denoting his route, that he’d been given that very morning in Townsend’s on London Street – and they’d already notified the parents of his death, but hadn’t mentioned any possible suspicious circumstances. Simms wouldn’t broach that topic until he had the lab report. Whilst foul play wasn’t yet confirmed he felt it was worth a visit to the boy’s employer. Philip Chilcott had picked up his bag at 6.30 a.m., as he did every day of the week with the exception of Sunday, when a lie-in was permitted. Gruelling work, Simms thought, remembering the round he himself had done as a teenager. According to Townsend, the newsagent, a West Country man in his late sixties, it was not a popular round.
‘The route’s spread out and covers a lot of ground. We call it the initiation round.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Simms.
‘The starters get the toughest rounds. When a lad leaves, the other ones will all move to a less demanding round. Reward for long service.’
‘I see.’ Simms nodded. He approved of this man, who must’ve spent half his life getting up at five thirty and yet still wore a neat shirt and tie. Something about him – upright values, pride in one’s appearance – reminded Simms of his own father. ‘Is it a tough round just because it’s spread out?’
‘It’s not just the distance. The posher places, the ones with the long drives, Wessex Crescent and the like, will want the broadsheets, and on a weekend those blighters get bigger and bigger, shoving more and more in …’
Simms again nodded in agreement, not that anything more demanding than the People accompanied his Frosties in the morning.
‘The lads do like it over Christmas, though – lovely big tips.’
‘But in the bag I saw a stack of Sun s and Mirror s,’ Simms queried.
‘A lot of them posh ’uns take both.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They’ll all pretend to read The Times and what ’ave you, but y’see, they won’t get their fix of smut and sleaze from there, will they?’
‘No, I guess not,’ Simms agreed, realizing he was getting unnecessarily embroiled in the intricacies of the newspaper readership.
‘Where did you say ’e were found again?’ said the newsagent, popping the top off a tin of Old Holborn.
‘Bottom of One Tree Hill.’
‘Aye, well, he’d have them flats on the Wells Road to do an’ all. That lot settle for muck only – can’t afford any pretensions and whatnot.’
‘I see. That reminds me.’
Simms reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out the white envelope given to him by Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson containing the fake five-pound notes. ‘There’s an alert from Scotland Yard. Dodgy fivers. Here, whack this up and be on your guard.’
‘Blimey, as if there in’t enough to worry about,’ the man grumbled. ‘Got people trying to stiff you any which way.’
‘That’s life,’ Simms replied. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Townsend. I’ll be back if anything else comes to light. Here’s my card in case you think of anything that might be helpful.’
‘Right you are.’ Townsend shrugged, licking a cigarette paper. ‘Should’ve split the round perhaps. Often thought about it.’
As he left the shop and pulled out his own cigarettes, Simms resolved not to share this reflection with the poor boy’s parents.
Friday (3)
‘Mr Bickerton,’ Frost asked. ‘Have you ever, in a professional capacity, come across a Joanne Daniels?’
Clarke regarded Bickerton, the dusty, bald headmaster – the very same one who had once caught her smoking behind the bike sheds – as he rolled his eyes thoughtfully to one side, before slowly shaking his head. His office was festooned with team photographs, many black and white, and cluttered with trophies and what Clarke assumed to be cricket apparel – a miscellany acquired through decades of schooling.
‘No, the name is not familiar.’ His voice was soft but firm.
Frost offered no more information to jog the
‘The route’s spread out and covers a lot of ground. We call it the initiation round.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Simms.
‘The starters get the toughest rounds. When a lad leaves, the other ones will all move to a less demanding round. Reward for long service.’
‘I see.’ Simms nodded. He approved of this man, who must’ve spent half his life getting up at five thirty and yet still wore a neat shirt and tie. Something about him – upright values, pride in one’s appearance – reminded Simms of his own father. ‘Is it a tough round just because it’s spread out?’
‘It’s not just the distance. The posher places, the ones with the long drives, Wessex Crescent and the like, will want the broadsheets, and on a weekend those blighters get bigger and bigger, shoving more and more in …’
Simms again nodded in agreement, not that anything more demanding than the People accompanied his Frosties in the morning.
‘The lads do like it over Christmas, though – lovely big tips.’
‘But in the bag I saw a stack of Sun s and Mirror s,’ Simms queried.
‘A lot of them posh ’uns take both.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They’ll all pretend to read The Times and what ’ave you, but y’see, they won’t get their fix of smut and sleaze from there, will they?’
‘No, I guess not,’ Simms agreed, realizing he was getting unnecessarily embroiled in the intricacies of the newspaper readership.
‘Where did you say ’e were found again?’ said the newsagent, popping the top off a tin of Old Holborn.
‘Bottom of One Tree Hill.’
‘Aye, well, he’d have them flats on the Wells Road to do an’ all. That lot settle for muck only – can’t afford any pretensions and whatnot.’
‘I see. That reminds me.’
Simms reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out the white envelope given to him by Night Sergeant Johnny Johnson containing the fake five-pound notes. ‘There’s an alert from Scotland Yard. Dodgy fivers. Here, whack this up and be on your guard.’
‘Blimey, as if there in’t enough to worry about,’ the man grumbled. ‘Got people trying to stiff you any which way.’
‘That’s life,’ Simms replied. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Townsend. I’ll be back if anything else comes to light. Here’s my card in case you think of anything that might be helpful.’
‘Right you are.’ Townsend shrugged, licking a cigarette paper. ‘Should’ve split the round perhaps. Often thought about it.’
As he left the shop and pulled out his own cigarettes, Simms resolved not to share this reflection with the poor boy’s parents.
Friday (3)
‘Mr Bickerton,’ Frost asked. ‘Have you ever, in a professional capacity, come across a Joanne Daniels?’
Clarke regarded Bickerton, the dusty, bald headmaster – the very same one who had once caught her smoking behind the bike sheds – as he rolled his eyes thoughtfully to one side, before slowly shaking his head. His office was festooned with team photographs, many black and white, and cluttered with trophies and what Clarke assumed to be cricket apparel – a miscellany acquired through decades of schooling.
‘No, the name is not familiar.’ His voice was soft but firm.
Frost offered no more information to jog the
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