First Frost
Authors: James Henry
First Frost
A DS Jack Frost Investigation
JAMES HENRY
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First published in Great Britain
in 2011 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Written for the Estate of R. D. Wingfield by James Gurbutt and Henry Sutton
Copyright © The Estate of R. D. Wingfield 2011
James Gurbutt and Henry Sutton have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Contents
A Note from Phil Wingfield
As you can imagine, the embryo idea of a new Frost novel written by someone other than my father filled me with mixed emotions. What would friends, family and fans think? What would he have said? A great idea, a sensible move, betrayal? I knew that if we went ahead with the project it had to be right. When I read the book, I had to admit that James and Henry had done their homework and made a superb job of capturing my father’s style – no mean feat. I did feel a significant twinge of guilt thinking this, which only increased as I found myself immersed in the story.
Jack Frost’s route to fame is as full of twists and turns as the books themselves. He originally surfaced in the novel
Frost at Christmas
in 1972, which was rejected by the commissioning publisher. The novel was then transcribed for radio and
Three Days of Frost was
broadcast in 1977. My father’s agent, Jacqui Lyons of Marjacq Scripts, continued to promote the manuscript, and her efforts paid off in the early eighties when
Frost at Christmas
was published in Canada. UK publication finally came in 1989 and Jack Frost was home again. By 1992 the then three Frost novels had been transcribed for TV and the series
A Touch of Frost
made Jack a household name.
Over the years, Rodney continued to write for radio as he much preferred this medium. But as demand for radio lessened he turned back to the printed word. He always said that he found novel-writing an ever-increasing chore, but ironically his books turned out to be increasingly marvellous reads. He wrote a further three before his death in 2007.
So, in conclusion, I think it is a wonderful and fitting tribute to my father and his work that James and Henry are breathing new life into his creation and bringing back Jack Frost in this prequel. In my humble opinion, fans and newcomers alike will not be disappointed by
First Frost
.
Phil Wingfield
Prologue
He followed them up the escalator to the third floor – children’s clothes and lingerie. The woman was in no hurry. He was, but he knew he had to be careful. He’d spotted a security guard on the ground floor. Couldn’t see one on this floor, yet
.
Saturday afternoon and the place was heaving – perfect. Perhaps he was in luck
.
He thought there should have been a guard on every floor, big place like this. This was no way to run a department store, recession or not. If only things had been as slack when he was a player. Then he wouldn’t be in this mess. He’d be living the high life, a big happy family in tow. El Dorado. That’s how it should have been
.
They were looking at school uniforms. Short, grey pleated skirts. Navy sweaters. Crisp white shirts, bearing the logo of St Mary’s College for Girls. So that was where his girl went
.
He pretended to be browsing through the duffel coats, aware he was the only man on the floor. He played with a toggle, wondering what it would be like to fasten a child into such a garment, snug as
a rug. To give her a kiss and a cuddle, hold her tight. He’d missed a lot. But it wasn’t too late. He was still young and fit. He’d made good use of the indoor facilities
.
The girl had removed her own coat and was trying on a sweater, out on the shop floor, under the bright spotlights, in front of everyone. He couldn’t believe how tall she was, for her age. They grew up fast nowadays, all right
.
Music was coming from somewhere. What a racket. When he was younger and into all that stuff at least they knew how to play proper instruments, and sing in tune. None of this electronic nonsense. Or boys dressing as girls. He was amazed at how so much had changed in little over a decade. Changed for the worst
.
She had picked out a skirt and was holding it against her waist. Not out here, my angel, he thought. Surely her mother had to say something, get her into a changing room. This wasn’t right. Who knew who could be watching? He couldn’t stand it. He shuffled further behind the rack of coats, breathing heavily. His head was throbbing. It was all going wrong already
.
About to blow his cover, a large, buxom, middle-aged woman, wearing the store’s colours (a black skirt and a pale-green blouse, which was at least two sizes too small for her) walked up to the mother and child. He couldn’t hear what was said but this woman – the floor manager? – pointed to a far corner. The changing rooms
.
He had been thinking everything was lost but now a new opportunity suddenly presented itself. The girl sloped off towards the changing rooms, clutching an armful of tiny skirts and tops, while the mother drifted across to the lingerie. That woman hasn’t changed, he thought. The tart
.
He hung back for a couple of minutes; then, with his heart thumping wildly and his right hand clasping the still-damp handkerchief in his jacket pocket, he walked quickly across the floor, and slipped behind the partially drawn curtains leading to the cubicles
.
Surprise was going to be his best weapon. Plus a bit of luck. It was about time things went his way: he’d already paid a heavy price
.
Saturday
Detective Constable Sue Clarke sat on the edge of a soft, black leather armchair, across the living room from Mr and Mrs Hudson, who were slumped at either end of a matching settee. Mrs Wendy Hudson, a pretty, curvy fake blonde, in her late thirties, was clutching a tissue. Mr Steven Hudson, of a similar age, but with a slim, boyish build, and also with blond highlights in his hair, fashionably tufty on top and long at the sides, was drawing heavily on a Silk Cut.
It was eight o’clock at night. Pitch black and raining hard outside the neat, warm Hudson home.
DC Sue Clarke said, addressing Mrs Hudson, ‘I know this is hard for you but try to remember everything as clearly as possible. You never know what might be useful.’ Having just turned twenty-five, and recently promoted to CID, Clarke was anxious to play it by the book, and not make any mistakes in her questioning.
‘I’ll try,’ said Mrs Hudson, looking up. Her voice was tired and shaky.
‘Tell me about the last time you saw your daughter, Julie. This was in Aster’s, the department store, in the centre of Denton. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Hudson weakly. ‘We were in the school-uniform bit, on the third floor – Julie needed a new skirt. She went to the changing room with an armful of stuff, and that was the last I saw of her.’ The woman choked back a sob.
