understand why she didn’t finish off the job.’
‘There’re a number of possibilities.’ Frost explained his main theory, that Baskin was hit for cheating at cards, so it was more punishment than murder attempt. This to Simms’s mind seemed ridiculous, especially given that Rhodes was shot too. Frost proceeded to show him the names of four card players whom he wanted to question. Simms was on the point of objecting, but took one look at the tired, bedraggled Frost and decided he’d leave it until tomorrow, when after a night’s sleep the overwrought DS might see the error in his logic. Simms would, however, draw the line at knocking up card players at eight o’clock in the evening, and was about to assert this when he was interrupted by the phone. Frost picked it up. ‘This is not my phone,’ was his inexplicable retort into the receiver before wearily hanging up.
Simms was once again about to protest when DS Waters ambled in.
‘Wotcha, Sarge,’ said Frost. ‘What news of the retired stripper?’
Waters flopped down in the chair opposite. ‘Well, for a start she says she’s no stripper, never was, in fact. She didn’t have much to say, except she’s the one who books the girls, not Baskin.’
‘Well, that’s something. Does she recognize our hit-woman from Baskin’s informative description?’ Simms quickly interposed.
‘Huh. Blonde and big knockers, yeah, right. Doubt it. But she said they weren’t expecting anyone in.’
‘Well, why did they let her in, then?’ he pressed eagerly.
Waters yawned. ‘Harry can’t resist a looker …’
Both Simms and Frost concurred knowingly. The phone started to ring again.
‘Forget it.’ Waters waved the noise away. ‘Baskin called while I was there to make sure she opened up tonight.’
‘Ha! That’s the spirit,’ Frost clucked. ‘What do you say to that?’
‘I know! There’s a pint of his blood still drying on the carpet!’
‘Sergeant Frost.’ A young PC appeared in the doorway with a vexed look on his face. The young constable was on the front desk, having just relieved Johnny Johnson. ‘There’s been a disturbance in a pub in Rimmington.’
‘Rimmington? What’s it got to do with me?’
‘Superintendent Kelsey is on the blower.’ All four looked at the angrily vibrating telephone. Simms had never met the Rimmington commander but knew that unlike Mullett he had a reputation for honesty and plain speaking.
Frost picked up the phone and cupped the mouthpiece. ‘Right, you two are dismissed.’
Simms sat rooted, keen to listen in, but Frost was having none of it.
‘Go on, bugger off!’ He paused. ‘Superintendent Kelsey?’ Frost knew the station-commander only vaguely.
‘To whom am I speaking?’ came a broad Northern burr. Kelsey had been transferred to Rimmington the previous year after two decades in a bleak corner of West Yorkshire.
‘Detective Sergeant Frost.’
‘Ahh … Frost,’ the man answered, seemingly satisfied by this. ‘You’re going to enjoy this.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s been an incident … involving Superintendent Mullett.’
Frost rather regretted dismissing Simms and Waters. ‘An incident involving Superintendent Mullett? I’m all ears …’
‘Ah. Come in.’
She was unable to make out where the voice had come from; the room was in virtual darkness save for a light directly above a snooker table. A tall, lean man with a bald head, aged around forty, paced lethargically, eyeing the baize.
‘Over here, come and sit next to me.’
Once her eyes adjusted she spotted the glint of the light reflecting off his crystal glass.
‘Come watch the game,’ he murmured softly, patting the plush seat next to him.
A heavier man with a floppy curtain of hair now stepped up to the table, frowning anxiously.
‘Kevin here is in a bit of a predicament.’ She felt his stale breath on her cheek.
‘Why?’ she whispered, sensing tension in the room.
‘Shh …’
The sharp clack of balls from
‘There’re a number of possibilities.’ Frost explained his main theory, that Baskin was hit for cheating at cards, so it was more punishment than murder attempt. This to Simms’s mind seemed ridiculous, especially given that Rhodes was shot too. Frost proceeded to show him the names of four card players whom he wanted to question. Simms was on the point of objecting, but took one look at the tired, bedraggled Frost and decided he’d leave it until tomorrow, when after a night’s sleep the overwrought DS might see the error in his logic. Simms would, however, draw the line at knocking up card players at eight o’clock in the evening, and was about to assert this when he was interrupted by the phone. Frost picked it up. ‘This is not my phone,’ was his inexplicable retort into the receiver before wearily hanging up.
Simms was once again about to protest when DS Waters ambled in.
‘Wotcha, Sarge,’ said Frost. ‘What news of the retired stripper?’
Waters flopped down in the chair opposite. ‘Well, for a start she says she’s no stripper, never was, in fact. She didn’t have much to say, except she’s the one who books the girls, not Baskin.’
‘Well, that’s something. Does she recognize our hit-woman from Baskin’s informative description?’ Simms quickly interposed.
‘Huh. Blonde and big knockers, yeah, right. Doubt it. But she said they weren’t expecting anyone in.’
‘Well, why did they let her in, then?’ he pressed eagerly.
Waters yawned. ‘Harry can’t resist a looker …’
Both Simms and Frost concurred knowingly. The phone started to ring again.
‘Forget it.’ Waters waved the noise away. ‘Baskin called while I was there to make sure she opened up tonight.’
‘Ha! That’s the spirit,’ Frost clucked. ‘What do you say to that?’
‘I know! There’s a pint of his blood still drying on the carpet!’
‘Sergeant Frost.’ A young PC appeared in the doorway with a vexed look on his face. The young constable was on the front desk, having just relieved Johnny Johnson. ‘There’s been a disturbance in a pub in Rimmington.’
‘Rimmington? What’s it got to do with me?’
‘Superintendent Kelsey is on the blower.’ All four looked at the angrily vibrating telephone. Simms had never met the Rimmington commander but knew that unlike Mullett he had a reputation for honesty and plain speaking.
Frost picked up the phone and cupped the mouthpiece. ‘Right, you two are dismissed.’
Simms sat rooted, keen to listen in, but Frost was having none of it.
‘Go on, bugger off!’ He paused. ‘Superintendent Kelsey?’ Frost knew the station-commander only vaguely.
‘To whom am I speaking?’ came a broad Northern burr. Kelsey had been transferred to Rimmington the previous year after two decades in a bleak corner of West Yorkshire.
‘Detective Sergeant Frost.’
‘Ahh … Frost,’ the man answered, seemingly satisfied by this. ‘You’re going to enjoy this.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s been an incident … involving Superintendent Mullett.’
Frost rather regretted dismissing Simms and Waters. ‘An incident involving Superintendent Mullett? I’m all ears …’
‘Ah. Come in.’
She was unable to make out where the voice had come from; the room was in virtual darkness save for a light directly above a snooker table. A tall, lean man with a bald head, aged around forty, paced lethargically, eyeing the baize.
‘Over here, come and sit next to me.’
Once her eyes adjusted she spotted the glint of the light reflecting off his crystal glass.
‘Come watch the game,’ he murmured softly, patting the plush seat next to him.
A heavier man with a floppy curtain of hair now stepped up to the table, frowning anxiously.
‘Kevin here is in a bit of a predicament.’ She felt his stale breath on her cheek.
‘Why?’ she whispered, sensing tension in the room.
‘Shh …’
The sharp clack of balls from
Similar Books
