dissimilar from his. He switched it off with a shrug. The pair of them hardly kept abreast of modern trends, apart from Mary and her clothes and music, that was. He turned on the standard lamp and sank into the chair Mary had recently vacated.
Mary and Sue. Sue
or
Mary. Without warning the image of the poor unfortunate teenager he’d seen today on the slab popped into his mind. He blinked, refocused and caught sight of the stack of old 78s that had once belonged to his mother. Getting down on his knees he began to shuffle through: King Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton and Duke Ellington. Frost slipped ‘Canal Street Blues’ out of its sleeve and flipped up the lid on the turntable. He lifted off a 7-inch of ‘Only You’ by Yazoo, flopped the weighty disc in its place and moved the switch across from 45 to 78 rpm. As the needle crackled in contact with the vinyl Frost moved back to the recliner and picked up a book he’d been reading the previous night, Oman’s
Peninsular War
, Volume V.
He tried to engage with the British resistance at Tarifa, but the jazz and vodka took him before he’d even reached the bottom of the page.
Once he was sure his wife was asleep, Chris Everett slipped out to the garage and retrieved his briefcase from the Rover. He didn’t dare keep it in the house; Fiona was always sniffing around, going through his stuff, suspicious old witch. She never ventured into the garage, though. The videos were hidden in the boot of the old MG, which had been off the road for all but a month since he’d bought the blasted thing four years ago.
Back in the kitchen, Everett flipped the case open. He’d laid a shirt on the table and now he placed the jewellery on it gently, piece by piece. Half a dozen necklaces – one pearl, a couple of diamond ones, and the extraordinary emerald one he’d picked up at Rimmington, with its matching brooch and earrings.
Chris Everett, regional manager for Regal Estates, had systematically stored information on every property he had personally valued for the company over the last seven years. His ‘hands-on’ attitude to the business, and keenness to remain in the field had earned him a succession of promotions throughout his career. Little did the customers or Regal management realize he’d revisit the property a couple of years later with copies of the keys he’d cut whilst they were in his possession.
Of course, he’d always smash a windowpane in order to divert suspicion, but entry with a key was so much quicker and safer than trying to fathom latches and climb through windows. He wrapped the jewellery in the shirt, folded it tightly and placed it in a Bejam carrier bag, and then he made his way quietly through to the living room.
Tuesday (1)
DC CLARKE MOVED stiffly in the breakfast queue in the Eagle Lane canteen, where service had finally resumed. Though she had lost quite a lot of blood, the wound she’d sustained yesterday was largely superficial, and there seemed no reason not to return to work immediately. Better than feeling sorry for yourself in a miserable little flat, she thought; after all it was just a graze by some kid, albeit a bloody one.
Earlier Control had patched through a Missing Person call. Desk Sergeant Bill Wells had taken details from an upset mother. Apparently she’d returned from a weekend break – a very nice trip to the Lakes by all accounts – and her sixteen-year-old son was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t too concerned, as he was always sloping off to some burger bar or to the Rec with his friends, returning after dark reeking of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. The worrying thing was that as of this morning he’d still not reappeared, and he should have been at school today. Although she dutifully took the details and accepted the request to follow it up, Clarke had struggled to be sympathetic; the truth was she was still preoccupied with Frost.
She looked across the canteen, and found herself recalling the events of last
Mary and Sue. Sue
or
Mary. Without warning the image of the poor unfortunate teenager he’d seen today on the slab popped into his mind. He blinked, refocused and caught sight of the stack of old 78s that had once belonged to his mother. Getting down on his knees he began to shuffle through: King Oliver, Jelly Roll Morton and Duke Ellington. Frost slipped ‘Canal Street Blues’ out of its sleeve and flipped up the lid on the turntable. He lifted off a 7-inch of ‘Only You’ by Yazoo, flopped the weighty disc in its place and moved the switch across from 45 to 78 rpm. As the needle crackled in contact with the vinyl Frost moved back to the recliner and picked up a book he’d been reading the previous night, Oman’s
Peninsular War
, Volume V.
He tried to engage with the British resistance at Tarifa, but the jazz and vodka took him before he’d even reached the bottom of the page.
Once he was sure his wife was asleep, Chris Everett slipped out to the garage and retrieved his briefcase from the Rover. He didn’t dare keep it in the house; Fiona was always sniffing around, going through his stuff, suspicious old witch. She never ventured into the garage, though. The videos were hidden in the boot of the old MG, which had been off the road for all but a month since he’d bought the blasted thing four years ago.
Back in the kitchen, Everett flipped the case open. He’d laid a shirt on the table and now he placed the jewellery on it gently, piece by piece. Half a dozen necklaces – one pearl, a couple of diamond ones, and the extraordinary emerald one he’d picked up at Rimmington, with its matching brooch and earrings.
Chris Everett, regional manager for Regal Estates, had systematically stored information on every property he had personally valued for the company over the last seven years. His ‘hands-on’ attitude to the business, and keenness to remain in the field had earned him a succession of promotions throughout his career. Little did the customers or Regal management realize he’d revisit the property a couple of years later with copies of the keys he’d cut whilst they were in his possession.
Of course, he’d always smash a windowpane in order to divert suspicion, but entry with a key was so much quicker and safer than trying to fathom latches and climb through windows. He wrapped the jewellery in the shirt, folded it tightly and placed it in a Bejam carrier bag, and then he made his way quietly through to the living room.
Tuesday (1)
DC CLARKE MOVED stiffly in the breakfast queue in the Eagle Lane canteen, where service had finally resumed. Though she had lost quite a lot of blood, the wound she’d sustained yesterday was largely superficial, and there seemed no reason not to return to work immediately. Better than feeling sorry for yourself in a miserable little flat, she thought; after all it was just a graze by some kid, albeit a bloody one.
Earlier Control had patched through a Missing Person call. Desk Sergeant Bill Wells had taken details from an upset mother. Apparently she’d returned from a weekend break – a very nice trip to the Lakes by all accounts – and her sixteen-year-old son was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t too concerned, as he was always sloping off to some burger bar or to the Rec with his friends, returning after dark reeking of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. The worrying thing was that as of this morning he’d still not reappeared, and he should have been at school today. Although she dutifully took the details and accepted the request to follow it up, Clarke had struggled to be sympathetic; the truth was she was still preoccupied with Frost.
She looked across the canteen, and found herself recalling the events of last
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