeant? No, my concern is what Baskin might be involved with. Drugs are becoming a problem with these underworld types, and it’s not the sort of thing we want spreading through the neighbourhood. But if you think it’s over some stripper he’s shagged, I’ll leave it with you.’

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ Frost said, relieved.

  ‘And congratulations, Frost. I hear you’re up for inspector.’

  For the second time in two minutes Frost had learned something new. ‘Am I, sir?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve been saddled with that arse from Eagle Lane, Allen, so Mullett has no option but to promote you. He’s been holding out, but the ACC has always had a soft spot for you … Well, goodnight, Frost.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’ The line had already gone dead
. Frost pulled a bottle of whisky from the filing cabinet, still reeling from their extraordinary conversation, the contents of which would require some deep consideration. Why, he thought as he flicked an old teabag out of an old chipped Silver Jubilee mug, missing the bin, would Kelsey be concerned about an old Denton lag like Baskin? The mention of promotion he gave little heed to – it had been hinted at before by the ACC himself, but proved as yet elusive. It was now a year since his old boss and mentor DI Williams had been murdered; if it was going to happen, then surely it would have done by now. He poured a slug of whisky into the grimy mug.

  And why call now, at this time of the evening? Normally a super would want to speak to someone of his own rank, but Kelsey knew Mullett wouldn’t be around; indeed, his own men had practically tucked him up in bed. So had he planned to get hold of Frost? Wearily he rubbed his sore eyes; it had been a long day and his head was full of bad thoughts. He felt an urge to return to the Simpsons’; his other option, a cold, empty house, seemed suddenly far less appealing than trying to make amends for his earlier disgrace. He wasn’t quite ready to let go.

  ‘Champagne?’

  Louise Daley needed a drink, but not champagne. She needed something way stronger.

  ‘Ta,’ she said nevertheless, taking the flute and moving towards the plate-glass window. In the hall below them were around two dozen full-size snooker tables. Abruptly she took a step back.

  ‘Don’t worry – it’s mirrored,’ he said from behind her, then added, brightly, ‘So, how was your day?’

  ‘Mixed,’ she replied, sipping from the glass, unable to turn round and meet his eye. She realized there was no point in beating around the bush so she took a deep breath and confessed: ‘I’m not sure Baskin is dead.’

  ‘Oh?’ He was standing close behind her – there was a whiff of a familiar aftershave, Denim, maybe – looking down at the games drawing to a close as the evening ended. One by one the lights above the tables were turned off. The only sound was the fizz from their drinks.

  ‘I shot him, make no mistake, he went down, and the boy who got in the way,’ she said assertively, ‘but the gun jammed, so I couldn’t make sure. Later I saw ambulances. He might be in the hospital.’

  ‘Well, if he is in the hospital, it’s unlikely he’s dead, is it?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Did he get a look at you?’ he asked calmly.

  She turned to face him. God, that black shirt and grey waistcoat was so old-hat – he looked more like a retired snooker player than a gangster.

  ‘I was in disguise. It all happened too quickly for him to recognize me.’

  He seemed satisfied with this. ‘Well, I, as you know, am a disinterested party – and that’s the way I’d like it to remain.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ What he meant by that, she had no idea. ‘But the other job. Does that still stand? Something tomorrow? C’mon, Marty – there was cash all over that office and I didn’t lift so much as tuppence … as I was told …’ she pleaded, as the big man moved from the window and picked up the magnum. Actually lifting cash had never been mentioned; and she would definitely have lifted a few quid if the bloody gun hadn’t jammed.

  ‘But the job’s not done. Someone else has to finish what you started. It’ll cost more after your bodge. Who’s to say you won’t balls this up too?’ He sat down heavily.

  ‘I’ll finish him off. Easy.’

  ‘But how – aren’t you off to the Costa del Sol?’ He looked at her with faux concern.

  She gripped her flute in annoyance. ‘Not until Tuesday,’ she said flatly.

  ‘But if he’s in hospital, then how?’

  ‘Don’t worry how. Now, about tomorrow – you promised …’

  ‘OK.’ He smiled, leaning back in the swivel chair. ‘I promised your dad I’d look out for you, so look out for you I will.’ He rubbed his red jowls with carefully manicured fingers. ‘Not quite sure this is what he had in mind, still … Gregory Leather – an import-export outfit out on the Denton Industrial Estate.’

  ‘Never heard of them,’ she snapped irritably.

  ‘Patience, Louise.’ He flipped open the cigarette box and pulled out a thin, exotic Russian number. ‘You know, if it wasn’t for the cute way your nose wrinkles when you get agitated, there’s no doubt you’d be in a ditch somewhere by now.’ The deadpan delivery pulled her into check, and reminded her of who she was dealing with. ‘Gregory Leather Ltd opened in January. At which time you, Pussy Galore, were holed up in Cardiff.’

  Newport. She didn’t correct him.

  He continued: ‘The business is straightforward – they import handbags from the Far East, slap a posh label on them and whack them out around the country; everywhere from Selfridges to the Littlewoods catalogue. Such an operation requires casual labour, ergo weekly wages in cash. You get the picture? Every Friday between eleven and midday a clerk picks up three grand in cash from Bennington’s.’

  Louise was about to ask a question, but he pre-empted her. ‘You don’t need to know more – suffice it to say, a disgruntled employee no longer picks up his sixty quid a week in a manila envelope. That’s all I’ll tell you.’

  ‘The clerk goes alone?’

  ‘Good girl. No, he takes a bruiser from the warehouse with him. You can’t miss the pair – right odd couple …’

  ‘Piece of cake.’

  ‘All I want is a clean grand. The rest is yours.’ That was a 30 per cent cut for him for doing bugger all. He wanted her for the job because she was a woman, and an out-of-town woman at that; she’d try and squeeze him a bit.

  ‘Five hundred.’

  The big man rocked back in the chair and laughed. ‘Cheeky! No.’

  The door went. Palmer glanced over.

  ‘Seven fifty,’ she said quickly.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Now hop it – before I change my mind.’

  Thursday (9)

  ‘Are you sure this is wise?’

  Frost ignored Waters’ question, blinking at the glare from oncoming headlights on the other side of the Rimmington Road. He pulled his hip flask, which he’d refilled before leaving Eagle Lane, from his inside suit pocket and wound down the window a fraction.

  ‘I mean, you did headbutt your brother-in-law before you left, or have you forgotten?’

  ‘No, I’ve not forgotten.’ Frost screwed the cap back on the flask and lit a cigarette. ‘But I need to get the Cortina. The keys are in the in-laws’ house.’

  ‘The motor can wait, Jack.’

  ‘It can’t – gotta get it washed before I hand it back. Then on Monday it goes.’

  ‘Goes where?’

  ‘Auction, I guess. I get a new one. New model, a Tiara or something …’

  ‘Sierra. Looks like a jelly mould on wheels.’ Waters shook his head. ‘One seriously ugly motor.’

  ‘That’s something to look forward to, then.’ Frost pulled out the hip flask again.

  ‘Go easy on that, eh?’

  ‘Who are you, my mother?’ Frost said testily, then regretted his sharp tone, as he was grateful for Waters’ concern. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you running me out here like this late at night.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’m not doing you a favour. I want to check out a pub on the stripper circuit in Rimmington. Should just catch it before closing time.’

  ‘Right. Was that a lead from the bird who worked for Baskin?’

  ‘Nah. All I got from her was a couple of names.’

  ‘I think it’s unlikely Baskin was hit by a stripper, don’t you?’ said Frost. ‘Call me old-fashioned, but if Harry had been tampering with a girl she’d have got her old man to sort him out. This is a different ball game, although it doesn’t explain why he’s still alive …’

  ‘Rachel Rayner did say one thing,’ offered Waters, ‘along the lines of, if it wasn’t for her he’d never get any girls to work for him. What do you make of that?’

  Frost looked out into the blackness. ‘Not much. If you were a ninet
een-year-old girl, would you want to be leered at by someone old enough to be your grandfather?’

  Waters grimaced.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Frost as they pulled into the Simpsons’ road.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this? Haven’t you had enough for one day?’

  ‘Told you, got to pick up the motor …’

  ‘Come with me instead. This boozer does after hours.’ Waters gave an imploring smile as Frost pushed open the door. ‘I’ve missed our cosy evenings together.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been a while. How about tomorrow, when I’m a bit fresher?’ Frost paused, half out of the door, a plan hatching in his mind. ‘Come to mine! We’ll blow the dust off the chess board, flip on a couple of the old seventy-eights, order in a ruby …’

  ‘Can’t, pal, sorry.’ Waters’ head dropped slightly and he sighed. ‘Promised Kim the movies – Blade Runner … but soon, eh?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Without saying goodnight Frost softly closed the car door and trudged towards the house of his estranged inlaws. A warm glow radiated from the curtained front windows. It was almost 11 p.m., but to Jack Frost it could’ve been any hour at all, so tired and lost to the world was he on the day he buried his wife.

  Friday (1)

  Frost stood at the edge of an opening in the earth. The sky was bright orange, as if the horizon beyond the churchyard was ablaze. He took a step back, but the grave before him grew, swallowing up the surrounding grass, leaving his feet on the lip of an expanding black abyss. He felt unstable, and knew if he tried to move more than an inch, he’d topple into the hole. All the while a pain was growing more intense at his temples, like a tiny blade stabbing behind his eyes …

  ‘William?’ Mary’s voice called up softly from the darkness beneath him. ‘William, I need you. Help me …’ Slowly her pale features came into view, her lips no longer the crimson shade she always used to wear but a green-grey hue. He felt perspiration creep down his neck.