Fatal Frost by Henry James Read Free Book Online Page B

curlers answered the door.
    ‘Afternoon, madam. I wonder if I might trouble you to call your husband?’ Frost said politely.
    ‘’Usband? I ain’t got no ’usband.’ The woman scowled.
    ‘Does one Bill Travers not reside here?’
    ‘’E’s me brother. And ’e’s in bed.’
    ‘No, I’m up,’ said a voice from inside the hallway. A grey-haired man in a string vest appeared at the woman’s shoulder. The two of them glared at Frost like a pair of heavy-beaked vultures.
    ‘What’s up?’ said Travers.
    ‘Denton CID,’ the detective replied, holding up his badge.
    The pair’s expressions remained unchanged.
    ‘Mr Travers, you picked up off the final Paddington train on Saturday night?’
    ‘I did – what of it?’ Travers growled, scratching his stubbly jaw.
    ‘There was an incident on the train. I’m making some routine enquiries. Do you remember who you picked up?’
    ‘Yeah. A young Chinese feller. Dropped him off at Market Square.’
    ‘Thanks. Don’t suppose you noticed how many got off that train?’
    ‘Four. Very lean for a Saturday night – specially as the train went no further. Nah, nothing much. Charlie picked up two pissed birds,’ he added, rubbing his belly. ‘People ain’t got the cash for cabs no more.’
    ‘That would be Charlie Feltham?’
    ‘That’s him.’ The driver yawned.
    ‘And the woman would have gone with …’ Frost said, prompting.
    ‘Woman? Didn’t see no woman.’
    Once in the Cortina, Frost sat back and lit a cigarette. He’d established that the woman got off last, and the two girls were a short way behind the Chinese bloke. According to Travers’ account, he’d spent a couple of minutes working out where the Chinaman wanted to go – even went so far as to check he had the cash to pay the fare.
    The other driver, Feltham, lived up in North Denton, off Merchant Street. Flipping heck, he was fast growing sick of this driving lark. The radio crackled into life before he could start to miss his mate and stalwart driver, the portly DC Hanlon. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, deciding he would call on Feltham later, and mulling over the choices he was left with. It was Eagle Lane and Hornrim Harry, or Denton General and DC Sue, and he didn’t relish either one.
     
    * * *
    ‘That is one worried woman,’ Simms said as the mother of Samantha Ellis closed the door on them.
    ‘I agree there,’ Waters replied, shaking his head. ‘She sussed we were police before we’d said a word – though if she was that worried, why didn’t she report it sooner?’
    Simms, for all his inexperience, knew why. The pair had called on Mrs Hartley-Jones’ niece to discover that, as they’d been told, the girl was indeed missing. The mother was distraught. Samantha was fifteen and a sensible girl, not one in the habit of shirking her duties, let alone vanishing without a word. The arrival of CID had brought the fears she’d been suppressing to the surface; she’d suddenly had to accept that her only daughter might actually be in trouble, as opposed to having run off on a jolly with a boyfriend or her mates. Mrs Ellis had been on the verge of reporting her missing when the pair turned up; she knew she’d been tardy in doing so. Well, it was difficult to know if the police would take the disappearance seriously. After all, Samantha wasn’t a child. She was about to start her CSE exams and would soon go on to secretarial college. She was almost a grown woman. Almost, but not quite.
    ‘Here’s my theory,’ said Simms, opening the car door. ‘There was trouble at home, so she robbed her aunt’s place and then did a runner.’ He paused to allow time for Waters to digest this and then acknowledge his brilliant insight, but instead the Londoner frowned, perplexed.
    ‘Listen,’ persisted Simms, ‘the circumstances fit: the girl’s about to leave school, has a row with her mum and mum’s boyfriend, knows auntie’s got a few bob – easy. She’s got keys to the