Fatal Frost by Henry James Read Free Book Online Page A

Street, a vandalized phone box standing like a gatepost at the entrance to the Southern Housing Estate over the canal bridge. ‘This is where all the scum and riff-raff live,’ he continued. ‘It’s pretty much a certainty that the Hartley-Joneses’ video recorder is sitting in one of these front rooms.’
    This place gets worse with every visit, he thought. A chest freezer sat in the garden of a house with boarded-up windows. Sprayed on the wooden boarding were the letters
NF
and a swastika. Simms glanced over at Waters, who sat smoking and taking in the scenery.
    ‘Nice,’ he quipped. ‘But listen, don’t you want to check on your pal first?’ They’d picked up Myles and Clarke’s distress call from the massage parlour, but Simms had chosen to ignore it.
    ‘Who says she’s my pal?’ Simms retorted, and then after a pause added, ‘It was the wrong side of town for us, anyway. Uniform will have had it covered. Or Frost.’
    ‘Pretty harsh, an officer getting stabbed like that—’
    ‘Well, they weren’t in uniform,’ Simms said, ‘and let’s face it, the pair of them hardly look like coppers. Especially Kim. I mean, the skirts she wears – Baskin probably thought she was applying for a job.’
    Waters’ expression was stony. No sense of humour, thought Simms.
    ‘Right, the newsagent is just on the corner here, I think. Cromwell Road.’ Simms parked the car half on the kerb and quickly scanned the street. No sign of Frost’s car. Good.
    The pair of them entered the shop. ‘Newsagent’ hardly did it justice; it was crammed from floor to ceiling with everything from household detergent to cat food, alongside the cigarettes and girly mags. Behind the counter was a portly Asian man in a cardigan, shirt and tie. They had barely crossed the threshold when he launched his offensive.
    ‘Where you people bloody been? Robbed – I have been robbed!’ He thumped the counter, a cushion of
Denton Echo
es absorbing the thud.
    ‘We got here as soon as we could, sir,’ Simms said. ‘Is anyone hurt?’ Though he knew this was unlikely.
    ‘Nobody bloody hurt,’ Mr Singh replied.
    Except your pride, Simms thought. ‘How much did they get away with?’
    ‘Three of the buggers, there were. Wearing this.’ Singh covered his face with his hands, signifying balaclavas. Simms knew this area well from his time in uniform. The post office on the estate was turned over regularly: balaclavas, sawn-offs. Real mean bastards. But never a corner shop.
    ‘Could they have been children?’ Waters questioned.
    ‘We’re not in the East End now, Sarge,’ Simms said authoritatively. ‘Kids with shooters? Not in Denton.’
    ‘Did you see the weapon?’ Waters asked.
    ‘In pocket, like this.’ The newsagent shoved his hand in the cardigan pocket and thrust it forward. Waters raised his eyebrows.
    ‘How much did they get away with?’ Simms insisted again.
    ‘Three pounds and fifty-five pence,’ said Singh vehemently. ‘And many, many cigarettes.’
    Simms was incredulous. ‘Three quid and a packet of fags? Is that
all
?’
    ‘Money not important.’ Singh was indignant.
    Simms was visibly deflated. Waters, however, stepped forward decisively, clapping his colleague on the back.
    ‘You’re right, sir, it doesn’t matter if it’s three pounds or thirty grand, we can’t have people just wandering in and nabbing stuff when they feel like it, can we? Can you give us any further description?’
    Frost had driven past Simms’s motor as he turned off Cromwell Road and into Milk Street. He hadn’t been down here for ages but little had changed. The street was lined with identical 1930s council houses, pebble-dashed like dirty beaches, and he pulled up outside number 20.
    He regarded the car propped up on bricks in the drive, an old Hillman of some kind. Why were there so many cars on bricks in this town? They sat there, raised exultantly all over the estate, cars wheel-less for all eternity.
    A big-nosed woman in