First Frost by Henry James

  ‘The garage, sir, phoned, about your car.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mullett sighed. He didn’t want to be reminded. ‘Ah, Hanlon.’ The great oaf was fighting his way into the lobby heavily laden with paper bags from the bakery. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Grace has run low, so I just nipped out …’

  ‘Lord, man, you’ve enough to feed an army there.’

  Hanlon frowned and continued across the lobby. ‘We’ve got to feed the scum in the cells, as well,’ he said, making for the corridor. ‘Or else we’ll be had up for … buggered if I know … something, anyway. And there’s plenty of ’em.’ With that he disappeared down the corridor.

  Mullett shook his head despondently and moved back towards Wells. ‘What does he mean, there’s plenty of them?’ He found his fingers drumming nervously on the counter.

  ‘We’re almost at capacity,’ Wells said, opening the log. ‘Four in last night. And one more this morning.’

  Mullett’s brow creased. ‘Why am I never kept up to date? You had better elaborate, Sergeant.’ He scratched the back of his neck nervously.

  ‘Aside from Liz Fraser and Simon Trench, a drunk was picked up from outside the Coconut Grove; he’d taken a pasting, all right. There’s a note here – having trouble with Johnny’s handwriting …’ Wells squinted at the log. ‘And then Desmond Thorley popped back yet again at some godforsaken hour – I guess Johnny wasn’t sure what to do with him.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, Thorley got scared all on his own out in the woods? This is most irregular.’

  ‘The problem was, according to the log, he thought he wasn’t alone.’

  ‘He should be so lucky,’ said Mullett. ‘The child-killers can stay, but the drunk and the tramp! What the hell is this, some sort of charity? Get Thorley out of here, at the very least.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Would have already,’ Wells mused, ‘but I haven’t been in long myself. I had to go to the dentist.’ He clutched his jaw. ‘An abscess.’

  ‘And what about the one that came in this morning?’ Mullett snapped.

  ‘Could be trouble with him.’

  ‘What do you mean? We’ve got enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘Kevin Jones – he’s a minor. Mouthy little sod. PCs Simms and Baker have just brought him in.’

  ‘A minor? Surely not! What possible charge?’ Mullett could feel his blood pressure rising so fast he felt he might explode. While the cells were stuffed with drunks, time-wasters, and now schoolboys, in the real world an armed gang, possibly with IRA connections, was still at large, with £1 million of the Fortress’s money. Not to mention the money they’d nicked from the Rimmington and Wallop heists.

  ‘Shoplifting,’ said Wells, peering at the log. ‘Oh, and murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ scoffed Mullett, incredulous.

  ‘That’s what PC Simms wanted me to write down.’

  Thursday (4)

  DC Arthur Hanlon slid a pastry across the table in Interview Room One. The boy, with his spiky yellow hair, simply sneered at him, ignored the food, lit a cigarette, leant back and brazenly released a reel of perfect smoke rings. Hanlon gagged – his hangover was at its peak. Thank Christ he wasn’t stuck in a car with Jack Frost this morning.

  ‘How old are you, Kevin Jones?’ Hanlon asked. Frost had detailed Hanlon to make a quick assessment of all those in custody. This was Hanlon’s first call.

  ‘Thirteen, aren’t I.’

  ‘Too young to smoke, then.’ Hanlon swiped the fag from the boy’s mouth. Ground it out under his foot. ‘So what happened to your hand? Looks a mess.’

  ‘There ain’t no rabies,’ Kevin Jones snapped.

  ‘No, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t bitten by a dog. A guide dog at that.’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean. So I nicked a couple of rulers?’ Jones said. ‘You going to send me to borstal for that?’ The boy leant forwards, glaring at Hanlon, his pitch-black pupils an uneasy contrast with his shock of peroxided hair. ‘My mum’ll be on the blower to Social Services by now—’

  The interview was interrupted by a tap on the door and turned to see DC Sue Clarke beckoning to him. ‘Come in,’ Hanlon mouthed.

  ‘Mr Mullett wants everybody in the canteen for an emergency briefing,’ Clarke said from the doorway.

  ‘Emergency briefing?’ Hanlon said, exasperated but already getting up.

  Clarke looked momentarily vexed, before saying, ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Why the canteen? Actually, don’t answer,’ Hanlon said. ‘Jones, you’ll have to wait in the cells.’

  The look on the boy’s face went from utter contempt to vehement disgust. ‘Oi, fatty! You can’t do that, I’m a minor! I know my rights!’ he yelled.

  Hanlon leant across and pulled the scarf from the boy’s neck. ‘You won’t be needing this.’

  Out in the corridor, Clarke said, ‘I just heard he’s here – he’s mine.’ She rubbed her hands together.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sue, you’re more than welcome to him. Thought you might need this.’ Hanlon handed Clarke the torn scarf.

  Her face lit up. ‘Thank you, Arthur, I’ll just pop that along to Forensics.’

  ‘I thought there was an emergency briefing?’ said Hanlon, supporting himself against the wall to tie his shoe.

  ‘Did I say “emergency”?’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Oh look, you’ve got something on your jacket. Paint, is it?’

  Hanlon saw that the arm of his jacket, where he’d just leant on the wall, now bore a wide smear of magnolia emulsion. ‘Shit!’ he said. ‘Mullett’s bloody renovations.’

  *

  ‘Right. Everybody here?’ said Mullett.

  Mullett was standing in front of what Hanlon presumed to be the new serving hatch. Beside the superintendent was some form of easel, precariously supporting the incident board, which was covered with photographs, maps, artist’s impressions, names, arrows and markers.

  Hanlon found it difficult to make much out at this distance. He, Frost and a pale PC Pooley happened to be standing at the very back. Though Hanlon was being careful not to lean on the walls.

  The canteen was barely recognizable. Gone were the wooden tables and benches of old, and in their place were new Formica-topped lozenges and stacks of orange chairs, their legs still encased in thick brown wrapping paper. The walls were pristine magnolia. It had certainly been swift work, Hanlon thought. If only Mullett had seen fit to direct that much effort to upping the division’s manpower.

  Standing a little way over to Mullett’s left were two men Hanlon couldn’t immediately place. One well built, with shoulder-length dark hair, a scruffy leather jacket and a good two days of stubble; the other – who did appear vaguely familiar – a gangly youth in a cheap grey suit. Next to them was assistant chief constable Winslow, looking particularly bald, shiny and self-important today.

  ‘The assistant chief constable is very kindly going to give us an overview of where we’re currently at with the Fortress investigation,’ Mullett said.

  Winslow stepped across to the incident board, and addressed the audience. ‘In Wallop, Rimmington and now Denton, there were three gunmen in, as you all know, various disguises. There was also probably a getaway driver. Detectives in Wallop and Rimmington believe that only one vehicle was used – to pick up the cash. It seems they made their way separately to the building societies, and pulled on their masks just before they entered the premises—’

  ‘But,’ interrupted Mullett, stepping forwards and nodding at Winslow.

  ‘Go ahead, Superintendent,’ said Winslow.

  ‘A different tactic was used here in Denton,’ said Mullett. ‘We believe the gang arrived in the centre of town all together in the white van, which was then used, highly effectively, for the decoy bomb hoax. The registration was false. The mannequin parts, found by DS Frost in the box inside the van, appear to have been lifted from a skip at the back of Aster’s department store.’

  Hanlon looked at Frost, who shrugged, as if to say, first he knew
of it.

  Winslow moved back to take position by the incident board, forcing Mullett to step aside. ‘So here in Denton,’ Winslow reiterated, ‘the gang arrive in the white Transit van, park it up in Market Square, and make their way on foot to the Fortress. Someone rings the police station on the way, saying there’s a bomb.’

  Not to be outdone, Mullett shuffled a little closer, and said, ‘The gang, once masked, brazenly threaten the Fortress staff at gunpoint, smacking a couple of people in the face with their pistols to show they mean business, before helping themselves to the contents of the tills and then moving on to the safes. They then leave from the back of the building, where we believe the waiting getaway vehicle was. All three branches had customer parking at the rear, though not a rear public entrance or exit. They appear to have barged through well-secured and alarmed fire exits, knowing exactly who’d be waiting for them.’

  Winslow, pushing his spectacles up his nose, added, ‘Interestingly, whoever was waiting for them in Denton, Rimmington and Wallop aroused no suspicion at all. There’ve been no outside-witness reports of anything untoward.’ He paused. ‘In each raid, the gang clearly knew their way around the buildings, inside and out, and were well aware what security measures were in place. None of the raids took more than six minutes. It seems more than likely that some inside knowledge had first been obtained.’

  ‘Do we know for sure they all jumped in the same car for the getaway?’ Frost piped up from the back, giving Hanlon a start. ‘You see, two or so individuals could have slipped away on foot down side streets, while the masks and the loot were bundled up in the car, the gang then regrouping sometime later. Spreads the risk. We’re asking for witnesses to four blokes in a car, but for all we know it might have just been the driver, or the driver and one passenger.’

  Nods and grunts of approval filled the room.

  ‘That’s possible, of course,’ conceded Winslow.

  ‘But in the Fortress raid,’ interjected Mullett, ‘much of the centre of Denton was roped off. A couple of blokes wandering around inside a security cordon would probably have been spotted. A quick getaway, certainly in Denton, seems the most likely scenario.’

  ‘But DS Frost managed to evade the security cordon,’ pointed out PS Webster, from the far side of the canteen, where the hot-food counter had once stood.

  ‘Not without drawing attention to himself,’ said Mullett.

  A titter swept around the room.

  ‘Have any prints been found in the white van?’ asked DC Sue Clarke, over by the door.

  ‘Only yours, DC Clarke, and Frost’s,’ said Mullett, to a much louder chorus of laughter.

  ‘Regarding the use of the van as a decoy,’ said Webster, ‘is this simply a change of tactics, or are other people now also involved with this gang?’

  ‘Too early to say for sure,’ said Mullett. ‘But what is clear is that the raid on the Fortress was more sophisticated and audacious than the Rimmington and Wallop raids – besides the fact, of course, that they got a much larger haul.’

  ‘What about security cameras?’ Frost asked. ‘What’s been captured?’

  ‘The Fortress has a new closed-circuit camera system,’ answered Winslow this time, ‘though the rear camera overlooking the car park appeared not to have been working.’ He moved back up to the incident board. ‘While at Rimmington and Wallop we have some pictures from inside the buildings, but there were no exterior cameras. As I’ve said, this gang knew exactly what they were doing.’

  ‘And some,’ said the man in the leather jacket standing next to Mullett. He had a faint, but definite Irish accent. ‘The code word they gave with the bomb warning had been active up until July of this year.’

  ‘Everybody, if you don’t already know,’ said the superintendent, ‘this is DCI Patterson, from the Anti-Terrorist Branch. He’s exploring any potential links this gang might have, with’ – Mullett cleared his throat – ‘the IRA.’ He coughed again, then continued, ‘What most of you don’t know is that the ATB have been keeping a close eye on Denton for some time. It’s possible, apparently, that an IRA sleeper cell is holed up here.’

  ‘Despite being a quiet little backwater,’ said Patterson, ‘Denton is well positioned for both the Midlands and London, and not a million miles from the Irish Sea. Brendan Murphy here’ – Patterson pointed to the gangly young man standing next to him – ‘has been here on the ground since the summer, helping to keep us informed.’

  Hanlon caught Frost shaking his head resignedly. Frost whispered, ‘I knew there was something fishy about that lad.’

  ‘You sell fancy motors for Steve Hudson, is that right?’ Hanlon asked, the face now having clicked into place.

  The gangly lad nodded, a sly smile spreading across his sunken cheeks. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

  ‘But what about this code word,’ DC Sue Clarke now asked, ‘how are these things decided upon?’

  ‘I can’t go into too much detail, for security reasons,’ said Patterson, straining to see exactly who’d asked the question. ‘Though these code words do occasionally get out over time, and certain opportunities arise. With the help of Mr Murphy here, I’ll be looking at all links, active and inactive.’

  ‘Could a former Provisional be at work?’ Clarke persisted. ‘Someone who was a terrorist but who’s since swapped bombing people for robbing them?’

  ‘We’ll be looking at that possibility,’ Patterson replied. ‘But that’s not to say former Provos are any less dangerous, or don’t still have a vested interest in the cause. With these people there are a lot of grey areas.’

  Trying to take it all in, Hanlon was being badly hampered by his hangover, and the uncomfortable sensation of whisky repeating on him. He turned to see how Frost was faring, but he had disappeared.

  PC Simms marched up from the cells feeling more than pleased with himself. He’d all but nailed a case for Sue, and now he’d just thumped the jerk – the child killer who’d upset her so much yesterday evening – bang on the nose.

  Passing Bill Wells on his way out, Simms shook his sore right hand in triumph. ‘Mr Trench down there seems to have had an accident.’

  Wells looked up from a black bin bag, a limp bunch of gladioli in his fist, like a casualty from a wedding. ‘You’ll get yourself into trouble one day, son,’ said Wells. ‘Stupid young hot-head.’

  ‘Someone seems to have kicked over a pot of paint, as well,’ Simms said, before exiting the building.

  *

  Frost could hear one hell of a racket coming from the cells below. Trying to ignore it he nodded brightly at the uniform guarding the door, and slipped into Interview Room Two where Lee Wright had been waiting for some time. Wright was younger than Frost expected, short, thin, with receding hair a touch too long. Even clearly having been in something of a scrap – there were grazes and bruises on his face and tears to his clothing – he didn’t look like he’d done a ten-year stretch for armed robbery. After all the fuss, Frost expected someone more substantial.

  ‘Morning,’ Frost smiled. ‘I’m DS Frost.’

  ‘Afternoon, more like,’ said Lee Wright.

  ‘Been in the wars?’ said Frost, searching his pockets for his cigarettes, eventually flinging the packet on to the desk.

  ‘Wars?’ Wright shrugged. ‘Seems like war’s breaking out all over round here.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Frost asked.

  ‘Bank robberies, bomb scares – in a quiet little town like Denton. What’s happened to the place?’

  ‘Let’s not forget the kidnapping of a minor, too,’ said Frost, pressing the Record button on the cassette player. ‘Right, Lee Wright, let’s work backwards, shall we? Why were you turfed out of the Coconut Grove late last night? Couldn’t hold your booze after all that time inside? Got too friendly with the entertainment? History with the owner, Harry Baskin?’

  ‘I should press charges against that bastard Harry Baskin,’ Wright mumbled. ‘Him and his heavies. Baskin’s got way too big for his
boots.’

  ‘What do you mean, exactly?’ Frost leant forwards, and stabbed the Off switch on the tape recorder. ‘Come on, Lee, you’re in one hell of a lot of trouble. You help me, and I’ll see what I can do for you.’

  ‘Tell me where Julie is first. I want to see my daughter.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Frost, gently. ‘She’s being well looked after.’

  ‘By her mum? Has Wendy got her?’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’ said Frost.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Wendy’s in Denton General. Fractured jaw, among other injuries.’

  Wright slumped in his chair, the colour draining from his battered face. ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t harm her. I wouldn’t. Would never. She’s the mother of my child.’

  ‘It’s all right, Lee, I don’t think you did do it.’

  ‘That wanker of a husband of hers,’ Wright said, ‘it was him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Frost offered Wright a Rothmans. ‘It was him.’

  Wright took the cigarette. ‘I’ll have him.’

  ‘You’re in enough trouble. Don’t push it.’

  ‘So where’s Julie? With my mum?’

  ‘I believe Social Services are in charge of her for now,’ said Frost, ‘until Wendy’s better. Your mum’s still got a few questions to answer.’

  ‘They better bloody well be looking after her,’ Wright fumed.

  ‘Like you did? Whipping her away from her mum at Aster’s? Down a fire escape?’

  Wright looked at Frost quizzically with his one good eye. ‘She came quite willingly,’ he said, ‘once she knew who I was.’

  ‘Must have been quite a shock for her, all the same.’

  ‘She’s a big girl. Put up with all sorts at home by the sound of it. Her mum was never happy. Her stepdad was always knocking someone off – a tart bang across the road most recently. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Julie tell you this? Or Wendy herself when you popped round there last week?’