uniforms in the kitchen. ‘What’s been taken? Where’s Scenes of Crime?’ the PC continued.
‘Hold your horses, lad,’ said Frost, finally lighting a fag, and poking his head back into the kitchen, while exhaling a cloud of smoke. ‘It’s not a burglary. Nothing’s been nicked. There’s jewellery and knick-knacks all over the place upstairs and a stash of top-notch electrical gear in the front room. It’s a domestic, of one sort or another.’ He coughed.
‘Unless it’s something more complicated,’ Hanlon interjected.
Frost ignored him, believing the only complication was his own forced entry. At the very least it would involve another load of paperwork. But the woman was in a terrible state … ‘You and I,’ he said to Hanlon, ‘had better quiz the neighbours while we’re here. This is prime curtain-twitching country.’
Hanlon gave a knowing nod. ‘You’re right there.’
‘You finished with these?’ Frost said, addressing the ambulance men, who were preparing the stretcher. Before waiting for an answer he grabbed his jacket and mac, which had been half shoved across the kitchen floor. ‘It ain’t half nippy out.’
Shrugging his garments on and emerging into broad daylight he realized his new coat was bearing smudges of blood. At least blood was easy enough for the missus to remove. Though why Mary fussed so much over his appearance he had no idea. There were far more important things for her to worry about.
‘Let’s save time and split up,’ said Frost once on the pavement, aware that despite its brightness the sun was not warm. Winter would soon be upon them.
‘Good idea,’ said Hanlon.
Detective Constable Arthur Hanlon, almost as wide as he was tall, waddled down Carson Road. Frost made his way across the road to the semi directly opposite the Hudsons’. He rapped gently on the door, waiting briefly before repeating the knock.
Nobody in, he was thinking. The sirens surely would have been enough to wake the dead. Looking about him his eyes settled on a low-slung, dark-blue Jag in the drive, the chrome trim glinting.
A dulled yet clearly cross female voice from within the house finally reached Frost, followed by the rattle of the lock.
‘Yes?’ A tousled brunette peeked through the crack – hazel-coloured eyes looking out suspiciously. There was a thick intruder chain holding the door.
‘Denton CID.’ Frost held out his warrant card.
‘What do you want?’ she said aggressively.
‘Can I have a word, please, miss?’
‘I’m not decent.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Frost, ‘I’m not a church warden.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ The door was pushed shut.
Frost looked up at the sky, breathed out, thought there were still some perks to the job.
The door was then opened, the chain removed and the young woman, standing in the hallway in a very short, maroon-coloured silk dressing-gown, was saying, ‘Yeah? What do you want then?’
Heat and heavily perfumed air leaked out of the house. ‘The house opposite, the Hudsons’?’ Frost gestured over his shoulder to where the ambulance had backed on to the drive. ‘Know them?’
The girl peered quizzically round Frost. ‘No. Haven’t been here long, as it happens.’
She had a strong south-east London accent. ‘Down from the smoke?’ asked Frost. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her legs, which went on for ever.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘s’pose.’
‘What brings you to Denton?’ Frost thought she couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, twenty-two.
‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business,’ she sneered, pushing the door to.
Frost jammed his foot in the way before it was completely closed. ‘Just being friendly,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve left your manners behind, if you ever had any.’
‘Piss off,’ she said.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I don’t have to tell you.’
‘No, you don’t, not if you want me to haul you in for obstructing police business.’
‘You can’t do
Marie-Louise Gay, David Homel