Fatal Frost (21 page)

Father Lowe moved to the bookcase and scanned the crowded shelves until he found what he was after. ‘Here,’ he said, passing Frost a shabby hardback.

‘
A Brief History of the Pagan Calendar
by Professor Leo Hollis. Unusual choice of book for a man in your position to have on his shelves.’ Frost blew the dust off the slender volume. ‘Do you keep it to swot up occasionally? Know thine enemy, that sort of thing?’

‘Nothing so mysterious, or exciting,’ Lowe said. ‘Leo was a theology student at Cambridge with me.’

‘Thanks. Mind if I take a look?’

‘Not at all – keep it. Hope it’s of some use – or perhaps not. Let’s pray you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Quite.’

Frost made his way down the hallway and shivered involuntarily. Something about the vicarage unsettled him. It was the place itself, as opposed to the good Father, who was a kind, trustworthy man. Lowe opened the door. The small dog fussed around his feet like a hairy rat. Frost held out his hand and Lowe took it firmly in both of his, saying, ‘Look after Mary, William.’ His pale-grey eyes let on more than was said. Frost nodded, shook hands and made his way down the rambling garden path, wondering what on earth his wife had been up to twenty years ago.

* * *

‘Where are Myles and Clarke, for goodness’ sake?’ Mullett demanded.

‘You’re not the only one wanting to know that,’ Bill Wells replied.

A camera crew struggled through the door en route to the Incident Room.

‘Outside!’ Mullett barked. ‘The press conference will be held
outside
, in
front
of the station.’ He followed up with an ingratiating smile. ‘If you please.’

He turned angrily to Wells. ‘I distinctly told that buffoon Pooley to keep them outside the building. There’s a big enough mess as it is in here without that media rabble trampling about. It’s only a drop of rain, not a plague of locusts.’

Mullett straightened his tie. Wells knew that for all the super’s whingeing he loved the camera. And regardless of what Frost had said, Mullett could never pass up an opportunity to appear on the box, even where events as delicate as these were involved. The conference was at four o’clock; in ten minutes’ time.

‘Wells, Wells! Wake up.’ Mullett was slapping his uniform cap restlessly against his thigh. ‘Who else wants Clarke and Myles?’

‘Tom Hardy’s parents.’

‘But they were with the parents this morning. Clarke said …’

‘Yes, sir, but the daughter, Tom’s sister, has disappeared now.’

‘Disappeared? What do you mean
disappeared
? You’re telling me this five minutes before I go on air to report on her dead brother?’

‘“Disappeared” might be the wrong word. When the area car took Mrs Hardy to the school, to collect the girl at lunchtime …’

‘At lunchtime! It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.’

‘If you’ll let me finish, sir,’ Wells said forcefully, struggling not to be distracted by the hubbub of press swirling around. The hapless Pooley had appeared and was attempting to direct
them.
‘They assumed she must have gone to a hockey match in Rimmington, so they sat it out at St Mary’s rather than cause a scene.’

‘And?’

‘She wasn’t on the bus when it got back to the school.’

‘I see. So, if “disappeared” is the wrong word, what would you say instead?’

‘They thought she might be—’

‘Superintendent, sir?’ Pooley interrupted, clutching an umbrella. ‘Might we line you up? The press are waiting.’

‘I’ll deal with you later, Wells.’ Mullett glared at him before storming off, flinging on his cap as he reached the revolving door.

As the room cleared, Wells considered the theories of the missing girl’s whereabouts. She might be with friends, or revising for exams perhaps? That was what the school had said.

Though, on reflection, Wells very much doubted it.

Chris Everett had waited until early evening and for the downpour to abate before leaving the house again. He’d called his Hatton Garden contact, who’d agreed to meet him in London at eight. Fiona thought he was seeing Julian, an old schoolfriend now living on the South Coast, London being a midway point between them. After meeting Ahmed, he’d sit it out in some dismal pub near Edgware Road for an appropriate length of time before skulking off home half cut to create the pretence of having had a great time.

Yes, the rain was abating. He smiled to himself; a little over an hour ago, Everett had brazenly driven both van and sweep into Denton town centre. His own daring thrilled him – moving a corpse in broad daylight, in the corpse’s own van – but what better cover than a deluge of biblical proportions?

The deceased’s disappearance, whether it had yet been reported, was unlikely to grab much attention, as it would simply be eclipsed by the mutilated teenager found on the golf course.
Everett
had caught the evening news before he departed for London. A pompous policeman, cowering beneath an umbrella, had given a garbled statement regarding the unfortunate boy, who in his words had been ‘brutally eviscerated’. Apparently this senior policeman discovered the body himself.

He hurried down Primrose Drive and on to Rose Avenue. Dusk was still some way off but the street lights were beginning to flicker pink. Dark, ominous thunderclouds continued to clog the sky, giving the impression it was later than it was; it had only just gone six thirty. He clutched the briefcase nervously. He’d get a cab from Market Square.

Everett recapped the last twenty-four hours as he made his way along the pavement. The sweep’s death was unfortunate, and a far cry from the original rules he’d set himself three years ago when he’d first embarked on his house-breaking career. Yes, murder was in a different league, but it prevented the boredom setting in, and boredom was the biggest crime of all. Absorbed in his reverie of self-admiration, Everett failed to see the bunch of hostile-looking teenagers lurking against a large, overgrown privet hedge, until one stepped into his path.

‘Gi’s yer case, mate.’ The boy’s voice was hoarse – on the cusp of breaking – and urgent. His features were obscured by a tracksuit hood.

‘I’ll do no such thing. Out of my way, you little tyke.’ Everett made to move but another figure stepped out to block him. As Everett swung the case at the second child’s head he felt a searing jab in his lower back. In shock he released his grip.

The next thing he knew he was sprawled on the pavement, his case gone and his nostrils filled with dirt. He’d been stabbed, of that much he was certain. He tentatively reached behind him, feeling the dampness of blood through the pinstripe; it wasn’t deep, more of a sting. Suddenly he felt something wet tentatively sniffing at his cheek; he jerked, sending excruciating pain through his body.

‘Gripper, no! Jesus Christ! No!’ was the last thing he heard before the dog urinated in his ear. God, he’d prefer to be hanged than suffer this ignominy! He staggered to his feet and booted the puny Jack Russell into the shrubbery. Things had gone badly wrong, but he was damned if he’d hang around to …

‘Excuse me, sir?’ Across the road was a lean young man in jeans and leather jacket. His appearance suggested someone low on the social scale – a window cleaner, perhaps – but the manner of his address and his bearing set alarm bells off in Everett’s muddled brain. ‘Are you all right?’

After his interesting discussion with Father Lowe, Frost decided he wanted to check with Records and see if he could pull out anything on the sixties witchcraft incident, before visiting his mother-in-law. If Mary was there, depending on how things went, he could ask her what she recalled of the events herself. He would play that one by ear, though. To be honest, he’d be lucky if that viper of a mother-in-law let him across the threshold.

Good timing, Frost thought, as he crossed the car park and saw the BBC van pulling out, I’ve missed the media circus and the super’s TV appearance.

‘’Ello, ’ello,’ he said, running into four uniform loitering in the station reception area. ‘Autograph hunters from across the county, hoping for a glimpse of the famed TV superintendent?’

‘Not exactly,’ one of them replied.

‘So what’s going on then, Bill?’ he said as the young officers made way to allow him through to the front desk.

‘Ah, Jack, a bit of a to-do.’

‘Don’t tell me – the super went on camera with his flies open?’ Frost grinned.

‘Not likely. No, it’s serious. Tom Hardy’s sister has gone missing.’

‘You’re kidding? Damn.’ Frost’s face fell. ‘What do we know?’

‘Nothing. Mullett has just briefed uniform here.’ Wells indicated the officers, now leaving the building. ‘To cap it all, though, after escorting the Hardys to identify their son’s body, Clarke and Myles went to the boozer and had one too many, so when news came in about the sister they were nowhere to be found. Well, you can imagine the super’s reaction.’

‘Flamin’ hell, I can at that. He’ll be having kittens.’

‘You’re not wrong. They’re both in there now.’

‘This is not acceptable. Two
women
police officers,’ Mullett said, emphasizing the word that he clearly felt to be the most important in that sentence.

DCs Clarke and Myles stood stiffly to attention as Superintendent Mullett then let fly.

Clarke felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. She drew it in and bit down hard; she was going to hold it together even if it killed her. To rein in her emotions she focused on her dislike of the superintendent, and when that wore off, she thought about the lad she’d met in the pub with whom she’d exchanged phone numbers.

‘I will not have drunks on my force. Do I make myself clear?’ They both nodded vigorously. ‘You’re both bloody lucky not to have been suspended without pay, especially you, Clarke. Thanks to your leg wound we were able to explain why you stumbled into that cameraman – without it that would’ve been your lot.’

Although it was almost dark outside the superintendent moved to adjust his venetian blinds aggressively as if they were somehow responsible for the appalling conduct of the two CID officers.

‘Myles, you’re dismissed,’ Mullett barked.

They both shuffled off towards the office door.

‘Not you, Clarke, sit down.’ He paced behind the expansive desk, polishing his glasses as he did so. ‘How is your leg?’

The concern in the question caught her off guard. Only a minute earlier he’d been biting her head off.

‘OK. A bit stiff. The stitches itch like hell.’ She rubbed her thigh as if a mere mention of the wound had provoked an irritation.

‘Good, good.’ He said distractedly. ‘Cigarette?’

She took one. She knew they were too strong for her but Mullett had never offered her so much as a light before.

‘It’s really important that we apprehend those little hooligans who did this to you.’ He pivoted back and forth on the enormous leather chair. The motion struck Clarke as creepy; he reminded her of a Bond villain, minus the charisma of course, and you wouldn’t catch Blofeld in those awful hornrim spectacles. ‘I mean, we can’t have this sort of thing going on …’

She nodded.

‘Tell me, I forgot to ask yesterday, did they steal anything from the car? Any personal effects? Jewellery, for instance?’

‘I don’t carry around much in the way of … personal effects. When at work, I mean. I think we took them by surprise; I’m sure they would have stolen something if given half the chance …’

‘Yes, my thoughts exactly.’ Mullett leaned forward. ‘Well, er, Susan, now the attack is behind you, and you’re feeling less distressed, maybe something will come to mind? A face, a description? Anything, eh? Well, that’s it, make yourself useful and get on down to Denton Woods before it gets dark – I’ve just had the sergeant on site moaning there’s no one from CID accompanying the search.’

Clarke got up to leave, feeling slightly nauseous.
Susan?
Only her mother called her that. What a creep. As she left Mullett’s office she felt sure she was going to throw up; whether it was booze, the shock of the bollocking or the super’s saccharine smile she couldn’t be sure. She bolted for the Ladies as fast as she could.

Wednesday (5)

IT WAS GETTING
late. The three of them, Frost, Waters and Simms, sat in the Incident Room, beneath the stark light of two naked bulbs dangling forlornly at each end of the room. Frost got up and studied the large cork board that hung on the wall.