Morning Frost pdf Henry James Free Download

Morning Frost

About the Book

5 October 1982. It’s been one of the worst days of Detective Sergeant Jack Frost’s life. He has buried his wife Mary, and must now endure the wake, attended by all of Denton’s finest.

All, that is, apart from DC Sue Clark, who spends the night pursuing a bogus tip-off, before being summoned to the discovery of a human hand. And things get worse. Local entrepreneur Harry Baskin is shot outside his club and a famous painting goes missing.

As the week goes on, a cyclist is found dead in suspicious circumstances. Frost is on the case, but another disaster – one he is entirely unprepared for – is about to strike . . .

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Contents

Prologue

She shoved the pushbike behind the hedgerow, checking to make sure it wasn’t visible from the road. She felt hot, despite the damp autumn air, and her heart thumped rapidly beneath her sweater, but this was solely due to the exertion of pedalling uphill, and nothing to do with the job she had to carry out.

A narrow, winding lane fifty yards down the hill led to the club, and was the only way to reach the place by car, but on foot there was a track that peeled off from a public footpath through woodland that backed on to the building. Despite it being early November, the trees still had an abundance of brightly coloured foliage. A morning mist hung in the air as she made her way through the autumn mulch.

The rucksack felt heavy, but within ten minutes she had reached the clearing at the back of the club; she made a dash to the rear of the building and hid behind a stack of empty beer crates. Briskly she swapped her damp canvas Dunlops for a pair of red heels from the rucksack – not too grand, just a couple of inches for effect – and whipped off her baggy sweater, revealing a tiny white top that left little to the imagination. After deftly pinning back her auburn hair she produced from the bag a platinum-blonde wig. She used a small compact mirror to check it was straight; satisfied, she snapped it shut and slipped it back inside a red, sequin-studded handbag, next to a Beretta automatic pistol and a lipstick.

Having wedged the rucksack tightly between the stacked crates she slid silently round to the front of the building. Nobody was about. Now it was showtime. She confidently rapped on the door. She made an effort to focus her mind on the job in hand, but really this was a trifle, for the money only, and if anything, her mind was on her next task, something more personal, something she simply had to do before her final bunk to Spain. That detective. When so many of her own had died or been maimed – all thanks to him – it was unacceptable for him to still live. She knew he was looking for her, determined to bring in the last of the gang, but it wasn’t fear of capture that fuelled her desire to exterminate him, it was revenge, pure and simple. Yes, there was only one way for her to find peace of mind: she had to kill Jack Frost.

The door was opened by a goofy young lad of little more than eighteen. He squinted at the bright morning light, but once his eyes had adjusted they goggled at the sight of her provocative appearance.

‘’Ello, can I ’elp?’

‘I’m sure you can, love,’ she purred, seductively. ‘I’m here to see Harry.’

Thursday (1)

There was a freshness to the early November morning, and drizzle hung in the air, but a tepid sun was starting to peek through the vast bank of grey and allow the wet headstones to glisten. Stanley Mullett, the superintendent of the Denton police division at Eagle Lane, shifted his weight uneasily in the wet grass. There was no denying it, he felt uncomfortable standing by the graveside of a woman he didn’t know. It didn’t help that she was the wife of a detective sergeant he could hardly bear to be in the same room with, and would willingly dismiss at the drop of a hat if he could. But duty was duty.

Mullett glanced surreptitiously at the Rolex his wife had given him last month for his fiftieth birthday. Eleven thirty. The church had been cold and draughty, and now the moisture from the sodden grass was starting to penetrate the leather of his highly polished Loakes, but Mullett knew that his discomfort and inconvenience was far from over. There was the wake to follow.

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About the Book

Prologue

Thursday (1)

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