Fatal Frost (20 page)

‘Without checking any ID?’

‘Doubt he’s got any. Here illegally, I expect. Life’s grim enough for him without us making it any tougher. Harry Baskin probably keeps him locked in a cellar with a bunch of false promises for company … Anyway, must dash.’

‘Where?’

‘For a wee. I told you!’ Frost dived into the Gents, but poked his head back out of the door with an afterthought. ‘When you’ve let Fong go, give young Derek Simms a hand, and I’ll be back to hold yours as per the super’s instructions in an hour or so – all right?’ And then he was gone.

Bill Wells sidled up to Frost in the urinal stalls.

‘Afternoon, Jack.’

‘Bill.’

‘What gives?’

‘Mr Mullett has come over all camera-shy’ – Frost coughed – ‘about a press conference for the murdered boy.’

‘Not like him.’

‘Not like him at all,’ agreed Frost. ‘Reckons he doesn’t want all the limelight.’

Bill Wells shook himself, musing, ‘Maybe he’s feeling a bit off colour?’

‘He was born off colour. Righto, I’ll be off, then. If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’

‘Who would anyone be, Jack?’ Wells asked, washing his hands.

‘
Anyone
. DC Clarke for one, and Hornrim Harry for another.’

‘Right you are, mate. And should it matter you’ll be …?’

‘Seeking a bit of help from the Almighty,’ Frost said, which was half true. He checked himself in the mirror – something he seldom did – and flattened his sandy-brown hair. The mother-in-law had a dim view of him at the best of times; he may as well look presentable.

Waters was bemused by the set-up at Eagle Lane. Superintendent Mullett and DS Jack Frost did not strike him as an ideal pairing, though he assumed they must work things through, or they’d presumably already have parted company. Mullett, he knew, was relatively new to Denton and had inherited the likes of Frost, but as Divisional Superintendent he wielded a great deal of power. Though Waters was unfamiliar with County politics, it appeared that Assistant Chief Constable Winslow left Denton to manage itself.

He wondered what a stickler like Mullett would think of Frost’s nonchalance about Fong. Admittedly the Met’s approach to illegal immigrants was flexible; it depended on the individual’s value as, say, a key to the criminal underworld, and was tempered by the prevailing political climate. Frost, on the other hand, genuinely seemed to have the boy’s interests at heart. Or perhaps he couldn’t face the paperwork; judging from the state of his office, that could well be the case.

Waters signed the release for Fong and headed for the lobby.

‘Sergeant Wells,’ he addressed the likeable desk sergeant, ‘I need to get hold of Simms – could you patch him through for me, please?’

‘One second. I’ll see if Control can locate him.’

Waters thanked him. He leaned back against the front desk and took in the lobby decor for the first time. The walls were magnolia, and the highly polished floor was flanked with a variety of house plants. If it wasn’t for the noticeboard, it could well have been the foyer of a rest home.

‘Simms is en route to Milk Street to interview the Asian newsagent.’

‘Still? He left ages ago. No matter … I may as well wait for my chaperon to reappear. Any idea where he’s gone? Left without a word.’

‘Jack? He’s gone to church for an hour or so.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Waters made for the door, thinking that he may as well get some air. ‘He certainly struck me as the religious type.’

‘Oh, Sergeant!’ Wells called out. ‘I almost forgot. A young lady left this for you.’ He passed him a small blue envelope.

Wednesday (4)

DEREK SIMMS SAT
inside the unmarked Cortina, waiting for the deluge to relent before he made a dash for the newsagent’s over the road. His senses heightened by a frisky half-hour with Lisa Smith – Mullett had no idea what was under his very nose – he played the cassette from Samantha Ellis’s Walkman one more time, but the hammering of the rain on the roof of the car made it practically impossible to hear. In any case, it seemed to be nothing but gibberish; was it singing? He ejected it and studied it – a standard Maxwell C90. Ordinary enough. There was no indication of what was on it. He tried the other side. Pop music blared out and he hastily turned the volume down. The song was ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ by that talentless Irish band. It had come out a couple of years ago, and he remembered a fuss because some kid in the States had topped themselves, allegedly because of the song. Not surprising, it sounded awful; the bloke couldn’t sing for toffee. Perhaps Samantha Ellis felt she’d had enough of him as well? He’d mention it to Frost. But if the song played OK it must mean the cassette wasn’t faulty,
so
someone must be able to decipher the nonsense on the other side.

He ejected it and slipped it back inside the girl’s bag lying on the passenger seat, next to the Walkman and the paperback.

The rain wasn’t going to ease up; he’d have to make a dash for it. Curse this bloody newsagent! Why should he care about a poxy paper shop anyway? Nearly running that paperboy over this morning had clearly been a bad omen.

He was suddenly struck by a thought. The boys who had robbed the jeweller’s were on BMXs too – perhaps a paperboy, or boys, were responsible? According to the owner they were wearing hooded tops, much like the lad this morning. It couldn’t have been the same one doing the robbery of course, the timing was out. But perhaps there was a gang of them? Maybe some of them worked for this character, Mr Singh, or used to; maybe he’d upset one or two of them and they’d decided to rob him in revenge, and then perhaps got a taste for it?

He decided there and then that he and Waters should take it upon themselves to tour the local newsagents and enquire after disgruntled ex-employees. And Singh’s was the perfect place to start, given that he’d been held up himself. He reached over for his leather jacket and opened the car door.

Frost pulled the long chain on the vicarage bell. A dog yapped in response. It was a while since he’d been out here. He mulled over when the last time might have been. Bert Williams’s funeral perhaps, last October? Father Lowe was a good man. He’d been in Denton donkey’s years. Married him and Mary, way back when.

‘William?’ The octogenarian man of the cloth appeared in the doorway. ‘Come in, quickly, out of the rain.’

‘Afternoon, Father.’ Frost nodded, wincing at the use of his Christian name. ‘Might I have a word?’

The reverend stepped back, allowing Frost into the musty
cottage
that smelt of dogs and old books. ‘Tea, perhaps?’

‘I don’t think I’ll be troubling you that long, Father Lowe,’ Frost said, perching on the chintz sofa. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly in the background. It could be 1882 and nobody’d tell the difference, Frost thought.

‘Always in a hurry, William. Now the church roof …’ The old man smiled kindly in the stern way old people did, betraying their anxiety.

‘Ah yes. The roof.’ Frost forced a smile in response. ‘All sorted. We have the naughty man already.’

‘I don’t care about the rascal who did it. The bloody roof is leaking.’ He reached for a pack of Woodbines on a small pile of books, itself precariously balanced on a small round wooden table. ‘A rain shower at a funeral often helps to add to the solemnity of the occasion’ – Lowe puffed whimsically on the cigarette – ‘however, the bereaved expect the experience at the graveside, as their beloved is lowered into the ground … not in the actual church, hammering down nineteen to the dozen on the bloody casket.’

‘Yes, Reverend, I agree. Most … disturbing.’ Frost had forgotten how spirited the old fellow was. ‘But we’re on it, and the felon who nicked your lead will be putting it back.’

‘Will he?’ Lowe’s grey brow concertinaed. ‘I do hope so. These carryings-on in the South Atlantic have boosted the congregation numbers. The Church should be a place of comfort …’

‘Yes, yes,’ Frost sighed. ‘A good war does seem to boost the Lord’s takings.’

‘Be that as it may,’ Father Lowe countered, ‘we can’t have it raining on holy communion.’

‘Quite,’ Frost said. ‘Now, important as the church roof is, that’s not what brings me here. I need to talk to you about another matter. Do you remember a couple of years back, there was … graffiti in the churchyard?’

‘Desecration,’ Lowe said gravely.

‘Desecration, that’s what I mean,’ Frost said, apologetically. ‘It turned out to be an escaped patient from the loony bin outside Rimmington, but before he was caught, you mentioned something to me about occult happenings in Denton …’

‘I remember – yes.’ Lowe scratched his silver head thoughtfully. ‘Years and years ago, in the early sixties. Why do you ask?’

‘There’s been a brutal murder. A young lad ripped open, organs removed. Very nasty business. We’re working on the theory that there could be an occult connection. The manner in which the body was found …’

But the Father waved him quiet before he could continue. ‘No, no, that was just a bunch of silly schoolgirls playing pranks. Teenagers pretending to be witches, that sort of thing. Hardly heretical. Nothing of this nature. How awful. I heard it reported on the wireless. What is the world coming to?’ Father Lowe shook his head woefully, stood up and reached for the sherry decanter. ‘What does Mary have to say about it?’

Frost took the proffered schooner, full to the brim. ‘Mary? My wife? What do you mean?’

‘Yes, your wife, Mary, she was one of the girls involved – before you arrived on the scene, I would hazard.’ Lowe moved a small dog that Frost hadn’t noticed off a deep-green armchair, sinking into it. ‘She would have been only fifteen or sixteen at the time.’

‘Well, that accounts for a lot. Perhaps she cast a spell on me to get me up the aisle,’ Frost said to himself, plonking himself down into the other free armchair. ‘No, Father, she’s never mentioned it. What happened?’

‘As I said, not much. A concerned mother – one of my parishioners – discovered her daughter trying to tattoo herself with a pair of compasses and a bottle of Quink.’

‘Painful.’

‘Yes. Seems it was some sort of pagan symbol. She dragged
the
child to the hospital, brand-new as it was then, fearing blood poisoning. The sight of the star on her wrist sparked gossip that she was a witch. Of course, people wouldn’t bat an eyelid today, but back then Denton was different from how it is now … people were very superstitious.’

Frost got out his notebook. ‘I don’t suppose you remember her name?’

‘It’s too late for that, I’m afraid.’ Lowe shook his head solemnly.

‘What, you mean … Did the blood poisoning get her?’ Frost reached for the decanter and topped them both up.

‘Hanged herself in Denton Woods. Couldn’t handle the stigma. Her parents weren’t much help.’ He got up and downed the refill. ‘Young girls are difficult to deal with at that age. Hormones all over the place, I gather …’

‘I’ll bear that in mind next time I ask one if she’s a witch. Anyway, in my experience, they don’t get any easier as they get older.’ Frost allowed a silence to envelop them, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. He thought again about what Lowe had just told him. It was puzzling. ‘Surely a tattoo is just a tattoo – no matter what it represents. And to hang oneself? Did she have a troubled background?’

Lowe scratched his head. ‘The girl was a pupil at St Mary’s, which was strict in those days, and she’d already been caught up in some to-do at the school involving local boys. There were rumours that the girls involved had formed, for want of a better word, a
coven
, to exact revenge for the punishment they received. Seemed a bit far-fetched to me. As I say, talk to Mary.’

‘I will, Father.’

‘What was it called?’ Father Lowe muttered to himself.

‘I’m sorry, Father?’

‘It had a name … this coven,’ he said abstractedly. ‘There was some connection to St Jude’s …’

‘What, here? The church?’

‘My memory’s not what it was, I’m afraid. Talk to Mary,’ he repeated.

Eventually Father Lowe rose from his chair. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said, ‘I have evensong to prepare for.’

‘Of course. Thank you for your time.’ Frost almost reached over to help the old man up, so weak did he seem. ‘It may not be schoolgirls I’m after, but as you say, people were much more superstitious once, and we’re only talking twenty years ago – hardly the Middle Ages. You’ve been a big help, Father, thank you. I know this isn’t really your field …’