regarding why Samantha went up to London on Saturday, please do call me.’
‘We’ve already told you! She didn’t say! She often went out with friends. It was probably just a shopping trip. Who knows?’ He started to move despondently towards the door of the lab.
Frost recalled that there were two drunk girls on the train, picked up by the second cab driver. Could they have been friends of Samantha’s? It was worth checking out, although surely they would have reported something if they’d witnessed what had happened. Unless they’d been involved.
‘Sir,’ Frost called out. ‘Could you ask Mrs Ellis again about the diary? It could be crucial.’
Larry nodded as he left the building and emerged into the cool night air.
Monday (5)
SUE CLARKE PULLED the duvet up close around her neck and took a massive swig of Chardonnay. A small black-and-white portable was perched on the corner of the dressing table, and a heartrending scene from
Brief Encounter
was being played out. She could feel her eyes begin to fill with tears, but not in response to the film, which she’d seen at least a dozen times before and found more comforting than sad. No, if anything, these were tears of self-pity.
When the doorbell had gone earlier that evening she was sure it would be him, and the disappointment must have shown. Derek looked embarrassed and was lost for words. He smiled and mumbled some pleasantries about making sure she was OK, and being worried about her on her own. At least he’d made the effort. She started to wonder if maybe ditching him had been a mistake … but just her luck, he was dating Liza Smith, Mullett’s secretary, and had been for the last six months or so. Well, you know what they say, the grass is always greener …
She gently rubbed her leg, which was smarting again. She reached over to the bedside table for painkillers and swiftly swallowed two with her wine.
Clarke’s romance with Jack Frost had begun last autumn, just after the shoot-out in Denton Woods. That was when she’d first worked with Frost; on the bank-robbery case; and the pair of them had nearly been killed. She knew that a secretive affair with a married man and fellow-officer could hardly be more wrong, and she had no one to blame but herself; she’d made the first move. It was after she’d seen Frost’s wife turn up at the hospital; he, the unhappy victim, laid low with appendicitis; she, the sexy, smug victor, complacent in the knowledge that he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. The encounter had brought it home to Clarke. She knew the poor devil would never free himself, despite confessing repeatedly that the marriage was over, and the realization spurred her on. She seduced him.
It was eleven o’clock when Frost finally returned home. The house was in virtual darkness. He let himself in the front door and closed it gently. A soft flicker of light escaped from the living room, and he peered through the door to see Mary slumped over, asleep in the ancient recliner – an heirloom of his father’s. Some old movie was on the TV; it amazed him that Mary could sleep through the din, as a steam train pulled noisily out of the platform, with a swell of background music. He turned away; he’d had enough of trains and stations for one day. Slipping off his shoes he padded to the kitchen and flicked on the light, the brightness of the blazing fluorescent tube momentarily blinding him. On the kitchen table was a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff with the cap off. No wonder she was sleeping through the racket.
Frost sighed as he poured himself a measure and lit a cigarette. Leaning against the stove and staring through the window at the moon, he reflected on the day’s events.
The sound of a creaking floorboard indicated that Mary had finally roused herself and was heading for bed. He picked up the vodka and made for the lounge. The TV was still on; a woman and her husband were sat in a front room, old-fashioned and yet not too
‘We’ve already told you! She didn’t say! She often went out with friends. It was probably just a shopping trip. Who knows?’ He started to move despondently towards the door of the lab.
Frost recalled that there were two drunk girls on the train, picked up by the second cab driver. Could they have been friends of Samantha’s? It was worth checking out, although surely they would have reported something if they’d witnessed what had happened. Unless they’d been involved.
‘Sir,’ Frost called out. ‘Could you ask Mrs Ellis again about the diary? It could be crucial.’
Larry nodded as he left the building and emerged into the cool night air.
Monday (5)
SUE CLARKE PULLED the duvet up close around her neck and took a massive swig of Chardonnay. A small black-and-white portable was perched on the corner of the dressing table, and a heartrending scene from
Brief Encounter
was being played out. She could feel her eyes begin to fill with tears, but not in response to the film, which she’d seen at least a dozen times before and found more comforting than sad. No, if anything, these were tears of self-pity.
When the doorbell had gone earlier that evening she was sure it would be him, and the disappointment must have shown. Derek looked embarrassed and was lost for words. He smiled and mumbled some pleasantries about making sure she was OK, and being worried about her on her own. At least he’d made the effort. She started to wonder if maybe ditching him had been a mistake … but just her luck, he was dating Liza Smith, Mullett’s secretary, and had been for the last six months or so. Well, you know what they say, the grass is always greener …
She gently rubbed her leg, which was smarting again. She reached over to the bedside table for painkillers and swiftly swallowed two with her wine.
Clarke’s romance with Jack Frost had begun last autumn, just after the shoot-out in Denton Woods. That was when she’d first worked with Frost; on the bank-robbery case; and the pair of them had nearly been killed. She knew that a secretive affair with a married man and fellow-officer could hardly be more wrong, and she had no one to blame but herself; she’d made the first move. It was after she’d seen Frost’s wife turn up at the hospital; he, the unhappy victim, laid low with appendicitis; she, the sexy, smug victor, complacent in the knowledge that he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. The encounter had brought it home to Clarke. She knew the poor devil would never free himself, despite confessing repeatedly that the marriage was over, and the realization spurred her on. She seduced him.
It was eleven o’clock when Frost finally returned home. The house was in virtual darkness. He let himself in the front door and closed it gently. A soft flicker of light escaped from the living room, and he peered through the door to see Mary slumped over, asleep in the ancient recliner – an heirloom of his father’s. Some old movie was on the TV; it amazed him that Mary could sleep through the din, as a steam train pulled noisily out of the platform, with a swell of background music. He turned away; he’d had enough of trains and stations for one day. Slipping off his shoes he padded to the kitchen and flicked on the light, the brightness of the blazing fluorescent tube momentarily blinding him. On the kitchen table was a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff with the cap off. No wonder she was sleeping through the racket.
Frost sighed as he poured himself a measure and lit a cigarette. Leaning against the stove and staring through the window at the moon, he reflected on the day’s events.
The sound of a creaking floorboard indicated that Mary had finally roused herself and was heading for bed. He picked up the vodka and made for the lounge. The TV was still on; a woman and her husband were sat in a front room, old-fashioned and yet not too
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