Frost drove up the barely lit track to the Coconut Grove. He was alone, having let Waters go home – he deserved something of an early night after his star performance on stage at the town hall. Frost could tell he’d hated every minute of it. And maybe the news of Kim’s impending bundle of joy had motivated Frost to let his DS go – after all, soon he wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep, never mind an early night.
But there was another reason for Frost’s magnanimity. Harry Baskin didn’t like crowds. And in Baskin’s book, three constituted a crowd. When there were three people in the room, there was always a material witness; but when it was nice and cosy with just the two of you, there was complicity. And armed with the new information he had, the detective was sure he’d get more out of Baskin with a tête-à-tête than a conference.
‘Nice tan you’ve got there.’
Even in the gloom of Baskin’s back-room office, he could see that the club-owner had either been away somewhere sunny or had fallen asleep on Mrs B’s sunbed. He sat there looking very pleased with himself, smoking a big cigar, with naked women lying across his desk.
‘Looking well, Harry. Put us in it.’
Baskin looked up from the photos of the naked girls and gave him a wink. Then he explained that it was strictly business, as he was auditioning some new strippers; even though it was only April, he was already planning the not-so-traditional Christmas spectacular for the club: this year it was to be ‘The Not So Snow White Show’. All the proceeds from the event went to local children’s charities. He shuffled the photos together and put them away in a drawer. Frost was grateful, he could do without the distraction.
Harry gestured for Frost to take a seat and explained the tan. ‘Been abroad, went off early on Monday and got back this morning, so any crimes committed over the last couple of days in Denton, or the surrounding area, have absolutely nothing to do with me.’
Frost leaned back in his chair, fished his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit one up. ‘Let me guess: Tenerife, overseeing your timeshare business whilst your partner George Price is … indisposed?’
‘Nothing gets past you, does it? That’s exactly what I told the concerned parties also involved in the venture. Like I said, anything happens to George, we all stand to lose a good few quid.’
‘I suppose you’ve been keeping abreast of what’s been happening back home during your absence?’
‘George has his operation next week.’ Harry rapped his knuckles on his desk. ‘Touch wood, should be on for a full recovery. Again, that’s what I told the concerned parties.’
‘Jimmy Drake, I was thinking of.’
Harry Baskin stopped grinning, and the big man seemed to slump back in his chair. ‘I heard. Terrible business. First George, now Jimmy.’
The club-owner hauled himself out of his seat and went over to his fancy drinks cabinet; once the inlaid walnut doors were opened, it lit up like one of Harry’s Christmas shows. He then poured two large measures of Johnnie Walker Blue Label into a pair of crystal tumblers and handed one to Frost.
Without saying a word, they both raised their glasses to Jimmy Drake and took some noisy and appreciative sips of their drinks.
Harry Baskin sat back down at his desk. ‘Any news on Terry Langdon, he still the prime suspect?’
‘We’ve found him. And he’s not guilty. He’s a little bit off his trolley, but not guilty.’
Baskin nodded along in accord to this. ‘So, I take it this isn’t a social call.’
‘Edward Havilland.’ Frost said it slowly and steadily so there could be no room for Baskin to say ‘Excuse me’ or ‘I didn’t catch that’ to mask his reaction. A criminal recidivist like Harry knew how to twist an interrogation in his favour.
The burly gangster crinkled his brow in thought. ‘Rings a bell.’
‘Should ring more than that, Harry. Without Edward Havilland, your strippers wouldn’t have a stage to strip off on, and you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘Very good. We’re looking for someone to play Happy in the Snow White show – any more gags like that and the part’s yours.’
‘Councillor Edward Havilland just happens to be head of the licensing committee and pushed through your licence for your club for the next five years. Making you Happy.’
‘So what? He’s liberal for a Tory. I think his stance was that if Denton was to grow as a town and attract investment, it must be seen to be supporting a diverse economy, and that includes a thriving nightclub and entertainment scene to cater for all tastes.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got it off by heart, Harry.’
‘It’s good to see progressive politics in action.’
‘Tell me, is Edward Havilland one of the Denton high-flyers that George Price said he had in his pocket?’
The tip of Harry Baskin’s cigar burned bright as the big man’s cheeks sucked in the full flavour of his Montecristo. He then picked up his Johnnie Walker and took a slug.
‘Because as well as being a member of the local hunt, a keen fisherman and handy with the twelve-bore when it comes to bagging the grouse, Edward Havilland is on the board of Radleigh Park Racecourse, and he was very active in the campaign to get the course reopened after it closed in the seventies. He’s even gone on record as supporting the idea of the development of a Las Vegas-style casino in the area.’
‘Bring more money in than the poxy garden centre they’re planning on building.’
‘You probably know more about Edward Havilland than me.’
‘It’s all a matter of public record, Jack, right?’
‘It is indeed. A politician, bon viveur and gambler who bets heavy with George Price. One of George’s high-flyers who ensures he never even has to pay for a parking ticket, or so I’ve been told. And who gets your nightclub licences pushed through. Let’s face it, we both know that when it comes to collecting gambling debts for George, he entrusts that to you. A knock on the door from any one of your team of bouncers and they pay up quick, right?’
‘If you’re suggesting—’
Frost cut him off dead. The banter was over, time for the nitty-gritty. ‘Havilland is a big punter of George’s, into it for a good few grand. I don’t have the exact numbers on me, but we’re talking five figures. George has him marked in his book as “Winston”, due to his Tory politics, and he’s fat, posh, wears bow ties and likes to pose like Churchill. But that’s where all similarities to the great man end.’
‘George looks like pulling through. And Eddie Havilland wouldn’t harm a fly. Why would you say such a thing, Jack?’ Baskin smiled indulgently.
‘Jimmy Drake’s not going to pull through, though, is he?’
Harry stopped smiling. Frost could tell that for all his bravado, he was hurting over the death of Price’s clerk. Baskin was a fully paid-up member of the Winchester Club, used to sitting at the card table and bantering away with George and Jimmy. He took another swig of his drink, for some Dutch courage perhaps.
Frost knew he might just have him on the ropes. ‘Listen, Harry, this is murder. And it’s one of your own. Jimmy Drake was a good man. But he knew too much and someone killed him. There were two names in that book, both of interest to me: Winston and Socks. I also don’t think Winston is capable of killing anyone, but Socks is a different matter.’
‘So tell me who Socks is.’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’
Harry Baskin shifted in his seat, supremely uncomfortable at the idea of telling Frost anything. Nothing personal, just business.
Frost understood. So he eased Harry along: ‘That’s OK, Harry, I’ll tell you who I think Socks is. It could just be someone who likes wearing brightly coloured socks. Someone a bit flash. Or, knowing your and George’s Stepney roots, how about a little bit of cockney rhyming slang: sweaty sock – Jock. So, a Scotsman with a penchant for wearing coloured socks is just crying out to be nicknamed Socks.’ Frost watched as Harry Baskin just sat there, saying nothing, but denying even less. His silence spoke volumes. ‘But cockney rhyming slang and a man’s choice of socks aren’t going to get me anywhere; I bring that before the CPS and they’d laugh at me. I need some hard proof. I need to make the connection. Jimmy Drake would have provided it, if it looked like George wasn’t going to make it. Until Socks got to him. Then there’s Little Stevie Wooder – you know Little Stevie?’
Harry shrugged. ‘He’s been in the club.’
‘He was pulled out of the river last night. Shot with the same calibre of bullet that’s in George’s head. Feet and hands bound with the same rope that Jimmy was strangled with. Stabbed all over multiple times so the body would sink.’
Harry shifted in his seat again, sat up straight and put his glass on the desk. ‘Go have a look round Jimmy’s bar. Have a drink in the Winchester Club. You’ll find your connection.’
Frost stood up. He didn’t say another word as he left Harry’s office. Like Baskin had never spoken.
John Waters rubbed a knuckle over a tired pouchy eye as he tried to focus on the road. He was in his car driving as fast as he could to the Southern Housing Estate.
Ten minutes earlier he’d been asleep on the sofa with Kim. He hadn’t even had time to change out of his suit; as soon as he’d got home he’d collapsed on to the sofa, where Kim joined him for a cuddle. They’d planned on getting a takeaway. Kim, who tried to encourage healthy eating, said he could have whatever he wanted as a reward for his performance at the town hall. But they ended up just dozing off in each other’s arms, perfectly content and ignoring their growling stomachs. Quite some time later the phone went, and they let the answerphone pick up. But then Waters heard the panicked voice of Cathy Bartlett, and he quickly got off the couch and took the call.
When Ella Ross and Cathy Bartlett got back to the estate from the meeting, Ella found that superglue had been squeezed through her front-door lock. So she was staying the night at Cathy’s place, which was a ground-floor flat. About half an hour earlier, they’d heard voices outside and when they sneaked a look through the window, they spotted two men hanging around. They were wearing baseball caps with the peaks pulled down low, so the women couldn’t make out their faces. But they looked like trouble, like they were working out how they could break in. John Waters said he’d be there as quickly as possible. He said sorry to Kim and kissed her goodbye.
When he arrived on the SHE it was around eleven. But even at this late hour there were usually still some kids about, teenagers gathered in knots, drinking cider and smoking fags by the playground. Usually, there was also someone telling them to keep it down or threatening to nick them. It was just the way of the estate. But not tonight: the streets, courtyards, all the communal areas seemed deserted.
Waters parked up and got out of the car. As he turned the corner of Grafton Way towards Cathy’s block, he heard glass breaking. But Waters could tell the difference between a dropped pint glass and a window being smashed. And then came the screams, women’s voices raised in terror. Waters ran towards the block, and as he rounded the corner of the building, he saw that Cathy’s flat was ablaze. In the same field of vision he saw two men in baseball caps making their escape.
Waters was sprinting now. He knew that only one thing causes an explosion of fire like that: a Molotov cocktail. He hammered on the front door, but got no response. He rammed his shoulder into it a couple of times, but it didn’t budge. The next quickest way in was through a window, but not the one that the firebomb had been thrown through, as the curtains there had ignited and were now a sheet of flame. He took off his jacket, wrapped it around his fist and punched in the only other available window. He felt the heat being drawn towards him and fresh oxygen being sucked into the flat like fuel, feeding the fire’s voracious appetite. He could also feel his stomach getting ripped on the broken glass left in the frame as he crawled through.
He’d come in through the kitchen window and ended up with his hands in the sink. As he rushed into the hallway, he saw them, Cathy and Ella, huddled there, choking on smoke. He threw his jacket over to them so they could cover their mouths with it, and headed to the front door. They gestured wildly at him that it was jammed, that they’d already tried to open it, but in vain. Waters retraced his steps, grabbed the jacket they were cowering under and yelled, ‘Get up, move, come on!’ as he pushed them into the kitchen, just in the nick of time to avoid a sudden surge of fire devouring the hallway carpet.
Smoke filled the flat completely now, black acrid fumes clawing at their throats, searing their lungs. There was no door to the kitchen and the fire was relentlessly making its way towards them.
Waters laid the jacket over the jagged window frame and grabbed the woman nearest to him; he couldn’t see which one it was, and as every second now could make the difference between life or death, he didn’t need to know. ‘Through here!’ he gasped in desperation, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give them any more instructions. The smoke and heat were sapping his strength. But with whatever resolve he had left, he lifted her up and pushed her head-first through the window. Someone must have been on the other side of the window by now, because she seemed to get pulled through it to safety.
Waters spun round to grab the other woman, who had collapsed on the floor. He felt a new blast of heat and his hair being singed, his skin being scorched. He lifted her off the floor – she felt smaller, lighter and also more lifeless, as though the smoke had already got the better of her. Waters let out a roar as he tried to summon the last of his strength to lift her out of danger. The cry was also one of agonizing pain, as the burning lash of the fire attacked his back. He raised her limp body over the sink, started to push her through the window and saw her being yanked free.
He thought he heard sirens and panicked voices, saw flashing blue lights … the smoke forced his eyes to close … he wondered if he’d kissed Kim before he left the house … he was so tired when he left … but he was sure that he had … he was sure he’d kissed her goodbye.
Frost stole up the path like a thief in the night. There were no lights on in the modest 1930s semi, so when he came to the side gate, Frost felt it safe to switch on his pocket torch to light his way down to the bottom of the garden and the Winchester Club. He was sure the house was empty; Maureen, Jimmy’s widow, was staying with her daughter, at least until the murderer had been found. In Frost’s experience, the victims of a crime such as the one Maureen had endured often moved home for good. Murder is quick, but for those it leaves behind it lasts a lifetime.
But even with the certainty that the house was empty, Frost moved stealthily down the garden path, not wanting to disturb nosy, if well-meaning, neighbours. He unwound the length of police tape that was barring his way, and then found that the padlock was off the shed door. He went in and turned on the light. Spread out across the walls of the Winchester Club was a photographic record of Jimmy Drake’s life in racing. Frost always suspected that the murderer would be somewhere up on the walls; most killers were well known to their victims. But now Frost knew who he was looking for.
As well as the photos, Frost’s eyes were immediately drawn to the optics behind the bar, and particularly to the bottle of whisky with his name on it – if your name happened to be Johnnie Walker. The detective, never one to take liberties when it came to the etiquette of drinking, and always careful to buy his round, put a quid in the bookmaker’s satchel that served as the Winchester’s till. He also helped himself to one of Jimmy’s Hamlets. Lighting up his cigar, he started to have second thoughts about Paradise Lodge: was it too posh and designer for him? Plus the fact that it didn’t have a garden. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that every man should have a shed at the bottom of the garden, and every shed should be like the Winchester.
Frost got to work. He started at the top left-hand corner of each wall and worked his way along, examining each photo. It was three fingers into his second tumbler of Johnnie Walker that Frost belted out a victorious ‘Yes!’ like his horse had just won the Grand National. He was crouched down, looking at a series of three photos featuring George Price and Jimmy Drake at the Epsom Derby. They were wearing custodian helmets, and they were surrounded by coppers, with their arms around a young, but unmistakable, Peter Kelsey, probably in his mid-twenties. There were two other photos, more recent and even more pertinent to the case – these had been taken at Ascot. Peter Kelsey and Edward Havilland stood with George Price, probably about ten years ago, judging from the fashions, big teardrop collars and flares. They all looked happy, prosperous and very chummy. George Price with his late first wife, an elegant-looking woman in a wide-brimmed summer hat for Ladies Day. When did it all go sour for Kelsey and George Price? Frost had noticed that there were no photos of Melody up on the walls.
The detective was then hit by a more compelling thought – it was clear that Kelsey had forgotten about the photos. They weren’t in the most prominent of places in the shed, but surely he would remember them. Wouldn’t he …?
Frost eased himself up from his crouch with an accompanying creak – but even his joints weren’t that bad. It was the shed door opening. Frost was almost upright, and about to turn to see who was behind him, his hand on the aluminium pocket torch (wishing it was something more substantial, like a cosh or a good old-fashioned copper’s truncheon), when he felt the air split with the force of the blow and the nauseating sound of wood against skull. The light faded, and it was game over for Frost as he slid down the wall.