the speedo touched 70 mph.
‘Very funny. Just haven’t got all day,’ she said. ‘What’s with the red jumper and the flares?’ She looked over at him, for a little too long, he thought. ‘Hot undercover job?’
‘Could say that.’ He decided not to distract her further from her driving and to try to keep his gob shut. Fortunately the road ahead was clear – if only his mind was too.
He had grave concerns for missing Julie Hudson and the health of her mother, Wendy, and was feeling increasing frustration that Steven Hudson had yet to be apprehended. And then there was little bruised Becky Fraser now stuck in isolation, with Becky’s father, this Simon Trench fellow, also not located, let alone interviewed.
And on top of all that, Frost was now faced with having to identify a battered corpse. Someone could be missing a husband, a father. Frost wondered whether it was an isolated incident or whether the gang would strike again. Whoever he was, the canal corpse, he wasn’t well off, judging from his clothing, and the worn soles of his cheap shoes.
Sue Clarke, Frost decided, could at least deal with that case. She seemed especially efficient and keen, eager to get stuck in.
Reaching for his cigarettes, then realizing he was already smoking one, Frost hoped Hanlon wasn’t going to be sidetracked for too long by his sick mother. Frost badly needed his assistance. DC Clarke was fine, more than fine in fact, but he thought Hanlon dependable.
Frost’s mind drifted back to Bert Williams as they hammered down the autumn lanes. The inspector had failed to report for duty plenty of times before. Not so often for two days on the trot. Though it was Betty who had really spooked Frost – that business about Bert popping out to the phone box, at all hours.
Strange. Frost was as certain as he could be that Williams was not having an affair. Other women were not his passion. It was alcohol, and, Frost supposed, still some sort of commitment to the force – once a copper, always a copper. Who knew what the old fool was up to. Nothing to do with work, Frost hoped, not some wild goose chase. There were plenty of ruthless bastards out there.
Frost had told Betty that he’d look for Bert, and he would. There were the boozers of course, the old haunts, and then that mountain of paperwork on Bert’s desk. Perhaps that would reveal something. Yet that was exactly what Frost now saw he’d been avoiding. Because that would mean work, CID work, and some daft hunch or other, driving Bert on, regardless of the risks. Frost knew how stubborn the inspector could be, how hung up he was about sliding disgracefully into retirement.
Fields flashed by as Frost kept glancing in Clarke’s direction, weak sunlight catching her auburn hair and smooth, glowing cheeks.
‘This bothering you?’ he finally said, holding up his cigarette.
‘No problem,’ she replied, turning to face him. ‘I’ve always found smoking rather sexy, like in the old black-and-white movies. Stupid really, but there you are.’
Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Frost reached forward and turned on the radio, whacking up the volume. Bloody Abba again. But by the outskirts of Denton he found himself distractedly tapping out the beat on the glove compartment – catchy tune.
Frost abruptly stopped, stubbed out his cigarette and stared gloomily out of the window at the rows of pre-war semis. He and Mary lived in one just like that.
As they approached Market Square Frost said, ‘Pull over, love, there’s something I need from Aster’s.’
‘Don’t tell me, a new suit?’
‘From Aster’s, on my salary? You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘That’s an expensive new mac you’re wearing over your civvies though, isn’t it? Apart from the odd stain. Where does that come from?’
‘It was a present,’ said Frost, jumping out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him, and giving Clarke little alternative but to follow.
‘I can’t just park there,’ he
‘Very funny. Just haven’t got all day,’ she said. ‘What’s with the red jumper and the flares?’ She looked over at him, for a little too long, he thought. ‘Hot undercover job?’
‘Could say that.’ He decided not to distract her further from her driving and to try to keep his gob shut. Fortunately the road ahead was clear – if only his mind was too.
He had grave concerns for missing Julie Hudson and the health of her mother, Wendy, and was feeling increasing frustration that Steven Hudson had yet to be apprehended. And then there was little bruised Becky Fraser now stuck in isolation, with Becky’s father, this Simon Trench fellow, also not located, let alone interviewed.
And on top of all that, Frost was now faced with having to identify a battered corpse. Someone could be missing a husband, a father. Frost wondered whether it was an isolated incident or whether the gang would strike again. Whoever he was, the canal corpse, he wasn’t well off, judging from his clothing, and the worn soles of his cheap shoes.
Sue Clarke, Frost decided, could at least deal with that case. She seemed especially efficient and keen, eager to get stuck in.
Reaching for his cigarettes, then realizing he was already smoking one, Frost hoped Hanlon wasn’t going to be sidetracked for too long by his sick mother. Frost badly needed his assistance. DC Clarke was fine, more than fine in fact, but he thought Hanlon dependable.
Frost’s mind drifted back to Bert Williams as they hammered down the autumn lanes. The inspector had failed to report for duty plenty of times before. Not so often for two days on the trot. Though it was Betty who had really spooked Frost – that business about Bert popping out to the phone box, at all hours.
Strange. Frost was as certain as he could be that Williams was not having an affair. Other women were not his passion. It was alcohol, and, Frost supposed, still some sort of commitment to the force – once a copper, always a copper. Who knew what the old fool was up to. Nothing to do with work, Frost hoped, not some wild goose chase. There were plenty of ruthless bastards out there.
Frost had told Betty that he’d look for Bert, and he would. There were the boozers of course, the old haunts, and then that mountain of paperwork on Bert’s desk. Perhaps that would reveal something. Yet that was exactly what Frost now saw he’d been avoiding. Because that would mean work, CID work, and some daft hunch or other, driving Bert on, regardless of the risks. Frost knew how stubborn the inspector could be, how hung up he was about sliding disgracefully into retirement.
Fields flashed by as Frost kept glancing in Clarke’s direction, weak sunlight catching her auburn hair and smooth, glowing cheeks.
‘This bothering you?’ he finally said, holding up his cigarette.
‘No problem,’ she replied, turning to face him. ‘I’ve always found smoking rather sexy, like in the old black-and-white movies. Stupid really, but there you are.’
Suddenly feeling self-conscious, Frost reached forward and turned on the radio, whacking up the volume. Bloody Abba again. But by the outskirts of Denton he found himself distractedly tapping out the beat on the glove compartment – catchy tune.
Frost abruptly stopped, stubbed out his cigarette and stared gloomily out of the window at the rows of pre-war semis. He and Mary lived in one just like that.
As they approached Market Square Frost said, ‘Pull over, love, there’s something I need from Aster’s.’
‘Don’t tell me, a new suit?’
‘From Aster’s, on my salary? You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘That’s an expensive new mac you’re wearing over your civvies though, isn’t it? Apart from the odd stain. Where does that come from?’
‘It was a present,’ said Frost, jumping out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him, and giving Clarke little alternative but to follow.
‘I can’t just park there,’ he
Similar Books
