First Frost Page 7

  ‘I’m not sure I’m with you, Frost.’ Mullett leant forward.

  ‘The little girl, Becky Fraser, has, I believe, been seriously neglected by her mother, a Liz Fraser, and quite probably subjected to considerable physical violence by her father, a man, yet to be located, called Simon Trench. Over a considerable period of time, I wouldn’t doubt.’

  ‘Considerable physical violence?’ repeated Mullett.

  ‘A Dr Philips is doing me a favour and looking into the extent of her injuries,’ Frost said gamely. ‘Thought best to see exactly where we were before any serious questioning got underway and we had to issue an arrest warrant. We wouldn’t want to make a mistake with a minor: you know how touchy Social Services can be, especially where parents are concerned.’

  ‘But what’s all this rabies nonsense about, then? Why was I rung up by the head of the hospital himself?’

  ‘Bit of a smokescreen, to be honest, sir. How I managed to get some cooperation from the child’s mother. She said her daughter had been attacked by a wild animal, and I told her we were in the middle of a new rabies alert – you see, Bill Wells had just put up a new poster in the lobby – and that the child would have to be tested.’

  ‘This all seems highly irregular to me,’ huffed Mullett. ‘The head of the hospital doesn’t even know what’s going on. What if the press get wind of it? Young child being tested for rabies in Denton General, they’d love that, all right.’

  ‘Well, as I said, Bill Wells has just whacked up a warning poster in the lobby.’

  ‘I have seen it.’

  ‘If anyone tries to say they weren’t warned—’ continued Frost.

  ‘Frost,’ interrupted Mullett, ‘I seriously hope you know what you’re doing. The last thing I want to do is read some scare story in the Denton Echo.’

  ‘Of course not. Wouldn’t want to panic the good citizens of Denton, would we?’

  Mullett stroked his neatly trimmed moustache again. ‘Where are we with the missing girl?’

  ‘Nowhere, I’m afraid,’ said Frost promptly. ‘The mother hasn’t come to her senses yet, poor thing. And there’s still no trace of her husband, Steve Hudson. The usual alerts are in place. All ports are on the case.’

  ‘Steve Hudson, hey? Possible, I suppose, that he’d been interfering with his daughter, she runs off and the mother finally confronts him.’ Mullett rubbed at his moustache once more. ‘Unlikely we’d get him convicted for that, though – you never do. Our best bet is assault, but that’s only if his wife wishes to press charges. Or maybe she’d been having an affair.’

  Mullett paused again and briefly looked up at the ceiling. ‘I wouldn’t waste a lot of time on this one, Frost. The girl will turn up sooner or later. As will the father. He’s well connected around here, I believe. In fact, you’d do well to remember just that.’

  ‘The woman was nearly killed, sir,’ protested Frost. ‘You should have seen her, battered and bruised beyond recognition. Lying in a pool of blood—’

  ‘I gather there’s an issue with contaminated evidence. It’s been reported to me that neither you nor DC Hanlon was properly attired. And I’m not just talking about a failure to don Andy Pandy suits. For heaven’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t know who could have informed you of such a blatant lapse of procedure, Mr Mullett,’ Frost said, rising from his chair, as if to go. ‘But the situation was critical – a woman was dying on the kitchen floor. Our priority was to save her life.’

  ‘Which is why you smashed your way through the back door,’ sighed Mullett.

  ‘There was no other way, sir.’

  ‘No, there never is.’ Mullett suddenly felt weary. ‘Before you go, Frost, could you please explain why you’re not properly dressed today?’ Mullett thought he looked like a New York hoodlum. ‘I wasn’t aware of any undercover operations this morning.’

  ‘Still in the planning, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean, “still in the planning”?’

  ‘Thought I’d check out Steve Hudson’s second-hand sports-car place. I was going to pose as a customer.’

  ‘And you couldn’t do that in a suit?’

  ‘This garb seemed more in keeping. Didn’t want them to have any idea I was a copper.’

  ‘Don’t think they would have,’ Mullett said drily. ‘Well, try not to bother anyone too respectable.’

  As Frost was disappearing from the room, Mullett suddenly called after him, ‘By the way, you haven’t heard anything from your chum Williams, have you? I gather he still hasn’t reported in for duty.’

  But Frost either hadn’t heard Mullett, or chose not to stop and answer.

  Bright and early Monday morning and the gloom had already poured in. What a mountain to climb to get this place in order. Mullett stifled a yawn, knowing it would be pointless issuing Williams with a written warning. He was retiring in just a matter of weeks, and frankly his presence usually only confused operations. It was probably better that he was out of the way. Not that that was the point.

  Mullett stood up, cracked his knuckles. ‘I wonder whether he realizes his pension could be at stake,’ he said aloud to himself.

  Frost ambled out to reception. Must get over to Bert’s, he thought, but he needed something to eat first.

  ‘All right, Bill, when does this trolley service kick into action? I’m starving.’ He glanced at the desk, but there was no one in sight. ‘Hello, hello?’ he shouted. ‘Jesus!’

  Ghost-like PC Pooley had popped up from behind the counter, his stare as vacant as ever.

  ‘What’s this, the Hammer House of Horrors?’

  Pooley said nothing, but grinned crookedly.

  ‘Where’s Bill?’ Frost asked, patting his tight jeans pockets for his fags, to no avail. He must have left them in his office.

  ‘Sick,’ said Pooley.

  ‘I wasn’t asking about you,’ Frost replied. ‘Where’s the Old Bill?’

  ‘Very funny, Mr Frost. Like I said, he’s off sick.’

  ‘Nothing catching, I hope.’ Frost’s attention was drawn to two men barging through the main door and depositing large metal tins underneath the notice board.

  ‘Mr Mullett’s paint,’ Pooley explained. ‘Gallons of the stuff.’

  ‘Oh yes, the new decor. What’s he gone for? Battleship grey?’

  ‘Magnolia, I believe.’

  ‘Magnolia? Bleeding hell.’

  ‘Apparently it wasn’t him that chose it,’ Pooley said mournfully. ‘It was his secretary, Miss Smith. She picked the new chairs as well. Thinks she’s some kind of interior designer.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough already,’ said Frost, turning and making his way back into the interior of the building, and to his and Hanlon’s office to fetch his coat.

  Hanlon was at his desk, reading the Mirror. More stories about paedophiles.

  Frost glanced towards the door to Bert Williams’s office, which was not really much more than a cubicle in the corner of CID. He was half wondering whether he should have a quick rustle around the inspector’s desk, see if Bert had left any indication as to where he might be. But knowing the mess in there Frost wasn’t sure there was any point. Besides, there was a quicker and easier option he hadn’t yet explored.

  ‘I’m off,’ Frost declared, grabbing his mac. ‘Before I get refurbished.’

  ‘Hey, wait a minute, Jack,’ Hanlon said, shutting the newspaper and looking up. ‘You can’t just—’

  ‘I’m going round to Bert’s, won’t be long. I’ll come back for you after the briefing. I’ve just had my own private audience with his lordship so I don’t feel I need another earful already. Then we’ll pop into the bank, see what Steve Hudson’s uncle knows. Seems to be the only close relative around. And it strikes me money might be part of it.’

  Despite Mullett’s conviction about the Hudson case being nothing more than a simple domestic, Frost wasn’t going to drop this one.

  ‘What’s with the mufti, Jack?’ Hanlon shouted after him. ‘You auditioning for
Saturday Night Fever, part two?’

  Betty Williams was on her fourth mug of Gold Blend, and her fifth B&H. She was staring out of the kitchen window, at the washing line. A couple of Bert’s shirts and some of her slips were flapping in the breeze. She was pleased she’d been able to get the washing outside. The weather this time of year was so unpredictable. She expected it would rain later. It usually did, if it hadn’t started out wet already.

  She had hoped to get round to a little gardening later. Get out while she could. The front garden was a mess and everything needed pruning before the winter really set in.

  Taking a large sip of coffee, she told herself off for being so negative. Always think the worst, that’s you, Betty. Pull yourself together. It wasn’t as if Bert hadn’t gone off on a binge before. Once he’d disappeared for four days, eventually returning with some tall tale about being stuck undercover in east London. He’d stunk of booze. The station had been calling incessantly, trying to track him down, saying they knew nothing about his whereabouts.

  Much like now, except the calls from Control hadn’t been so frequent, because, she supposed, they’d all grown used to Bert’s little disappearances, and were taking his misdemeanours less seriously. He only had a few weeks left in the job. They’d make allowances, let him bow out quietly.

  Betty wasn’t going to make allowances, however. Something else was niggling away at the back of her mind, and she was worried stiff. For her, for them, for him.

  As she was taking another sip of coffee, the doorbell rang, making her jump and spill Nescaf on the clean, Formica-topped kitchen table. Her limbs suddenly felt very heavy as she walked to the front door. She could see a man on the other side of the glass, of medium build and height, casually dressed. Window cleaner?

  She cautiously opened the door. ‘Jack,’ she gasped, immediately relieved, and then almost as quickly not relieved. ‘What are you doing here?’ She looked at him hard, at his clothes, and added, ‘And on your day off.’

  ‘Hello, Betty. Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Come through to the kitchen. I was just having a coffee. Can I get you one?’

  ‘That’d be lovely. Two sugars.’

  Betty filled the kettle, while studying Frost. She couldn’t make out his expression, he was looking so intently through the window into the back garden. As if he was withholding something. ‘How have you been?’ she asked nervously.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Jack, or Mary. There had been a period when the Frosts had often dropped by for a drink and a takeaway.

  ‘Busy, as ever, with this new super,’ he said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Oh, yes, him,’ she said.

  ‘No rest for the wicked, as they say.’ He coughed. ‘I’m not on my day off, either. To be honest, I had a slight accident with … actually you don’t want to know. Bert about?’

  ‘No,’ she said, also reaching for a cigarette. ‘Sorry, Jack. He’s not here.’

  ‘When did you last see him? Because the super’s on the warpath, and, well, I thought I’d do what I can. Get to him before Mullett does.’

  ‘Still trying to make his mark, is he?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Frost coughed again as he exhaled.

  ‘You should give up,’ Betty said. ‘Young man like you. Everything to live for.’ Betty had a soft spot for Jack. He was one of those lads who always caught the eye of women of a certain age. It wasn’t just a mothering thing.

  ‘That’s what Mary keeps saying. She’s at me about it night and day. But in this job, you’ve got to have some vices. Wouldn’t surprise me if she wanted me to start jogging next – it’s all the rage.’

  She watched as Frost puffed out his chest, and winked at her. ‘I haven’t seen him since Saturday,’ she found herself saying. ‘He went out just before lunch, said he wouldn’t be long, and that was the last I saw of him. He took the car, too.’

  ‘That’s a bloody long time,’ said Frost, scratching his chin. ‘But he’s gone on benders before, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Not normally for this long. A night maybe. A day. Sometimes two. I expect he’ll come through that door any minute, stinking to high heaven, looking like he’s been sleeping rough, which he probably has. What am I to do, Jack? He can’t go on like this. How can I get him to dry out?’

  ‘I don’t know, Betty. I really don’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘The thing is, he hasn’t been drinking that much recently. Part of me hoped he’d got it back under control. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it. You see, he’s been very preoccupied about something. I wondered whether it was his retirement. I don’t know. Work-related was my guess.’ It pained her to reveal anything intimate about Bert. Though Jack was almost family; if anyone could help it would be him.

  ‘I’ll check around,’ said Frost. ‘Try some of his old haunts. Put the word out.’

  ‘There is something else,’ she said, sure it was nothing, but feeling that odd niggle at the back of her head again. ‘He keeps popping out to the phone box, down the road. I’ve watched him. But we have a perfectly good phone here. At first I thought he was nipping off for a drink, so I followed him one day last week. Thankfully he didn’t see me. You don’t think he’s …’

  ‘He’s what, Betty?’

  ‘You know, having an affair?’

  Frost laughed. ‘At his age? Can he still get it up?’

  Betty found herself laughing too, first time in days. ‘You’d be surprised.’

  Monday (3)

  A pretty, young secretary showed Frost and Hanlon into a smartly furnished, wood-panelled office, not at all dissimilar to Mullett’s lair at the Eagle Lane cop shop.

  ‘The manager will be with you shortly,’ she said, with some anxiety. ‘But he only got back from holiday this morning and he says he wasn’t expecting you. I keep his appointments diary, you see.’

  ‘Thank you, love,’ said Frost. He didn’t want to get this pert young thing into trouble. ‘Arthur, you did telephone ahead to say we’d be coming in?’

  Hanlon looked blank.

  ‘Never mind. I’m sure the manager of such an esteemed bank wouldn’t have wanted to keep the fuzz waiting out in the cold. We’ll make ourselves at home.’ Frost took in the plush surroundings and pulled out a Rothmans. ‘Good to see our hard-earned cash has been so wisely invested.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ The girl smiled uncertainly and left, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Think this Michael Hudson will know anything useful, Jack? By all accounts he’s an awkward sod.’

  ‘He’s a bank manager,’ said Frost. He wandered over to the enormous desk in the centre of the room and took a closer look at the various curios that covered the green leather-topped surface.

  Presently in hurried a short, plump, grey-haired and blue-chinned man, wearing a pinstripe suit.

  Frost replaced a fancy-framed photograph on the desk, accidentally dropping some ash as he did so. He then tried his best at what he thought was an ingratiating smile, and stuck out his hand towards the approaching bank manager.

  Michael Hudson took Frost’s hand in a surprisingly limp fashion, as if he was afraid of catching something. ‘Sorry to keep you. I’ve just got back from a short break. What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  Frost said, exhaling smoke, ‘Hope you don’t mind us dropping in. I’m Detective Sergeant Frost and this is Detective Constable Hanlon.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve been told who you are – though your dress, Sergeant, did throw me. Are you, as they say, “undercover”?’

  ‘We’re detectives,’ Hanlon said weakly.

  ‘How can I help? Is it about this spate of armed robberies hitting the county?’ Michael Hudson suggested, suddenly animated.

  ‘Not unless you know something I don’t, Mr Hudson,’ Frost said. ‘We’ve come about your nephew, Steven.’

  ‘Steven? Haven’t seen or spoken to him in …’ He paused, rubbed his prominent chin, and continued, ‘Quite a
while. Truth is, we fell out. I thought that was common knowledge in Denton. Though I suppose there’s no reason why you should know.’

  ‘No,’ said Hanlon.

  ‘So when were you last in contact with him?’ Frost asked, wandering over to the window.

  ‘A year or so ago. Why on earth do you ask? Is there a problem?’

  ‘You could say that,’ said Frost, moving closer. ‘His daughter, Julie, has disappeared, his wife, Wendy, has been beaten to within an inch of her life, and now there’s no sign of your nephew – or of his silly yellow car.’

  ‘Oh God, dear me,’ said Michael Hudson, slumping into his seat. ‘You mean he’s taken Julie?’

  ‘No,’ said Hanlon, who had pulled out his notebook. ‘We don’t think so. Julie went missing on Saturday afternoon. I interviewed your nephew and his wife about her disappearance that evening, and then yesterday morning Wendy Hudson was found in a pool of blood on her kitchen floor, and Steven had also vanished.’

  ‘How is Wendy now?’ said Michael Hudson quietly, obviously shaken.

  ‘Last time I looked she was still unconscious,’ said Frost. ‘Her face has been completely smashed in. But she’ll live.’

  ‘God help her – the poor woman.’

  ‘Which is why,’ said Frost, ‘it’s imperative we find her husband as soon as possible. When exactly was the last time you had any contact with Steven?’

  ‘As I said,’ replied Mr Hudson, still quietly, ‘a year or so ago. There might have been one or two business communiqués since, but nothing personal.’

  ‘Your wife, what about her?’ said Hanlon. ‘Has she had any contact?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. I’d be very surprised if she had: they’ve never exactly seen eye to eye.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the seriousness of the situation,’ Frost chipped in.

  ‘No, no,’ protested Michael Hudson, ‘of course not.’

  ‘What sparked this falling-out between you and your nephew?’ Frost moved back to the window, peering through the Venetian blinds and out on to Market Square. He was just in time to see a buxom young woman in a very tight Bennington’s Bank uniform wiggle across the street and into the main entrance two storeys below.