Fatal Frost Read Online Free PDF Page A

getting heavy, there’s no actual evidence …’
    ‘You’re damn right, there’s no evidence,’ Baskin growled, on the edge of losing his cool, ‘because there’s fuck all going on here! Now piss off, and tell those old boots they can piss off too!’
    ‘Mr Baskin, wait …’ But he’d already slammed the fire door in their faces.
    Clarke hammered on it angrily. Baskin hollered back an obscenity, followed by something, too muffled to catch, about Frost. ‘Fat bastard,’ she hissed.
    ‘That went well,’ said Myles.
    Clarke shrugged her shoulders, turning away from the door. Baskin’s notoriety was such that Eagle Lane would generally pull out the big guns – Jack Frost and DI Allen – to deal with him, and she’d guessed a pair of young female DCs were unlikely to be taken seriously. Sexist pig.
    ‘Without any firm accusations I’m not quite sure what we were meant to achieve …’ Clarke began, but as they rounded the corner of the building she was stopped in her tracks.
    ‘Oi!’ screeched Myles. The Escort door was open and a youth was rummaging around inside. Two more hooded figures on bikes were hovering next to the car, one with his hand on the door.
    Clarke and Myles ran at the hoodlums; the two on bikes sped off, the athletic Myles giving chase, but the other was initially trapped inside the car. Galvanized by her lack of success with Baskin, Clarke grabbed the kid by his sweatshirt as he tried to push past her. The pair of them crashed to the ground, Clarke sprawling on her back beneath the snarling boy. She had hold of him firmly, and was just about to read him his rights when a searing pain jolted through her thigh, so severe that she released her grip. The hooded youth scrambled up and legged it, screeching expletives as he went, while Clarke could do nothing but writhe on the tarmac, her thigh pulsing in white-hot agony.
    ‘Jesus, little bastard!’ Myles stood above her, trying to catch her breath. ‘What a mess. We’d better get you seen to.’
     
    * * *
    It was Simms’s belief that Forest View, for all its leafy desirability, had a basic flaw: the properties on the east side backed on to Denton Woods, and as such were easy targets for burglars. He and Waters pulled up on a vast drive of thick shingle that crunched beneath their shoes as they walked to the door. Well, at least it stops the villains approaching from the front, thought Simms, although clearly that hadn’t helped much in this case. The doorbell sounded with elaborate chimes, and a well-dressed, attractive woman in her mid-forties appeared.
    ‘Yes?’ she said, surprised.
    ‘Mrs Hartley-Jones? Denton CID.’
    She took a step back, regarding them both suspiciously, her look lingering on Waters. ‘Can I see some identification?’ she asked, frowning.
    Simms pulled his badge from inside his leather jacket and then waited uneasily while Waters patted his denims, eventually retrieving his credentials from his back pocket.
    The woman peered at the ID. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said at last.
    ‘Only if it’s no trouble,’ quipped Simms sarcastically. Spiky tart, he thought. Did she want her sparklers back or not?
    ‘No, no trouble. But we’ve already had the police in.
They
were in uniform,’ she said pointedly. How ironic, Simms thought sourly; to her mind the real police were those in uniform. This time last year
he
was uniform. ‘Come this way. Mind those.’
    Simms stepped over what appeared to be a pile of large candles. ‘Yes, the officers were taking details. Myself and DS Waters are taking charge of the investigation.’
    ‘My husband plays golf with Mr Mullett, you know,’ said Mrs Hartley-Jones as she led them down a large, parquet-floored hall. Simms recalled that these were friends of Mullett’s, though the concept of the super having mates was a hard one to swallow. They certainly seemed his type, though; he could well imagine Mullett residing in a grand place like this. That’s why he’s so