‘The schoolmaster’s wife! Her grave right on the bloody doorstep of the crypt and we haven’t spotted it. We must be bleeding blind as well as stupid!’
‘It’s probably only just been put up,’ said Gilmore, wondering what all the fuss was about. ‘You have to wait ages for the grave to settle before you can erect a headstone.’
‘That wispy-bearded bastard. I knew it was him all the time.’ He turned and stared at the crypt.
‘I don’t follow you,’ said Gilmore.
‘You could spit on the flaming crypt from here,’ said Frost. ‘At the funeral Bell would have had a grandstand view of that fat-gutted plumber forcing open the door to get inside out of the rain. Later he needed somewhere to hide the kid’s body. A crypt. Who’d look for a body in a Victorian crypt?’
‘You’re saying he killed her the very day of his wife’s funeral?’
‘Yes,’ said Frost.
‘But he was in the house all the time she was doing her paper round.’
‘I don’t know how he did it, I just know he did it.’
Gilmore swivelled his head towards the vault door with its solid brass lock hanging impotently. ‘Even if you are right, how are you going to prove it?’
‘Proof!’ barked Frost. He took a long drag at his last cigarette and dashed it to the ground half-smoked. ‘Everyone’s obsessed with bloody proof.’ Then his shoulders slumped. Gilmore was right. Without proof, the bastard was going to get away with it.
RD Wingfield
Night Frost
Thursday night shift (2)
The minute hand on the lobby clock was quivering as gathered its strength to claw up to two o’clock. The damn phones had been ringing non-stop and Wells was finding it hard to keep his voice sounding polite I’m sorry, madam,’ he told a caller who had phoned previously to complain that her neighbours were having a noisy row and were keeping her awake. ‘We’re short-staffed and we had to divert the car to a more important incident. We’ll get someone there just as soon as we can.’ Hardly had he replaced the phone and logged the call when there was an angry commotion outside, then a scowling, red-faced bull-frog of a man in an expensive black overcoat and a white silk scarf exploded into the lobby, closely followed by an anxious-looking PC Collier.
‘Who’s in charge?’ the man bellowed, dumping a bulky brief-case on the floor. He reeked of whisky.
Wells put his pen down and sighed. He could do without this. ‘I am, sir.’
The man looked disdainfully at Wells’ sergeant’s stripes and screwed his face into a sneer. ‘I want someone in authority, not you. Not a bloody sergeant.’
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Collier.
The man barged between the two officers. ‘Don’t you damn well ignore me. I’m talking to you, Sergeant. You ask me, not him. Now get me someone in authority.’ He fumbled in his pocket for a cigar.
‘Would an inspector satisfy you, sir?’ asked Wells, struggling to hold his temper in check.
‘If that’s all you’ve got, then he’ll have to do,’ snapped the man, clicking a gold Dunhill lighter and drawing on the cigar. Wells felt like pointing to the ‘No Smoking’ sign but wasn’t in the mood for any more aggravation and the odds were that Frost would come slommocking out with a cigarette in his mouth. He used the internal phone and whilst the man glowered and puffed cigar smoke and whisky fumes all over him, asked Inspector Frost to come into the lobby.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Frost. ‘What’s up?’
Frost, in his crumpled suit, greasy knotted tie and unpolished shoes, didn’t look at all impressive and he certainly didn’t impress the complainant who pulled the cigar from his mouth and stared contemptuously. ‘Isn’t there anyone else in charge?’
‘No,’ said Frost. ‘So if you’ve anything to say, spit it out, I’m busy.’
‘Not too busy to attend to me,’ snarled the man. ‘I’m making a complaint against that police officer.’ His finger jabbed at Collier. ‘He drove his car into me while I was stationary, then accused me of drunken driving.’
Frost wrinkled his nose and turned his head away from the whisky fumes. To Collier he said, ‘Has he been breathalyzed?’
‘No, Inspector. He refused.’
‘Right, said Frost to Wells. ‘Get a police surgeon… one with warm hands. We’ll have a urine sample.’ Back to Collier. ‘So what happened, Constable?’
‘I’ve just told you what happened,’ shouted the man, his face getting redder.
Frost pushed him away. ‘Shut up. You’re giving me a bleedin’ headache.’ Back to Collier.
‘I was on patrol in the Bath Road when I saw this Bentley crawling along, swinging from one side of the road to the other. I signalled for the driver to stop. He pulled into the kerb. I drew up behind him. As I was getting out, he started up the engine. I think he was trying to get away, but he put it into reverse by mistake and rammed into me. He was obviously drunk – speech slurred, eyes glazed. He flatly refused to use the breathalyzer, and knocked it out of my hand, so I brought him in.’
‘Well done,’ nodded Frost. ‘Book him.’ As he turned to go, the man grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him round.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he demanded, pushing his sweating face close to the inspector’s.
‘I know what you are,’ replied Frost, shaking himself free. ‘You’re a drunken, boring prick. Take your sweaty paw off my suit.’
No-one heard the lobby door swing open. ‘What’s going on here?’
Frost groaned. Bloody Mullett had to choose this particular moment to do his rallying call act on the troops. A little touch of Mullett in the night. ‘I’m handling it, sir,’ he said firmly.
Mullett hesitated. He preferred not to get involved in any thing unless he knew what it was about. Then his face lit up with recognition. ‘Good lord! It’s Councillor Knowles. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m making an official complaint against this police officer,’ said Knowles, ‘and I’m being treated abominably. That man…’ and his lip curled at Frost, ‘has been incredibly rude. He has threatened me, sworn at me and made me the subject of a false charge.’
Mullett looked suitably shocked. His lips tightened. ‘You’d better come to my office, councillor. I’m sure we can sort this out.’ He glowered at Frost as he spun on his heel. ‘Two coffees to my office at once, please, Sergeant.’
Frost jerked forked fingers to the door as it closed behind his Divisional Commander. ‘Pompous git!’ he bellowed impotently to the ceiling.
‘Did you hear that? Two coffees!’ croaked Wells. ‘What does he think this is – an all-night flaming cafe?’
Young PC Collier was white-faced. ‘What will happen, Sarge? It was a proper arrest. The man was drunk and he ran into me.’
‘Go and make their coffee,’ said Wells, ‘and do one for me.’
The internal phone buzzed. Inspector Frost to report to the Divisional Commander… at once! ‘When I’m ready,’ said Frost, after he had hung up. Slowly he finished his cigarette, then ambled off to obey the summons. Mullett was waiting for him in the passage outside. He took Frost by the arm and drew him away, beaming a smile of smug satisfaction. Hello, thought Frost. What’s the slimy sod been up to?
'I’ve managed to get the councillor to drop his complaint against Collier, Inspector.’
‘What bloody complaint?’ demanded Frost, his voice rising with anger. ‘The drunken slob rammed into him then refused to take a breath test.’
Waving a hand for Frost to keep his voice down, Mullett led him away from the office door, then leaned forward to talk to Frost in his ‘man to man’ voice. ‘Young Collier is inexperienced. Mr Knowles is a councillor. He is also on the Police Committee. It will be his word against Collier’s. Who ‘do you think will be believed?’
‘Collier will be believed – especially when the urine test shows Fat-guts is as pissed as a newt.’
Mullett winced. He deplored Frost’s too-frequent crudities. He carefully composed his face into a brittle smile and looked at the far wall across Frost’s shoulder. ‘Ah… there won’t be a urine sample. We won’t be proceeding with the charge…’ His hand jerked up to silences Frost’s explosion of outrage. ‘Politics, Inspector. It pays to have a man of his influence on our side, instead of us.’
Frost jerked his arm free from Mullett’s grasp. ‘You can have him on your bloody side. I don’t want him on mine. And if I ever arrest the bastard for anything, I’ll make the charge stick, politics or no bloody politics.’
The brittle smile slipped and shattered. ‘There will be no vendettas,’ hissed Mullett. ‘And before you go, Inspector, there’s one more thing. In order to persuade the councillor to drop his complaint against Collier, I agreed that you would personally apologize to him for your rudeness.’
‘Up your shirt!’ shouted Frost, ready to march back up the corridor.
Mullett’s whole body was quivering with anger. ‘That was not a request, Inspector. That was an order.’
‘Very good, Super,’ replied Frost, with an expression of such sweet reasonableness that Mullett was instantly uneasy.
Knowles was sprawled in one of Mullett’s special visitor’s chairs, his piggy eyes agleam at the prospect of Frost’s impending humiliation. He looked up from his cup of Sergeant Wells’ instant coffee in mock surprise as Frost entered, looking very contrite. ‘Yes, Inspector?’
‘I’d like to apologize’, said Frost, ‘for calling you a big, fat, ugly bastard.’
Knowles frowned and looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t hear you say that.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Frost innocently, sounding genuinely apologetic. ‘It must have been what I was thinking.’
Knowles rose from his chair, eyes bulging, ready to erupt. Then he gave an evil smile. ‘I shall remember this, Inspector.’ As he spoke the threat, he swayed from side to side like a snake ready to strike.
‘You’re too kind,’ cooed Frost.
With a furious, laser beam glare, Mullett ordered the inspector to wait for his return, then ushered his visitor out. Left alone in the old log cabin, Frost riffled through Mullett’s in-tray, but found nothing of interest. He was delighted to discover that Mullett’s cigarette box had been newly replenished for the recent visitor, so helped himself to a few, just managing to stuff them in his pocket and put on his contrite expression as the Divisional Commander stamped back, slamming the door behind him.
‘That’, said Mullett, ‘was unforgivable. Mr Knowles is a councillor, a member of the Police Committee and a personal friend of mine.’
And a big, fat drunken bastard to boot, thought Frost. But he hung his head and tried to look ashamed of himself.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Frost, trying to console a gloomy PC Collier with one of Mullett’s cigarettes. ‘You just misinterpreted the law. The law is that if you’re a friend of Mr Mullett’s, then you can get away with bloody murder.’
Collier squeezed out a smile, but was still upset. Frost inhaled deeply, then dribbled out smoke. Something propped against the desk caught his eye. He bent to examine it more closely. It was a brief-case. “What’s this?’
Sergeant Wells stretched over the desk to take a look and immediately panicked. ‘Flaming heck, it could be a bomb.’ His hand shot out for the phone.
‘Hold on,’ muttered Frost, crouching on his haunches to examine the object. ‘Collier, did that fat sod have a brief-case with him when you brought him in?’
‘Yes,’ answered Collier, relieved to provide the explanation. ‘He clung to it like grim death.’
With a grunt, Frost heaved it up on to the desk. ‘I wonder if there’s anything worth pinching inside.’ He tried the catch. It was locked, so he produced his bunch of skeleton keys.
‘You’re not going to open it, are you?’ ask Wells, his head anxiously flicking from side to side in case the Divisional Commander caught them in the act.
'Why not?’ grunted Frost, trying to force a clearly unsuitable key to turn.
Wells backed away. ‘I want nothing to do with it, Jack. Mullett’s still in the building.’
‘A suspected bomb,’ said Frost, his concentration all on the lock. ‘At great personal risk to life, limb and dick I am trying to defuse it… ah!’ The lock yielded with a click. He lifted the flap and looked inside. His jaw dropped and he emitted a long, low whistle. ‘Look what we’ve got here!’ He produced a handful of banknotes. Dirty, creased, well-used banknotes of mixed denominations, fives, tens, twenties, fifties… The sort of money that rarely saw the inside of a bank, or was declared on an income tax return. He dived in and produced a second handful, then riffled his thumb through them. At a rough guess there was something in ex cess of?5,000. ‘I wonder how much of this he gave to Mullett for letting him go? Right, let’s share it out.’ He proceeded to deal out the notes in three piles as if they were playing cards.
‘Put them back, Jack,’ pleaded Wells, now very agitated, his ears straining to catch the first sounds of Mullett’s approaching footsteps.
‘Why?’ asked Frost. ‘The sod’s obviously been up to no good. This is crooked money. It sticks out a mile.’
‘You’ve got no proof.’
‘The man’s a bastard, that’s all the proof I need.’ Reluctantly he stuffed the money back and let Wells lock the brief case away for safe-keeping. A quick peep up the corridor. The light was still on in Mullett’s office. ‘Ah well. No-one will dare commit a crime while Hornrim Harry’s still here, so I’m going off home.’
He poked his head round the door of his office where Gilmore was pecking away at a typewriter. ‘Come on, son. You can surprise your wife in bed with the lodger. We’re having an early night.’
Gilmore didn’t really consider nearly three o’clock in the morning to be an early night, but he didn’t argue. He scooped up his coat and hurried out after the inspector.
There were a few cars dotted about the station car-park. In its specially reserved parking space, sneering at Gilmore’s Ford, stood Mullett’s blue Jaguar. But making the Jaguar look like a poor relation was a gleaming black Bentley. Frost ambled over to it and peered through the tinted windows to the cream leather upholstery and polished figured walnut fascia. A jingle of keys and there was young Collier. ‘Why didn’t you tell me my new motor had arrived?’ asked Frost.
Collier grinned. ‘It’s Councillor Knowles’ car, sir. He went home by taxi. Mr Mullett wants me to drive it back for him.’
‘How can that bastard afford to run a bloody car like this?’ said Frost, walking around the vehicle and giving it his grudging admiration. He stopped in midstride. ‘Gilmore!’ Gilmore, waiting patiently by his own car, came reluctantly over. ‘Remember how Wally Manson told us he nicked those porno videos from an expensive motor?’
Gilmore nodded wearily. There were lots of expensive motors about. He hoped Frost wasn’t going to plunge head first in another of his wild, tenuous, proofless hunches.
‘And you remember how Wally said he jemmied open the boot?’ Frost pointed to the rear of the car. Gilmore moved forward to look. He had to agree. The boot had been forced open – and not too long ago.
‘And the bastard’s got a brief-case full of dirty money,’ Frost continued. ‘What’s the betting he’s been doing the rounds, flogging his dirty videos?’ Frost held out his hand to Collier. ‘Keys, son.’ He took them and unlocked the driver’s door. The aroma of rich leather and cigar smoke. He slid into the driver’s seat and rummaged about in the dash compartment. He found a button to press and a concealed drawer glided open. Inside were a dozen or more of the familiar pornographic videos. Triumphantly he showed them to Gilmore. ‘Proof enough for you?’
‘It’s a start,’ agreed Gilmore, reluctantly. He didn’t want to get involved. People like Councillor Knowles would always come out on top.
Frost told Collier to fetch the brief-case from Sergeant Wells. ‘Tell him I’m going to kindly deliver it in person.’
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘I’m risking my bloody job.’
Knowles lived in a large rambling house just north of the Bath Road on the outskirts of the town, standing in its own extensive grounds, completely hidden from the road by trees. Although it was well past three in the morning, lights still showed from the downstairs windows. They pulled up in front of a massive black oak door which was flanked by replica flaming torches lit by electric bulbs.
Up two stone steps, guarded on each side by stone watch dogs, to the door where the bell-pull, a heavy black iron ring on a chain, descended from the top of the porch. Frost tugged it and somewhere far in the bowels of the house a bell echoed. The ringing started a dog barking. A door slammed. Someone inside shouted angrily and the dog stopped in mid-bark.
Gilmore’s agitation was showing. Not only were they barging into someone’s house in the dead of night for the flimsiest of reasons, but it was the house of an important friend of the Divisional Commander who would have apoplexy if he knew they were there. Why the hell had Frost dragged him into this? Frost, striking a match on the rump of one of the stone dogs seemed blissfully unaware of the possible consequences of what he was doing.
They waited. Shuffling footsteps, then a light glowed through the coloured glass on either side of the door and a voice called, ‘Who is it?’
‘Police, Mr Knowles,’ said Frost. ‘You left your brief-case at the station.’
Bolts and chains clinked and the door opened wide enough for a hand to pass through. It closed round the handle of the brief-case. ‘Tell Mr Mullett, thank you.’ The brief-case vanished inside and the door jerked back. But it would not close. A scuffed, unpolished shoe prevented it.
‘What the hell!’ Knowles felt the door being pushed open. That damn, scruffy inspector, a cigarette drooping insolently from his mouth, was barging his way into the house.
‘If we could come in for a moment, sir,’ said Frost, kicking the front door shut behind him and snatching the brief-case back from Knowles who was clasping it tightly against a black and red silk dressing gown.
Knowles, the alcohol smell stronger than ever, quivered with rage and pointed dramatically to the front door. ‘If you aren’t out in thirty seconds I am getting on the phone to your Chief Constable.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Frost, not sounding it, ‘but this is a very serious matter.’ He opened the brief-case.
Knowles sobered up instantly. ‘What right have you to open a locked brief-case?’
‘No right at all,’ replied Frost. ‘It came open in the car and the contents fell out.’
Gilmore squeezed even further into the background, hoping Frost wouldn’t seek his corroboration.
‘In the brief-case was a large amount of money in used notes. Can you account for it, sir?’
Knowles took a red-banded cigar from his dressing gown pocket and lit it with a snap of his gold Dunhill. ‘I can, but I have no intention of doing so. You have far exceeded your authority and you will very soon suffer the consequences.’
Ignoring the threat, and the mute pleading for caution from Gilmore, Frost ploughed on. ‘We found a quantity of these in your car.’ He held up two tapes. ‘They are locally made, pornographic videos involving bestial and disgusting acts against children.’
‘Just what are you insinuating?’ asked Knowles, his voice soft and menacing.
‘I’m insinuating sod all. I’m stating that you are involved with a pornographic vice ring. So get your clothes on. I’m taking you back to the station.’
With a chilling smile Knowles drew deeply on the cigar, then flicked a cylinder of ash on to the carpet. ‘I’ll happily come to the station with you, Frost, and then you can kiss your career goodbye. Those videos were given to me by an outraged member of the public. If you check, you will find that I have already given notice that I intend raising this matter at the next meeting of the Denton Police Committee. I will also be raising the matter of your outrageous behaviour.’
Oh my God! thought Gilmore. This is it. The stupid fool’s done it now. Well, he’s not dragging me down with him. But he couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity for the inspector who was shaken rigid and looked older, even more shabby and useless than usual.
With the cigar clenched in a gloating grin, Knowles retrieved the brief-case and quickly checked through the contents. ‘I hope, for your sake, all the money is intact, Inspector. I suggest you leave now. I’ll be speaking to your Chief Constable first thing in the morning.’ He opened the front door. Outside it was raining again.
Defeated, Frost couldn’t think of a thing to say. Mullett would demand his resignation and he would have to give it.
But luck, which all too often deserted him in his hour of need, suddenly remembered it owed him a favour. Some where at the end of the darkened passage, a door opened and a rectangle of light fell out. ‘Is everything all right?’ a woman called. Then a scamper of feet and she yelled sharply, ‘No come back!’
But the dog bounded up the passage towards its master, wagging its tail happily and whimpering. An enormous dog. A Great Dane. A brown and white Great Dane. Its left ear was torn.
Frost stared, then grinned happily in warm, sweat-trick ling relief. He marched back into the house, closing the front door firmly behind him. ‘What a beautiful dog, Mr Knowles. He looks just like he did in the video.’
Dawn was scratching at the small window of the main interview room as Knowles and his wife were hustled in. They sat sullenly, refusing to say a word until their solicitor was roused from his bed. Outside, from a police van in the car-park, boxes and boxes of videos, raw tape, and video cameras were carted into the station.
The door opened and Frost slouched in and mumbled a few words to PC Collier who was guarding the prisoners. Collier nodded and left to stand watch outside, ready to warn the inspector of the solicitor’s arrival.
Frost dragged a chair over and sat facing Knowles and his wife. ‘Alone at last, Councillor.’
‘I’ve nothing to say,’ said Knowles in a flat voice. His wife, a superior-looking blonde some ten years his junior, stared aloofly ahead and wrapped her fur coat tighter around her. The early morning cold still clung to the room.
Slowly, Frost lit up a cigarette. A clatter of footsteps in the corridor outside made him look up in concern, but he relaxed as they passed on. He lowered his voice. ‘I might be able to do a deal.’
Knowles’ tiny eyes glinted. He was a pretty shrewd judge of character and he had this foul-mouthed tramp summed up as someone who could be bought right from the start. He leant forward. ‘I’m listening.’
‘The girl you filmed performing with your dog. Did you know she killed herself?’
Knowles lowered his gaze and found something on the floor that held his full attention. ‘I heard something to that effect,’ he said vaguely.
‘It would do you a lot of good if we could stop it coming out in court,’ said Frost.
‘You could arrange that?’ whispered Knowles.
‘I can arrange for the videos of the girl and the dog to go missing. That part of the charge could not proceed and would not be mentioned in court – unless your side raised it, of course.’
‘We’re not likely to do that,’ said Knowles, mentally working out how much this piece of good fortune was likely to cost him. ‘Naturally, I would be extremely grateful if the tapes did go missing
… extremely grateful. The death of the girl was unfortunate – nothing to do with me – but the court might not see it in that light.’ He gave Frost a patronizing smile. ‘Tell me how you would like me to express my gratitude?’
‘You admit to all the other charges. Both of you. You don’t dispute any of the facts. You plead guilty. You don’t make us call any of the kids involved to give evidence. In return, the tapes go missing, which should knock at least three years off your sentence.. . and the girl’s mother will never know what perverted things you pair of bastards made her daughter do.’ He stood up and moved to the door. ‘I want a “yes” or “no” right now, or the deal’s off.’
Mullett strode up and down his office, pounding his fist, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You’ve lost a box of video, tapes? Vital evidence in a serious case? I can’t believe it. Even by your sloppy standards, this is disgraceful. I take it you’ve looked everywhere?’
‘Everywhere,’ mumbled the inspector, head bowed, looking very ashamed of himself.
‘This entire operation was mismanaged from the start. You dashed into it, head first without any thought of the consequence should proof not be forthcoming.’ He returned to his desk and looked again at the typed, signed statement on his desk. ‘You can count yourself lucky that Knowles has decided to do the right thing and make a full confession of the other offences. It does show a certain amount of character. I’m sure it will count in his favour at court.’
‘I’m sorry it turned out to be your personal friend, sir,’ mumbled Frost, trying hard to suppress a grin of delight.
Mullett glared at him grim-faced. Two could lie if they wanted to. ‘He’s no friend of mine, Frost. I never trusted him from the start.’
RD Wingfield
Night Frost
Friday morning shift
Liz slammed the eggs and bacon on the table and stamped off back to the kitchen without a word. ‘Thanks,’ grunted Gilmore, eyeing with wary disfavour the flabby bacon floating in grease and the under-cooked eggs. He liked the bacon crisp and the eggs well done, but he held his tongue. She was spoiling for a fight and was just waiting for him to complain.
His knife sawed away at a tough chunk of meat which squeaked across the plate and defied all efforts to cut it. Liz returned with his tea. ‘Anything wrong with the food?’ she snapped.
‘No, no – it’s fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m not very hungry.’ He risked a sip of the tea. Near-cold and milky when he liked it hot and strong. He replaced the cup on the saucer and made one more effort to restore peaceful relations. ‘Look, Liz, I’m sorry.’
This was her chance. ‘Sorry! I’m left on my own all night. You come in hours late, too tired to talk or do any bloody thing, then you tell me you’ve got to be out again. I never bloody see you.’
‘It won’t be for long, love, then things will be different.’ He reached for her, but she shook him off.
‘It’s always going to be different, but it never bloody well is. I’m sick of your job, I’m sick of this dead and alive town, I’m sick of everything.’ The door slammed in an angry explosion behind her.
Gilmore sighed and took his plate to the kitchen where he emptied it into the pedal bin. He hated to admit it to him self, but he was getting sick of Liz.
Frost wasn’t feeling very happy either. That damn inventory form had reappeared. Mullett must have quarried deep into the filing tray in Allen’s office where Frost had buried it and had transferred it to the top of his in-tray with a large, block capitalled inscription in red felt-tip yelling WHY HASN’T THIS GONE OFF? Because I haven’t bleeding sent it off, thought Frost, reading on. MUST GO OFF TODAY WITHOUT FAIL. SCM – the OR ELSE was implied.
Gilmore came in carrying a thick bacon sandwich and a mug of tea from the canteen. Frost brightened up until he realized Gilmore intended it for himself. ‘Doesn’t that wife of yours feed you?’ he growled and was quite unprepared for Gilmore’s slashing expression of vehemence.
Burton broke the tension by coming in to report.
'What’s the position with Gauld?’
‘He left home at 8.56,’ Burton told him, ‘and drove straight to Denton Hospital. He’s been ferrying out-patients backwards and forwards. We’re keeping him under surveillance.’
‘Good,’ nodded Frost. ‘What have you found out about him?’
‘Not much. He lives with his widowed mother. They moved to Denton some ten years ago from Birmingham. He’s never had a permanent job – just temporary work, mainly driving. The neighbours like him. Apart from his hospital work, he helps out at the local Oxfam shop in his spare time.’
Frost gave a derisory snort. ‘What else does he do? Cure the sick and raise the dead?’ He thought for a while. ‘Do the neighbours see him coming and going late at night?’
‘Sometimes, sir. But you’d expect that with all the late-night coaches he drives.’ Burton paused. ‘I know you want to go for broke on him, Inspector, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep a watch on some of the other coach drivers.’
‘Then do it, son. As long as you don’t let up on Gauld.’
‘We could do with more men.’
‘I could do with a new dick,’ said Frost, ‘but I’ve got to manage with what I’ve got.’ He stared miserably at the inventory. ‘You busy, son?’ he asked Gilmore.
Gilmore backed towards the door. ‘I’m due in court with Mrs Compton in twenty minutes.’
Frost flicked through the wad of information-demanding pages and shuddered. He chucked it back in his in-tray and reburied it. His internal phone buzzed. He scooped his mac from the hat-stand. ‘Tell him I’m out,’ he yelled from the corridor.
Burton picked up the phone. ‘I’m afraid Mr Frost isn’t here, sir,’ he told the Divisional Commander.
The sound of the Westminster chimes reverberated inside the flat. A fat, motherly little woman in a green overall waddled into the hallway and opened the door. A shabbily dressed man twitched a shy smile. Not one of the regulars. She hadn’t seen him before. ‘I phoned,’ he said.
She gave a welcoming smile to put him at ease. He looked so nervous. ‘French lesson, isn’t it? Miss Desiree’s expecting you.’ She led him through the hall into a dimly lit room with the curtains drawn. ‘The gentleman who phoned,’ she announced, then retired discreetly, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.
The woman sitting on the bed was in her late thirties and looked like a young Mae West. The loose-fitting red dressing gown she wore was carefully flapped open to display black bra, black knickers and black stockings which were held up by rosette, red garters. An over-brilliant smile clicked on automatically as she greeted her visitor. ‘Don’t be shy,’ she purred in a thick French accent, ‘I am Mademoiselle Desiree.’
‘Hello, Doris,’ said Frost, giving her a quick flash of his warrant card. ‘How’s your bunions?’
The smile withered and died with the French accent. ‘Jack effing Frost! Well, you can piss off as soon as you like.’
‘You can’t get round me with sweet talk,’ said Frost, helping himself to one of her cigarettes from a packet on the bed.
He flopped into a chair and pulled a photograph from his pocket. ‘Recognize him?’
She took the photograph and gave it a cursory glance. ‘Can’t place him,’ she said, disdainfully handing it back.
‘It’s dark in here,’ said Frost. ‘Perhaps the light might be better down at the station.’
‘All right. Haven’t seen him for a while, but he used to be a regular. Every Wednesday just after five. His name’s John Smith.’
‘It’s his John Thomas I’m interested in. What did he pay for, Doris – straight sex, or did you have to tart it up, if you’ll pardon the expression?’
‘More or less straight sex – but I had to dress up.’
‘As what?’
She crossed the room to a large fitted wardrobe and slid open the doors. Like the stock for a fancy dress ball, all sorts of bizarre costumes rustled and swung on hangers. On the floor of the wardrobe were whips, canes, a canvas strait jacket, some handcuffs and various ropes, straps and chains. She selected a hanger and unhooked it from the rail. It held a black gym-slip, a white blouse, black knickers and thick dark stockings. ‘He was kinky about schoolgirls,’ she said. ‘I had to wear this school uniform and act all bleeding coy. It didn’t half get him excited.’
‘It’s getting me excited,’ said Frost, standing up and stuffing the photograph of Bell back in his inside pocket. ‘I only wish I had the time…’
Gilmore found Frost in the Murder Incident Room rummaging through the exhibits cupboard. ‘You wanted me, Inspector?’
‘Yes, son. Get the car. We’re going to call on the school master.’ He pulled out the plastic bag which held the shoes Paula Bartlett was wearing when they found her. He told Gilmore about his visit to the prostitute. ‘That’s clinched it for me, son. I’m going to nail the bastard.’
Gilmore hesitated. Frost’s case was strong on suspicion, but pathetically weak on proof. ‘How are you going to do that?’
‘I might have to cheat a little,’ said Frost, pushing the bag back into the exhibits cupboard, ‘and if that doesn’t work, I might have to cheat a lot.’
Bell led them through into his cold, cheerless lounge, apologizing for the state of the place. ‘I still haven’t got over it.’ He cleared some old newspapers from a chair, but they declined his invitation to sit.
‘An official call, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Frost, looking grim.
‘Oh?’ He straightened a few cushions and seemed more concerned at the state of the room than the unexpected visit of the two detectives.
‘Probably nothing in it,’ continued Frost. ‘We get these crank calls all the time and we have to follow them up?’
‘Crank calls?’ blinked Bell.
‘Paula Bartlett, sir. We have a witness who claims he saw the girl in your house on the afternoon she went missing.’
‘Here?’ Bell frowned, finding the idea incredible. ‘Oh no, Inspector, that’s ridiculous.’
‘I’m sure it’s ridiculous,’ continued Frost, ‘but as I said, sir, we have to follow these things through. Just a formality, but do you mind if we have a look around the house?’
‘Mind? Of course not. Look anywhere you like. It’s all such a mess though, I’m afraid.’
‘We’re used to mess, sir,’ Frost assured him. ‘No need to come with us. We’ll do it quicker on our own.’ And he trotted up the stairs, Gilmore following close behind. The first door they tried led to the master bedroom, the unmade bed a shambles, discarded clothes everywhere. Frost grinned. ‘This will do fine. Start searching.’ He sat on the bed, smoking, as Gilmore poked around, dragging out the dressing table, peering behind the wardrobe.
‘It would help,’ grunted Gilmore, shouldering the ward robe back into position, then climbing on a chair so he could look on the top, ‘if I knew what I was supposed to be looking for.’
Frost puffed out three smoke rings then speared one with his finger. ‘We’re looking for proof the girl was in the house.’
Gilmore climbed down from the chair and rubbed the dust from his hands. ‘We’re never going to find it after two months.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frost, pushing himself up from the bed and wandering over to the dressing table. ‘There’s some thing poking out down there.’
He bent down and came up holding a shoe. A flat-heeled, lace-up brown shoe. Neatly written inside, in biro, the name ‘Paula Bartlett’.
Gilmore stared in confusion. ‘I looked there,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have missed it.’ He snatched the shoe from Frost, his nose wrinkling in distaste as a clinging smell of decay floated up. ‘This is one of the shoes we found on the body. You took it from the exhibits cupboard.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Frost.
‘You’re going to plant evidence?’ croaked Gilmore. ‘You fool! You’ll never get away with it.’ He thrust the shoe back into Frost’s hand. ‘You can forget it as far as I’m concerned. I want no part of it.’
‘Play along with me,’ pleaded Frost.
‘No bloody way.’ Gilmore’s mind was racing. He couldn’t wait to get back to the station. This was something Mullett had to be told about.
‘Please!’ said Frost.
The old twit looked so pathetic, Gilmore relented. ‘Just don’t involve me,’ he said.
Bell, slumped in a chair, straightened up as the two officers came back in. He forced out a smile which wasn’t returned The older detective’s face was grim and doom-laden. ‘Is there anything the matter?’
Frost didn’t answer. He just held out the shoe in mute accusation.
Bell backed away, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Paula was only wearing one shoe when we found her, sir. We kept this information from the press. In searching your bedroom we found this. It matches perfectly the other shoe we found on the body.’
The schoolmaster’s face was a picture of incredulity. ‘It’s impossible. I don’t understand…’
Frost felt the familiar, icy quiver of doubt. He was so sure he had the killer that he hadn’t fully considered the serious consequences of what would happen if his bluff failed. ‘In your bedroom,’ he repeated. ‘There’s no way it could have got there by accident.’ He was aware of the irony even as he said it.
Still the man shook his head.
‘I’ve had a chat with your prostitute friend, sir. Very interesting. Did your wife dress up in kinky schoolgirl clothes for you as well?’
Bell’s head jerked back as if he had been struck. He bit his lip tightly and shuddered, his face screwed up as if on the verge of bursting into tears. He went through the pantomime of searching hopefully in the empty cigarette box, then gratefully accepted one from Frost. ‘We all do things we’re ashamed of, Inspector. I was hurting no one. As I told you, my wife was incapable of making love during the last months of her illness. I had to find an outlet somewhere.’
‘And you found it in poor little Paula Bartlett? You raped her.’
‘No!’ screamed Bell.
‘You strangled her, and rammed her in a sack like so much rubbish.’
‘No! No, no, no.’
‘So how did the shoe get in your bedroom?’ asked Frost, hooking it on his finger and slowly swinging it from side to side.
Bell stared at Frost, his gaze unwavering. Because you put it there, you bastard, his expression seemed to say. Unflinching, Frost stared back. Gilmore’s pen hovered over a page where nothing was written down.
Slowly, Bell pulled his eyes away from Frost, away from the shoe. He drew deeply on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs, then gradually releasing it and watching the air currents catch it and tear it to shreds. Then he reached out a hand towards Frost. He wanted the shoe. He took it, turned it over slowly, then gave it back. ‘You have a witness who saw her in the house?’
‘Yes,’ lied Frost.
He crushed out the cigarette in an ashtray and buried his face in his hands. ‘I’d better tell you about it. Yes, Paula was here that day. I should never have kept quiet. It was stupid. But I was terrified you’d think I’d killed her. She was alive when she left here, I promise you.’ Again he looked in the cigarette box, again seeming surprised to find it empty. Gratefully he accepted another from Frost.
'When I got back from the cemetery, I was soaked to the skin. There’d been a cloudburst during the funeral.’
Frost nodded. This part, at least, was true.
‘To my surprise, Paula Bartlett was in the kitchen. All she was wearing was one of my dressing gowns and her shoes. She was putting her wet clothes in the tumble drier. She told me she’d been caught in the storm on her bike and had got absolutely drenched. She thought I wouldn’t mind if she dried off in my house. I could have done without it that day of all days, but of course, I agreed.’
‘How had she got in?’ Frost asked.
‘The back door wasn’t locked.’
‘Why was she out in the storm – she should have been at school?’
‘She said she intended skipping the first lesson – she didn’t like the relief teacher who was taking my place.’
‘I see.’ Frost signalled for him to continue.
‘We had a meal from the deep freeze in the kitchen, then she went upstairs to put on her dry clothes. She left here shortly after one. I thought she was going straight to school. I last saw her pushing her bike up that path.’ He pointed through the window. ‘And that’s the gospel truth, Inspector.’
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Frost, shaking his head sadly and sounding genuinely sorry. ‘You say she pedalled away into the sunset on her bike?’
‘Yes!’ insisted Bell.
‘Wearing only one bloody shoe?’ asked Frost, holding it accusingly under the man’s nose.
Gilmore, his pen hovering, held his breath. Frost was pushing his luck. If the schoolmaster remembered both shoes were on the body, he’d realize that there was no way the other shoe could have been found in the bedroom and that Frost’s case was built solely on a bluff.
But Frost’s luck held. Bell was confused. His expression kept changing as various alternatives to his story flitted across his mind and were hastily discarded. His best bet would have been to keep quiet. To say nothing. To let the police do the proving. But he’d kept quiet for too long. He had to tell someone.
‘The girl had sex before she died, sir,’ Frost gently prompted. ‘And we found her shoe in your bedroom.’
Bell shrank visibly, and stared down at the carpet. ‘I’d like to make a statement.’
Concealing his relief, Frost gave the statutory caution and signalled for Gilmore to start a fresh page. ‘When you’re ready, sir.’
‘We had lunch. I should have suspected something. Paula kept "accidentally” letting the dressing gown slip open. Then she went upstairs to get dressed. She called me. She was in our bedroom. Sitting on the bed. She was naked. She was wearing lipstick – thick lipstick. She looked like a child tart. The girl was offering herself to me.’ He paused, then glared defiantly. ‘What the hell! What the bloody hell! I suppose you think I’m some sort of animal?’
Frost said nothing.
The man’s shoulders shook as he covered his face. ‘When it comes down to it we’re all bloody animals.’ He stood up and stared out of the window. ‘We made love. Half-way through she began to struggle. She yelled for me to stop. Then she started screaming rape. I panicked. I grabbed her by the throat to stop her screaming. We struggled. She wouldn’t stop screaming. Suddenly she went still. I must have squeezed too hard. I didn’t mean it… as God is my witness, I didn’t mean it. I tried the kiss of life, I tried everything… but she was dead.’
‘Did you think of sending for a doctor?’ asked Frost.
‘A doctor?’ Bell frowned and his hand flicked away the question as futile. ‘It would have been no use. She was dead.’
He paused. The only sound in the room was the slight rustle as Gilmore turned the page of his notebook. Bell’s head twisted to the sergeant, as if suddenly realizing that every thing he was saying was being taken down. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I was so frightened… so appalled. I tried to think. I had to find somewhere to hide the body and I suddenly thought of that crypt. I thought it would at least be a Christian place of burial for the poor child.’ At this Frost gave an involuntary snort of derision, but Bell didn’t care what Frost thought. This was the statement that would be read out in court, the statement the jury would hear. ‘That night, I took the poor child’s remains out to the car and drove to the cemetery. As reverently as possible I put her in the crypt. I said a prayer for her. I never meant to hurt her.’
‘Before you did that, you reverently burnt the poor child with a blow-lamp,’ said Frost. ‘What sort of kindly, Christian act was that?’
He bowed his head. ‘Genetic fingerprints. I’d read some where you could positively identify a sperm sample. I was trying to destroy the evidence.’
‘The newspapers?’ prompted Frost.
‘I wanted it to look as if she hadn’t finished her round, so I took the newspaper she had brought and put it in her bag, meaning to dump it somewhere with the bike. As I was passing Greenway’s cottage, I noticed his paper sticking out of the letter-box, so I took that as well.’ He waited until Gilmore’s pen had finished writing this all down before adding, ‘I bitterly regret the pain and anguish I caused Paula’s family. It was an accident. I shall live with the scars for the rest of my life.’
Frost stood up and took him by the arm. ‘So will the poor cow’s parents, sir.’ They helped him on with his coat and led him out to the car.
Mullett was angry. He paced up and down Frost’s tiny office, shaking with rage. ‘I’ve told you time and time again, Frost, catching the criminal isn’t enough. We’ve got to be able to prove our case in court. What on earth did you think you were doing?’
‘I thought I was solving a murder case,’ answered Frost. He didn’t expect praise, but he was unprepared for Mullett’s fury.
‘By slipshod, unorthodox methods? By sneaking official evidence from the evidence cupboard? Planting it in a suspect’s house? For heaven’s sake, man, don’t you realize the risk?’
‘Risk?’ asked Frost.
‘What other solid evidence do you have against him apart from his own admission?’
‘Nothing yet,’ said Frost.
‘Has he signed the statement he’s given you?’
‘Not yet. It’s being typed now.’ He nodded towards Gilmore who was typing at speed and pretending not to listen to Frost’s bollocking. He ripped the last page from the machine and hurried from the room.
‘What if he refuses to sign?’ demanded Mullett. ‘What if he decides to plead not guilty in court and claims that the statement was obtained by means of a trick… by the planting of false evidence? If this all blows up in our faces, Inspector, I’m distancing myself from the whole affair. It was done behind my back, against official instructions and contrary to my specific orders. Don’t expect me to carry the can for your shortcomings. Don’t expect me to stand by you.’
‘I’d never expect that, sir,’ said Frost, and he had never sounded more sincere. He looked up anxiously as Gilmore came back, the statement in his hand. ‘Well?’
‘He signed it,’ said Gilmore, slipping the typescript in a folder.
‘He can still retract it,’ snapped Mullett, cutting short Frost’s audible sigh of relief. ‘And then we haven’t got a shred of legitimate evidence against him.’
‘We’ve got quite a bit, sir, actually,’ said Gilmore. ‘Forensic have just phoned an interim report. They’ve turned his house over and found strands of the girl’s hair on the plush velvet headboard of the bed. Bell had changed and washed all the bedding, but there’s definite traces of blood on the mattress corresponding to the girl’s blood group.’
‘Oh!’ said Mullett, sounding almost disappointed.
‘That’s… good news. Perhaps more than you deserve, Inspector, but good news.’ He took the statement from Gilmore and ran his eye over it.
‘I almost feel sorry for the poor sod,’ said Frost.
Mullett’s eyebrows arched. ‘You feel sorry?’
‘A choice young naked piece of nooky offering herself. I wouldn’t like to bet I’d have turned my nose up at it,’ said Frost. ‘Just his rotten luck she turned out to be a teaser.’
‘That’s just Bell’s version. You surely don’t believe it?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He turned to Gilmore. ‘He said she’d put on lipstick. Do you remember when we searched Paula’s room – in her wastepaper bin?’
Gilmore thought, then nodded. He remembered. ‘An empty lipstick packet!’
‘Plain little Paula never used make-up! The poor cow had a crush on him. She had it all planned in advance what she was going to do. And now she’s dead, his life is ruined and when it all comes out in court it will break her parents’ hearts. I thought I was going to enjoy bringing the bastard in on this one, but now…’ He shrugged and pulled open his drawer for a packet of export only.
Mullett gave an uneasy smile. He didn’t quite see what Frost was driving at. ‘Another crime solved, and that’s all that matters, Inspector.’
The phone rang. Gilmore answered it, then offered it to Mullett. ‘For you, sir. The Chief Constable.’
Mullett tugged his uniform straight and stiffened as he took the phone. ‘Yes, sir… we’ve got him… and he’s given us a full confession. And I modestly claim credit for our team work, sir. The good old Denton team have turned up trumps again.’ He listened and smirked, oblivious to the faces Frost was pulling behind his back.
The other phone rang. Frost answered it. He listened and his face went grim. He snatched his mac from the hat-stand and jerked a thumb for Gilmore to follow. ‘Another Ripper victim. An old lady. The bastard’s nearly decapitated her.’
It was like seeing the same tired B-movie over and over again. The tiny over-furnished room. The smell, a mixture of blood and of too many people packed in too restricted a space. The atmosphere was frowsty with sweat, aftershave and tobacco smoke. ‘Open a window,’ yelled Frost. ‘It stinks in here.’
Everyone was busy. The SOC officer, draped with an array of Japanese cameras and leather cylinders of lenses, blazing away with a Canon, the Forensic team, crawling over the carpet, the fingerprint man, whistling tunelessly to himself as he dusted away with his little brush, splashing white powder everywhere. Frost had almost to fight his way through to the corpse. ‘Everyone outside,’ he yelled. ‘You can come back in when I’ve finished.’ He waited while they shuffled out, then he approached the body.
She sat in the rust and grey armchair, her dull eyes fixed on an old 19-inch black and white television set which, encircled by a stockade of knick-knacks and framed photo graphs, stood on a rickety coffee table. Frost touched the set. It was still warm.
‘It was still on when I got here,’ said Detective Constable Burton. ‘I switched it off.’
Frost nodded and haunched down to study the Ripper’s handiwork. A jagged gash on her neck had gouted blood which glinted stickily down the front of her brown floral dress. Blood from stab wounds in her stomach had leaked to form a puddle on her lap. Her left hand dangled down the side of the chair, the fist tightly clenched. His eyes travelled slowly up to her face, the wrinkled flesh bluish white against her sparse grey hair. He leaned closer to examine the hair, which was in untidy disarray. ‘What do you make of that, son?’ Gilmore crouched down beside him.
‘He came on her from behind,’ said a familiar voice and they looked up at the slightly swaying figure of Dr Maltby who had been waiting in the bedroom. He nodded a greeting, then prodded a finger at her hair. ‘The killer came at her from behind, grabbed her hair and yanked up her head. Then he cut her throat. The head’s only hanging by a thread of flesh at the back of the neck, so I wouldn’t shake her if I were you.’
They backed gingerly away from the body, Frost carefully lowering himself into the matching armchair.
‘When he cut her throat,’ continued the doctor, ‘he sliced through her vocal cords in the process, so she wouldn’t have been able to scream, even if she wanted to.’
‘I’m sure she bloody wanted to,’ said Frost, poking a cigarette in his mouth and passing the packet around. ‘I reckon the poor cow would have given her right arm to have been able to scream.’
Grunting his thanks, Maltby accepted a light and moved round to face the body. ‘The killer then came round to here and stabbed her four times in the stomach.’ He mimed four stabbing thrusts. ‘That done, being a neat and tidy person, while she was still bleeding to death and drowning in her own blood, he wiped the knife blade clean, just there.’ He indicated a wide smear on the skirt of the dress.
Frost took this all in with a sniff. ‘I won’t ask how you deduced all that, doc, because I don’t suppose I’d understand a flaming word. Time of death?’
Gently, the doctor felt the woman’s legs. ‘Rigor’s fully developed and she feels cold. It would need rectal temperature readings to be precise, but I shall leave that treat to our pathologist friend… he can be the one to have her head fall off in his lap. At a rough guess she’s been dead fourteen to eighteen hours.’ He jerked back his sleeve to read his watch. ‘Say between nine o’clock last night and one o’clock this morning.’
Frost dropped to his knees and, very carefully, lifted the woman’s left arm. ‘Look at the way her fist is clenched.’
‘Show me,’ said Maltby, lowering himself, none too steadily and kneeling on the floor. He took the hand and focused his eyes with difficulty. ‘Looks like a cadaveric spasm… you sometimes get it with violent death. Hello…’ He looked closer. Something white. The corner of a piece of paper was protruding slightly. Frost snatched the hand and tried to force the cold fingers open.
Maltby stood up and distanced himself from the operation. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘You’ll have her damn head off.’
Frost snapped his fingers at Gilmore. ‘Hold her head, son.’
‘Eh?’ said Gilmore.
‘She won’t bloody bite you.’
Steeling himself, Gilmore took the head in his hands while Frost tugged at the tightly closed fingers. The head felt cold and as fragile as a blown egg. He gritted his teeth and willed the inspector to hurry.
‘The pathologist won’t like you interfering with his corpse,’ warned Maltby gleefully.
‘Sod the pathologist,’ muttered Frost, grunting as the fingers opened and the hand suddenly went limp. Gilmore almost cried out as the body seemed to quiver and he swore he could feel the head patting from the trunk. Carefully and very slowly, like a man building a tottering house of cards, he took his hands away.
The piece of paper fluttered to the ground. It was a carefully folded?5 note. There was something else pressed tightly into the palm, leaving an impression in the flesh. Three pound coins.
Frost placed the coins in his open palm and stared at them. They told him nothing. He retrieved the banknote from the floor, pushed all the money back into the dead hand and tried to close the fist around it so the pathologist wouldn’t know what he had done. But the dead hand remained limp and let the money drop.
‘You’ve done it now,’ called Maltby, moving quickly to the door. ‘If you’d asked me I’d have told you that you couldn’t put it back again.’
‘I’ll throw the bloody head at you if you don’t hop it,’ bellowed Frost as the door clicked shut.
Gathering up the money, he deposited it on the coffee table alongside the knick-knacks, then sank back in the chair. ‘All right, Burton, let’s have some details. I don’t even know the poor cow’s name.’
Burton flipped open his notebook. ‘Mrs Julia Fussell, aged seventy-five, a widow, one son, married, two kids.’
Frost groaned. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve got to break the news to him.’
‘He emigrated to Australia last year.’
Frost brightened up. ‘Good for him. Carry on, son. Who found her?’
‘Her next-door neighbour, Mrs Beatrice Stacey. She knocked to see if the old dear wanted any shopping, didn’t get a reply, so let herself in with a spare key. I haven’t got much sense out of her. She’s having hysterics next door.’
‘I’ll see her in a minute,’ said Frost.
‘The pattern’s the same as Mrs Watson, yesterday,’ Burton went on. ‘No sign of forcible entry, apparently nothing taken – the bedroom’s undisturbed – and money left in her purse.’
A glum nod from Frost. He wandered over to the front door which was fitted with bolts top and bottom, and a security chain. ‘As you say, son, exactly the same as that poor old cow yesterday. He comes late at night, but she lets him in and then she calmly sits down to watch the telly so he can creep up behind her and cut her bloody throat.’ He examined the security chain. Quite a flimsy affair. ‘You said her purse was untouched. ‘Where is it?’
Burton walked over to a small walnut-veneered sideboard and tugged open a drawer. Using his handkerchief, he took out a worn red leather purse and handed it to the inspector. ‘There’s eighty-five quid in there.’
Holding it by the handkerchief, Frost flicked through the banknotes. All new?5 notes, crisp and consecutively numbered. The numbers tallied with the note taken from her hand. He chewed at a loose scrap of skin on his finger as he thought this over. ‘Right. Try this out for size. It’s the same pattern as yesterday. The Ripper’s coming to fit a new security chain for her. She’s waiting for him, the money all ready from her purse. She lets him in, sits down, holding the money tight in her hot little hand, and watches the telly while the nice man fits the chain for her. But the nice man just creeps up behind the poor cow and cuts her throat, then he stabs her in the stomach, wipes his knife on her dress and off he goes, all happy.’
‘Then this puts Gauld in the clear,’ said Gilmore. ‘He was driving his coach until ten and we watched his house until past midnight.’
‘He could have gone out again after we left,’ said Frost, furious with himself for giving up the surveillance so early. ‘If Doc Maltby is right the time of death could have been as late as one o’clock.’
‘You don’t call at one in the morning to fit a chain,’ pointed out Gilmore. ‘And old girls of seventy-five don’t sit up all night watching television.’
Frost gave a rueful sniff. The sergeant was right. This was his star suspect flushed down the sewer. He pushed the money back into the purse, then noticed something else in the centre compartment. Membership cards for the Reef Bingo Club and for the All Saints Senior Citizens’ Club.
‘All Saints?’ exclaimed Gilmore excitedly. Frost’s suspect might be a non-runner, but his own one was fast coming up on the rails. ‘That bloody curate comes from All Saints.’
The pathologist studied the rectal thermometer, gave it a shake, then wiped it clean before replacing it in his bag. His lips moved silently as he did a mental calculation. ‘In my opinion death occurred between midnight and one o’clock this morning.’
Gilmore registered dismay. ‘Not earlier?’ They had seen the curate outside the cemetery just after midnight last night and it was over half an hour later that they left him to go on to the vicarage.
‘If it was earlier,’ sniffed the pathologist, snapping shut his bag, ‘then I would have said so.’ He shouted down the stairs for the mortuary attendants to come up and collect the body then shafted a glare of disapproval at Frost who had come bounding back into the flat, grinning all over his face. ‘I’ve relayed my preliminary findings to your sergeant.’
‘Thanks, doc,’ said Frost, not sounding very interested. He grabbed Gilmore by the arm and pulled him to one side.
‘Autopsy at four,’ called the pathologist, buttoning up his coat.
‘Right,’ said Frost. He wasn’t interested in the autopsy. By four o’clock the killer should be behind bars.
But Gilmore got in with his own bad news first. ‘Death occurred after midnight, so that clears the curate.’ He waved away Frost’s offered cigarette. ‘So now we haven’t got a single flaming suspect.’
‘Yes, we have, son,’ beamed Frost, sending his cigarette packet on a round tour of the room. ‘Our luck had to change some time and now it’s happened. I’ve been chatting up the old dear next door. First, the dead woman had a job getting off to sleep. She was always up watching television until three or four in the morning. Second, she’d told her neighbour she was going to have a stronger chain fitted and guess who was going to do it?’
‘Gauld?’
‘She didn’t know his name but it was that nice young man who drove the mini-coach that took her to bingo.’
‘Did she say when he was coming to do the job?’
‘No, son. But he came last night. Late. After Joe Soap pulled off the bloody surveillance.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She didn’t tell her neighbour when he was coming. But she told her how much he was going to charge her. Eight quid.’
Gilmore whistled. The?5 note and three pound coins in the dead hand. ‘It sounds too good to be true.’
‘You know my motto,’ smirked Frost. ‘Never kick a gift horse up the fundamental orifice.’ He noticed Burton hovering. “What is it, son?’
‘Forensic have turned up a rogue fingerprint, sir. On the sideboard. Looks recent.’
Frost beamed. ‘Luck could be running our way for once. I think the time has come to bring Gauld in.’
RD Wingfield
Night Frost
Friday afternoon shift
The coach drew up at the old lady’s house. The driver sprang from his seat and opened the door, steadying her as she descended the steep step from the coach to the pavement. ‘Can you manage all right from here, my love?’ he asked. She nodded and waved her thanks and hobbled up to her front gate as the coach went on its way.
There was only one other passenger. A dishevelled individual hunched up in the rear seat, puffing away solidly on the journey back from the bingo hall. Gauld hadn’t seen him before. He slowed down at the traffic lights. Damn. The scruffy man was making his way down the aisle. Not one of those chatty sods, he hoped. The seat behind him creaked as the man lowered himself down.
‘Drop you off at the Market Square?’ Gauld asked.
‘Eagle Lane,’ mumbled the man. ‘Opposite the police station.’
As he turned into Eagle Lane he noticed in his rear-view mirror a police car close behind him. When he pulled up outside the police station, the car stopped even though it had plenty of room to pass. His passenger shuffled out, squeezing past two uniformed policemen who suddenly appeared at the coach door. ‘Mr Ronald Gauld?’ asked one of them. ‘I wonder if you’d mind popping into the station for a couple of minutes.’ The other policeman leant across and switched off the ignition.
They took him through to a small, functional room, sparsely furnished with a plain light oak table and three chairs. In the corner of the room a young thickset chap in a grey suit was sitting, a notebook open on his knee. Another man, whose scowl seemed permanent, was standing, leaning up against the wall. He pointed to a chair for Gauld to sit. The door opened as a third man came in. Gauld blinked in surprise. It was the scruffy passenger from his coach. ‘Frost,’ announced the man, ‘Detective Inspector Jack Frost.’
The lino squealed as Frost dragged a chair over to sit opposite Gauld. He then laid out on the table a green folder, a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and the large manila envelope containing the possessions the station sergeant had asked Gauld to empty from his pockets. This done, Frost smiled benevolently and helped himself to a cigarette.
Gauld wriggled in his chair. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. ‘What’s this all about?’
Frost frowned. ‘Haven’t you been told?’ He swung round to the man with the notebook. ‘Didn’t you tell him?’ A headshake. Frost tutted with mock exasperation, then slowly took a match from the box and struck it on the table. ‘It’s about Mrs Fussell.’
Gauld frowned as if trying to remember. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Oh dear,’ exclaimed Frost, looking worried. He turned to the scowler. ‘We might have the wrong man, Sergeant.’ Looking puzzled, he scrabbled through the green folder and plucked out some typed pages. ‘All these witnesses must be lying.’ Back to Gauld. ‘You’d swear on oath you don’t know her, sir?’ Before Gauld had a chance to answer, he added, ‘What about Mrs Elizabeth Winters, Roman Road, Denton? Surely you’re not going to tell us you don’t know her?’
‘I know lots of people. I’m a coach driver. I drive people about all the time. I don’t necessarily know their names.’
‘Then here’s an easy one – Mary Haynes.’
‘I’ve just told…’ He blinked and stopped dead, his expression freezing as if he had just realized what the inspector was on about. ‘Wait a minute! I’ve just twigged. Haynes… Winters! They were both murdered! Are you trying to pin them on me?’
‘Yes,’ replied Frost, simply. ‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to do.’ He shook out the contents of the manila envelope and raked through Gauld’s possessions. There was a colour photograph of a grey-haired lady smiling doubtfully at the camera. He picked it up and studied it carefully. ‘I don’t recognize this one. When did you murder her?’
Gauld snatched up the photograph. ‘That’s my mother, you bastard!’
‘Ah!’ said Frost with an enlightened nod. He studied his notes. ‘Father died when you were three, mother alive and well.’
‘She’s not well!’ retorted Gauld. ‘She’s got a bad heart.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Frost. ‘Still, better a bad heart than having your throat cut. Any objection to our taking your fingerprints?’
‘What happens if I object?’
‘We’ll take them anyway, so why cause bad feeling?’
A young uniformed officer was summoned to take the prints. Frost waited patiently until the task was completed, then whispered something to the officer who nodded and left.
‘I ought to have a solicitor,’ said Gauld.
Frost seemed astonished. ‘You’re innocent! What do you want a solicitor for?’
‘Because I think you bastards are trying to frame me for something I haven’t done, that’s why.’
‘Oh no.’ Frost sounded hurt. ‘I might frame you for something you had done, but not otherwise.’
The scowler moved forward. ‘All the murder victims travelled on your coach.’
Gauld twisted in his chair to face the questioner. ‘So what? Hundreds of people travel on my coach.’
‘Where were you last Sunday afternoon?’ barked the detective sergeant.
‘I don’t know,’ smirked Gauld. ‘Where were you?’
The door opened and the fingerprint man returned to murmur in the inspector’s ear. Frost’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. ‘All right, Gauld. You can stop the pretence. We’ve got you.’
‘Have you really?’ he said cockily. ‘I’m shaking with fright.’
‘You’ll be shitting yourself in a minute,’ said Frost. ‘You told me earlier you didn’t know a Mrs Julia Fussell.’
‘I said I didn’t know the name.’
‘You were going to fit a stronger security chain on her front door.’
Gauld leant back in his chair. ‘Ah – now I’m with you. Little old dear – about seventy-five. Lives in Victoria Court.’
‘So you do know her!’ said Gilmore.
‘I didn’t know her name. I always call her Ma.’ He looked disturbed. ‘What about her? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?’
‘You called on her late last night to fit the security chain.’
‘No, I didn’t. I was going to, but I felt tired, so I had an early night.’
Gilmore, standing directly behind him, bent down. ‘You lying bastard. You went there and killed her.’
Gauld’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of his chair. ‘Killed? You mean… she’s dead? That poor old lady is dead?’
‘Don’t act the bloody innocent. You know damn well she’s dead,’ hissed Gilmore.
Gauld just stared straight ahead, slack-jawed, head moving from side to side in disbelief. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘And you’re accusing me of killing her?’
‘That’s right,’ beamed Frost. ‘You got careless this time. You left a fingerprint behind.’
‘A fingerprint!’ echoed Gauld, eyes wide open as if under standing for the first time. ‘So that’s why you think I’m the killer? Would you like me to give you a statement?’
‘If you want to give us one, we’ll take it down, sir,’ said Frost, signalling to Burton who turned to a fresh page in his notebook. Frost was vaguely worried. The man was looking far too smug and self-assured. Could he possibly have made a mistake? No. His every instinct told him that this smirking little bastard had cut, slashed and mutilated.
When he saw Burton was ready, Gauld began. ‘I am making this statement freely, without any inducements being offered, solely to help the police find the perpetrator of this terrible crime.’ He paused to let Burton catch up with him. ‘On 14th November, around ten o’clock in the evening, I was returning from the Reef Bingo Club with a party of senior citizens. Amongst my passengers was a lady I now know to be Mrs Julia Fussell, who expressed herself as being very nervous because of the killings of old people that were taking place and which the police seemed powerless to prevent. When we pulled up outside her destination, Victoria Court, I offered to escort her up to her flat. She accepted. At her door, she gave me her key. I opened the door, had a quick look around inside, and was able to assure her that all was well. I told her that her door chain was inadequate and suggested I fitted a stronger one when I got the chance. She accepted my offer. I then returned to my coach and continued dropping off my passengers. This may serve to explain why my fingerprints were found inside the flat and assist the police to eliminate me from their enquiries so they can concentrate on finding the real killer.’
A pause. The detectives shuffled their feet and cleared their throats. Gilmore shot a glance across to Frost who was looking very worried. ‘You’re saying that this happened on the 14th… the day before the killing?’
‘That’s right. I’ve got a coach-load of witnesses if you don’t believe me.’
‘We’ll check them out,’ said Frost, but he knew they would corroborate Gauld’s story. This slimy sod was too clever by half and Frost wasn’t anywhere near clever enough. He tugged the list of murder dates and times from the folder and began rattling them off one by one. ‘Where were you on these dates?’
Gauld shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably at work, driving.’
‘You weren’t,’ barked Gilmore. ‘We’ve checked.’
Mockingly, Gauld knuckled his brow, then beamed. ‘If I wasn’t at work, then I probably stayed in and kept my mother company. I’ll ask her when I get home.’
‘We can save you the trouble,’ Frost told him. ‘We’ve got a team searching your house now. One of my men is having a word with your dear old mum this very minute.’ He jerked back as Gauld lunged forward, all composure gone.
‘My mother’s got a heart condition. If any harm comes to her, I’ll kill you…’
‘You know all about killing, don’t you,’ said Frost, getting in quickly while the man was rattled.
The only sound was Gauld’s heavy breathing as he fought to control his temper. Then he smiled. ‘I’m not taking any more of your insults, Inspector. You either charge me, or I’m walking straight out of that door.’
‘You’ll go when I say you can go,’ snapped Frost, frowning as someone knocked. He didn’t want to be disturbed. He wanted to get Gauld rattled again. The door opened. Detective Sergeant Hanlon, not looking like a man with good news to impart, beckoned him out. Hanlon had been leading the team searching Gauld’s house.
‘We tore the house apart,’ reported Hanlon. ‘We found nothing. No bank books, no money we can tie in with the killing, no sign of blood on his clothes or shoes… nothing!’
‘There must be some bloodstains,’ insisted Frost. ‘The pathologist said he would have been swimming in the bleeding stuff.’
‘Forensic have double-checked. Not a trace. And to make matters worse, his mother swears blind he was with her on each of the murder nights.’
‘Then she’s lying,’ said Frost. ‘He’s as guilty as arseboles.’ He scuffed the brown lino moodily. ‘What about his car? Did you check that for blood?’
Hanlon nodded. ‘Forensic have given it the works – nothing.’
Frost treated the lino to an extra hard kick. Things were not working out. His heart sank as the brisk clatter of polished shoes announced the approach of the Divisional Commander, all eager for news of yet another triumph for the Denton team.
‘We’ve hit a couple of minor snags,’ Frost told him. ‘We’ve found sod all clues and his mother’s given him a watertight alibi.’
Mullett’s jaw dropped. ‘But you told me you had conclusive evidence. A fingerprint!’
‘It wasn’t so conclusive as we thought, Super. He explained it away.’
‘The house search?’
‘We found nothing,’ said Hanlon.
Mullett switched his gaze from Hanlon to Frost. ‘So what hard evidence have you got?’
Frost shuffled his feet. All he now had was a gut reaction. He knew Gauld was the Ripper. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew.
‘Your silence gives me the answer I expected,’ snapped Mullett. ‘You’ve blown this, Frost. You jumped in feet first without checking your facts. If he is the Ripper, which is by no means certain, all you’ve done is put him on his guard. Without evidence, there’s no way we can hold him.’ His lips tightened. ‘Thank goodness Inspector Allen is coming back on Monday and we can start getting things done properly.’ He spun on his heel and marched back up the corridor, pausing only to punch out one last below-the-belt blow. ‘The inventory?’
‘Almost done,’ called Frost.
‘I can tell County it will go off tonight?’
‘Without fail,’ Frost assured him. Tell the buggers what they want to hear, then make your excuses later was his philosophy. Absently, he pulled out his cigarettes, only to realize he was already smoking.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Hanlon.
‘I’m nipping round to see Gauld’s mother and try and get her to change her story.’
‘Be careful – she’s got a weak heart,’ Hanlon reminded him.
‘And I’ve got a weak bladder, so that makes us quits.’ Halfway down the corridor he turned and yelled, ‘Probably a waste of time, but send someone down to check out the Oxfam shop where Gauld works.’
Gauld’s house was just round the corner from Jubilee Terrace where they had found the mummified body all those weeks… no days… ago. A small cul-de-sac of older-type properties, jammed on both sides of the road with parked cars so Frost had to leave the station runabout round the corner.
The hinges of the black iron gate grated as he walked through. The woman who answered the door stepped back in alarm. She had been expecting the return of her son and here was this man in a dirty mac, a knitted maroon scarf trailing untidily from his neck. She was about to shut the door on him when he held up a piece of plastic with a coloured photograph on it. ‘Detective Inspector Frost,’ he announced.
She peered at the photograph, then at the man. There was a slight resemblance. ‘I’ve had enough of police. Where’s my son?’
He gave his reassuring smile. ‘Ronnie’s fine. He’s having a cup of tea down at the station.’
‘I’ve got his supper waiting,’ she said.
Frost sniffed the savoury warm smell floating from inside the house. ‘Lucky devil. I’d like a couple of words, if I may.’
She took another look at his warrant card. ‘Are you sure you’re a policeman?’
‘Fairly sure,’ said Frost, following her down the passage, ‘although my boss has his doubts at times.’
The radio was mumbling away, just around the limit of audibility. The tiny kitchen was warm from the gas oven which breathed out sausage and onion. On the small table a red and white checked cloth was laid with knife and fork and HP sauce. One place only. Frost unwound his scarf, pulled the green file from his pocket and sat down. He sniffed again. ‘Smells good.’
She opened the oven door and peeked inside. ‘It’ll spoil soon. When is he coming home?’
‘Difficult to say,’ Frost hedged. She moved a chair to the table and sat opposite him. Grey-haired, she was probably in her early sixties, but looked older. A nervous smile twitched on and off and her hands were constantly moving, plucking at her apron, smoothing out the table-cloth, straightening the knife and fork. A bag of nerves, he thought. He tried his smile out again. ‘I’m not stopping you from making us both a cup of tea, am I?’
‘You’ve got a cheek” she said. But she filled the kettle from the sink. ‘This isn’t a restaurant, you know.’ A plop as she lit the gas. ‘Why are you still holding him?’
‘Murder is a very serious charge, Mrs Gauld.’ Her back stiffened as she reached for the tea caddy, but her face was composed and apparently unconcerned when she turned. From the hooks on the dresser she took two cups, her hands shaking a little as she set them down.
‘He’s a good boy,’ she said flatly, ‘a very good boy.’
A larger version of the photograph taken from Gauld’s wallet looked down from the top of the dresser. ‘Does he miss his father?’ asked Frost.
She frowned. ‘His father died when Ronnie was three. He hardly remembers him.’
Frost ‘tutted’ sympathetically. ‘He couldn’t have been very old. How did he die?’
She looked away. ‘He killed himself.’ At Frost’s start of surprise, she added, ‘He used to get very depressed. He threw himself under a train at New Street station.’
‘And you had to bring Ronnie up on your own?’
The tea in the pot was given a vigorous stir. ‘I had to go to work. His gran brought him up.’ She put the lid back on the teapot and filled the two cups. ‘It wasn’t a very happy time for him. She was very strict. She used to beat him. Poor little mite.’ She pushed the tea across.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He tried to conceal his excitement, but his hand wasn’t steady as he spooned in the sugar. Whatever vague doubts he might have had about Gauld being the Ripper were now dispelled. He endeavoured to keep his voice casual. ‘I suppose, being beaten by his granny made him hate old people?’
Her expression changed. ‘What are you trying to make me say?’
‘We both know what this is about, Mrs Gauld. He’s your son and you want to protect him. I understand that. But he’s killed four people. He could kill more.’
She thrust out her chin defiantly. ‘Drink your tea and go!’
Frost took out the list of dates of the killings and waved it at her. ‘You didn’t tell my colleague the truth, Mrs Gauld. Ronnie wasn’t with you on any of these nights. He was out killing old people. He gets a kick out of it.’
‘I don’t tell lies,’ she said. He stared at her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze and turned her head away.
He opened the green folder and dealt out the colour photographs of the victims. ‘Look at these,’ he ordered, jabbing the worst of them with his thumb. ‘This is what your precious boy is doing to get his own back on granny.’
He heard her gasp with horror and then the gasp changed to an ominous choking sound. He looked up in alarm. Her face was contorted and blue and she was clutching at her chest. A heart attack! The old dear was suffering a heart attack. ‘Where’s your bloody tablets?’ he shouted.
A gargling sound from her throat. Her finger shook weakly in the direction of the dresser.
By the time he had found them, she was slumped unconscious in her chair. He slipped the wafer thin tablet under her tongue, his other hand digging in his pocket for his radio. ‘Frost to Control.’ He paused. He couldn’t remember the damned address. ‘I’m at Gauld’s place. Send a bloody ambulance quick.’
Mullett was feeling feverish. This wretched business with Gauld’s mother couldn’t have come at a worse time. The smoke from Frost’s cigarette wafted across and made him cough, and when he coughed, his head ached. He fanned the smoke away pointedly. Frost took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked ash all over the carpet, then replaced it. The phone rang. Mullett snatched it up, his expression hardly changing as he listened. ‘Thank you.’ He hung up, then stared grimly across to Frost. ‘That was the hospital. A very mild attack. They’re keeping her in overnight for observation, but will probably send her home in the morning.’
Frost dropped down in the chair, almost sweating with relief. ‘Thank God for that. I’ll try her again tomorrow. I think I can bust the alibi story.’
Mullett took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re going nowhere near her. You’ve caused enough trouble. You knew she had a heart condition, yet you showed her those horrific photographs.’
‘Of people butchered by her son. Don’t worry, Super. I’ll be gentle with her next time.’
‘There’s not going to be a next time,’ said Mullett emphatically, thumping the desk and wincing as it made his head ache.
‘I need to break his alibi,’ insisted Frost.
‘Even if you broke his alibi. Even if his mother confirmed he was out on each and every one of the murder nights, that simply means he could have killed the victims… you still don’t have a shred of proof which says that he did kill them. I want proof, Frost, not suspicion, not gut reaction – good, old-fashioned solid proof.’
‘Let me talk to her and I’ll get your proof.’
‘No!’ Mullett’s head was now throbbing constantly and he wished the inspector would accept the position and leave him alone.
‘Without proof, I’ll have to let Gauld go,’ said Frost despairingly.
‘That’, said Mullett curtly, ‘is your problem.’ He winced as the door slammed behind Frost and set his headache roaring off again. He could feel the sweat beading his brow as he tugged open the drawer for the aspirins. It was this wretched virus, he knew it, but if he went down, then that would leave Frost as the senior officer. And there was no way he was letting Frost run the division.
Gilmore was waiting for him outside the interview room. ‘Gauld’s shut up like a clam. He’s going to sue us for what we did to his mother and he’s not saying another word unless we get him a solicitor.’
‘We’re letting him go,’ said Frost. He filled the sergeant in on his interview with Mullett. ‘But I still want him tailed twenty-four hours a day. At best we might get the bloody proof we want. At worst we can probably stop him killing another poor sod until Mr Allen returns on Monday and takes over the case.’
‘Will I be transferring to him?’ asked Gilmore, hopefully.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Frost.
Gilmore tried to look disappointed.
‘We haven’t got the men to carry out a twenty-four hour surveillance,’ said Johnny Johnson.
‘You’ll have to find them,’ said Frost. ‘Plain-clothes, uniformed, dog-handlers, walking wounded… I don’t care. The important thing is we don’t let the bastard out of our sight even for a second.’
‘Are you sure he’s the Ripper?’ asked Johnson. ‘A fine lot of fools we’d look with the entire force following the wrong man while the Ripper kills someone else.’
‘Trust me,’ said Frost.
‘I’ve trusted you before, Jack, and you’ve dropped me right in the muck.’ He sighed. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’
The phone rang. Burton from the Oxfam shop. ‘Can you come over, Inspector? There’s a locked cupboard here full of stuff belonging to Gauld, and I can’t get it open.’
‘We’re off to the Oxfam shop,’ Frost called to Johnson.
‘Buying another suit?’ called Johnson after them.
The Oxfam shop used to be a carpeting and furniture retailers until the firm went broke. Pushing past racks of used clothing and stacks of kitchen utensils, Frost and Gilmore, hastily pursued by the manageress, a thin, angular woman in a green overall, followed Burton to the rear of the shop where he led them down a short flight of stone steps to the basement. There, Burton clicked a switch and an unshaded bulb lit up a small, stone-flagged room in which an old-fashioned solid fuel boiler, belching sulphurous fumes, clanked away, a heap of anthracite glittering at its side. To the left of the boiler was another door which took them into a narrow passage where six metal lockers, painted light grey, backed against one wall.
‘That one is Gauld’s.’ Burton indicated the last locker in the row.
Frost examined the solid-looking padlock and fumbled in his pocket for his bunch of keys.
The manageress looked uneasy. ‘I presume you’ve got a warrant?’
‘Yes,’ said Frost, curtly, staring back at her, defying her to ask to see it. The second key did the trick He turned the handle. The manageress pushed forward, eyes goggling. ‘You’d better keep back, madam. It might be a body.’ Alarmed, she hopped back, stepping on Gilmore’s toe as she did so.
‘Abracadabra,’ said Frost and pulled open the door.
The locker was crammed tight with men’s clothing; jackets, trousers, shirts, assorted styles and colours. Some of the clothing was old and threadbare, some in reasonable condition, all second-hand.
The manageress gasped and stared open-mouthed.
‘Looks as if he’s been nicking your stock, madam,’ suggested Frost.
‘I can’t understand it. Ronnie seemed such a nice. boy. I’d have trusted him with my life.’
‘Lots of people thought the same,’ smiled Frost. “What exactly did he do here?’
‘He drove our little van – collected items that people wanted to give to Oxfam. And he would deliver some of the larger items that people bought. Oh, and he helped with the boiler… keeping it well stoked.’
‘Sounds a little treasure,’ said Frost. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about the clothes. I’m sure he’s got a good explanation.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘I think I can hear a customer in the shop.’ As soon as she had left he began examining the clothing. ‘It’s all about Gauld’s size – he was taking it for himself.’
‘So he’s been pinching the stock,’ sniffed Gilmore. ‘Big deal.’
‘You’re missing the point, son.’ Frost was getting excited. He held up a pair of torn and paint-splattered jeans. ‘Much of this is rubbish. So why did he nick it?’
‘I give up,’ shrugged Gilmore, not sounding very inteested.
‘None of his own clothes were bloodstained. Supposing he kept a supply of old clothes that he could change into just for his Ripper jobs?’
Gilmore’s eyes widened. ‘And after each job he disposed of them in the boiler! It’s so simple, it’s almost brilliant.’
They went back to the boiler room. ‘Any point shutting this thing down?’ Gilmore asked. ‘We could rake through the ashes. There’ll be bits that don’t burn… buckles… clips… zips.’
‘It wouldn’t prove anything,’ said Burton. ‘I was talking to the manageress before you arrived. They get lots of clothes offered to them that are verminous, or too dirty to sell… so they shove them in the boiler.’
‘Damn.’ Frost gave the boiler a kick. ‘This bastard is either too clever or too lucky. If we want proof, we’re going to have to catch him in the act.’ He stretched his arms and yawned loudly. ‘Come on, Gilmore, let’s get some kip. I get the feeling we’re going to have a busy night.’
The house was strangely still and quiet when Gilmore closed the front door behind him. Liz was either out, or had gone back to bed. He tiptoed up the passage so he wouldn’t disturb the dormant fury. In the living-room the ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud. Or was it because the rest of the house was so quiet?
Her farewell note was tucked into the frame of the mirror above the mantelpiece. She’d used the expensive blue monogrammed notepaper he’d bought for her birthday, his name scrawled across the envelope in green ink. He read it, then dashed up to the bedroom to make sure. The unmade bed was empty her clothes gone from the wardrobe. He crossed the passage. Her toilet things had been removed from the bathroom.
Back downstairs he read her note again, his free hand pouring out a drink. He tried to feel sad, but couldn’t. He swilled down the remains of the drink, stuffed the note on top of the unpaid bills in the bureau and went upstairs to the empty bedroom.
Even as his head touched the pillow he was in a deep, dreamless, trouble-free sleep.
RD Wingfield
Night Frost
Friday night shift (1)
Police Sergeant Bill Wells shivered and turned the lobby thermostat up to full in the hope that it would encourage the radiator to belt out some more heat. A waste of time, because as soon as Mullett came in, he’d complain about the lobby being like a tropical greenhouse and would turn the thermostat right down again. It was all right for him, with his 3-kilowatt heater, but let him try working in this draughty lobby with the door opening every five minutes and that gale-force wind roaring through.
The lobby door slammed open, the wind roared through, and there was Jack Frost, his scarf wound round his face to cover his nose. He was unwrapping himself when Burton pushed through the swing doors carrying the sergeant’s tea.
‘What news on Ronnie boy?’ asked Frost, warming his hands on the radiator.
‘He drove to the hospital at 7.22 and brought his mother back home,’ said Burton.
‘His mother? I thought they were keeping her in over night?’
‘She couldn’t have been as bad as they thought.’
‘I knew the old cow was faking. So where’s Gauld now?’
‘Indoors. Collier’s watching the house.’
The phone rang. Wells answered it, then pulled a face at the mouthpiece. The caller was Mullett. ‘Mr Frost, sir?’ Frost shook his head vigorously ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.’
‘I won’t be in until later,’ said Mullett. ‘I’m feeling a bit under the weather. What have we got on the menu?’
‘There’s this threatened gang violence when the pubs shut, sir. Can I call on other divisions for assistance if necessary?’
‘It shouldn’t be necessary,’ replied Mullett. ‘Put every available man on to it.’
‘Mr Frost is going to need much of the available man power to keep tracks on Gauld, sir,’ persisted Wells.
‘You must give Mr Frost every assistance possible, Sergeant. Both operations are top priority. I’m relying on you to ensure that each operation does not hamper the effects of the other.’
A click as he hung up, leaving Wells spluttering helplessly at the dead phone ‘Both top priority and neither must hamper the success of the other! He knows it’s flaming impossible, that’s why the bastard’s staying away. Why is it always me?’ He swung indignantly round to Frost. ‘You’re the senior officer. You should have taken the call.’
‘I wasn’t here,’ said Frost. ‘I heard you tell him.’ He hurried off to collect Gilmore, leaving Wells staring at an empty mug and slowly realizing that the inspector had drunk his tea.
PC Collier champed at the cheeseburger. He was parked at the end of the little cul-de-sac, tucked tightly behind a cream-coloured Ford Consul whose owner had decided it would look better in green, but had abandoned the idea after painting just the front wing. The car radio, on which he reported every fifteen minutes that there was nothing to report, was turned down low so that its stream of messages were not audible to passers-by. His eyes were fixed on the house in mid-terrace. Gauld’s house. Parked opposite the house, but out of sight from Collier’s position, was Gauld’s Vauxhall Astra.
He twisted his wrist so he could see his watch. A quarter to ten. He’d been stuck down this side turning for some two hours. In mid-bite something made him pause. Movement reflected in the rear-view mirror. Two men, keeping tight to the wall, stealthily approaching, obviously up to no good. Collier sank down in his seat so his head was below the window and waited. Suddenly the car echoed like a drum as someone pounded a fist on the roof and jerked the door open.
‘Are you playing peek-a-boo, Collier?’
He grinned sheepishly and kicked the yellow polystyrene food container out of sight under the dash. It was Detective Inspector Jack Frost with the new chap, Gilmore. ‘I spotted you coming, sir. Thought you were villains trying door handles.’
The car lurched as Frost and Gilmore climbed inside and settled themselves down on the back seat. “What’s happening.
‘Nothing, sir. He’s still inside. Went in with his mother just after eight. Hasn’t come out.’
Frost’s nose began to twitch suspiciously. ‘Can I smell cheeseburger?’
Collier blushed. ‘Yes, I did have one, sir.’
‘Did you cook it in the car,’ asked Frost, innocently, ‘or was it delivered?’
‘Delivered?’ frowned Collier, not sure what the inspector was getting at.
‘You didn’t bloody go off watch to get it, did you?’ barked Gilmore.
‘I’ve had nothing to eat for hours. I wasn’t gone more than five minutes.’
‘Five minutes!’ repeated Frost, sadly. ‘A lot can happen in five minutes. I could have five women in five minutes – on an off day. Is his car still there?’
Collier craned his neck, but the Ford Consul blocked his view. ‘I think so,’ he stammered.
‘You think so?’ exploded Gilmore. ‘If you’ve blown this, Collier…’
‘Nip out and see,’ said Frost, trying not to let his anxiety show. Collier was soon back and Frost’s heart nose-dived as he read the answer in the young constable’s white face.
‘His car’s gone, sir. A couple of kids said he drove off about five minutes ago.’
‘You stupid fool!’ yelled Gilmore.
‘It’s my fault,’ said Frost, ‘I should have had two men in the car, not one.’ He leant forward to grab the handset. ‘Frost to Control, receiving?’ He barked out his orders for all cars, all patrols, to be on the lookout for Gauld’s Vauxhall and to report the sighting immediately.
Half-way back to the station, Frost smote his forehead with his palm. ‘The Oxfam shop! He might try to burn the evidence there.’ He radioed through to the station requesting a man on permanent watch at the Oxfam shop.
‘I haven’t got anyone to spare,’ protested Wells.
‘Just do it,’ said Frost, switching off the set before Wells could reply.
As they roared past a public house they noticed a gang of youths pouring out of an old van and making for the public bar. They seemed to be spoiling for a fight.
He sat in Control, listening to the stream of radio messages, a mound of mangled corpses of half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray at his side. He hardly looked up when Wells banged a cup of tea in front of him.
‘Bloody Collier,’ snarled Wells. ‘He must choose the busiest flaming night of the week to sod things up.’
‘I sodded it up,’ said Frost, lighting another cigarette an offering the packet to Wells. ‘Collier didn’t have the experience and I shouldn’t have left him on his own.’
PC Lambert, the officer on Control duty, twisted his head. ‘Inspector! Punch up at the Denton Arms. A gang of yobbos smashing the place up. Can I send a couple of cars?
‘Send one,’ said Frost. ‘I need all the rest.’
‘One won’t be enough,’ protested Lambert.
‘It’s better than sod all,’ Frost told him. ‘Tell it to drive with its sirens screaming full blast. With a bit of luck the pub will empty before they burst in.’ He tossed his cigarette packet across to Lambert. ‘And I want them back searching for Gauld’s car as soon as they’ve mopped up the last drop of blood and guts from the sawdust.’ He sipped his tea and shuddered at the taste while Control directed Charlie Able to the pub.
No sooner was that task completed than Control was in trouble again. ‘Serious domestic at Vicarage Terrace. Neighbours report couple seem to be smashing the happy home up. They can hear kiddies crying. I’d like to send a car.’
‘You’re car-mad,’ admonished Frost. ‘Haven’t you got a foot patrol who could handle it?’
‘It will take a quarter of an hour for the foot patrol to get there. There’s kiddies involved!’ protested Control.
‘The kids won’t get their throats cut. Some senior citizen will if we don’t find Gauld quickly. The bastard’s going to try it on again tonight, I just know it.’
Anxious squawks from Control’s headphones. Lambert turned a permanently worried face to Frost. ‘The fight at the pub is getting out of hand, sir. It’s sprawled into the street. Windows have been smashed and they’re damaging cars now.’
Frost sighed. ‘All right, son. You handle it. Send what you want.’ His mouth felt stale and bitter. The last thing he wanted was another cigarette, but he lit one up. Nothing was going right.
It was Burton who saved the day. Control switched the call to the external loudspeaker.
‘Have located Vauxhall Astra registration K, Kansas, X, X-Ray. ..’
‘Sod the phonetic spelling, Burton,’ yelled Frost, snatching the handset from Control. “Where is the bastard?’
‘He’s parked half-way down Wedgewood Street. I only spotted him by chance.’
At Frost’s raised eyebrows, Control indicated Wedgewood Street on the large-scale map. A derelict side street in an area scheduled for demolition. ‘I can’t think what he’s doing down there, Inspector. All the houses are boarded up and empty.’
Frost nodded and went back to Burton. ‘You got him in full view?’
‘Yes, I’m parked right at the end with my lights off. I don’t want him to see me.’ A pause, then, ‘Damn!’
‘Now what?’
‘He’s turned his lights off. There’s no street lamps down there. It’s pitch black.’
Frost peered up at the wall map. ‘He’s got to pass you to come out.’
‘Only if he stays in the car. If he goes on foot he can cut through any of the empty houses.’
‘Right. We can’t be sodded about any more. If he’s still in the car, arrest him and bring him back here… parking without lights. .. any excuse you can think of. And hurry.’ Frost drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited. Then a crackle from the loudspeaker.
‘Have subject car in view.’
‘But is the sodding subject in the sodding subject car?’ demanded Frost.
A pause. Then, ‘Subject car is empty… repeat empty.’
‘Shit,’ moaned Frost, ‘repeat shit! I suppose he hasn’t got out just to have a pee or something innocent like that?’
‘No sign of him anywhere,’ said Burton.
With a weary grunt, Frost flopped back in his chair. ‘Right, son. This is what you do. You immobilize his car… wee in his petrol tank, let his tires down, anything, just so he can’t use it. We don’t want him driving off the minute your back is turned.’
He waited nervously sucking at his cigarette until a blast of static from the loudspeaker announced Burton to report that he’d immobilized the car.
‘Good boy. Still no sign of him?’
‘No, sir. No sign of anything. It’s a ghost street – just empty houses. Hold on…’
‘What is it?’ asked Frost excitedly.
‘I thought I saw a light in one of the houses. It flickered like someone striking a match. I’ll go and take a look.’
‘Be careful,’ ordered Frost. ‘And keep in touch.’ He lit a fresh cigarette and fidgeted in his chair as he waited. Gilmore came in with two more mugs of tea. ‘Thanks, son.’ He stirred it with a pencil, feeling vaguely worried. Why the hell was Burton taking so long? He hesitated about asking Control to call the detective constable. Burton might be stalking his prey and a police radio sounding could give the game away. He stared up at the big wall clock, just above Lambert’s head. He’d give Burton another two minutes before asking Control to radio. But before fifty seconds were up he had one of his feelings… one of his icy cold fingers scraping the back of the spine feelings. ‘Call him,’ he barked. ‘Now!’
‘Control to Burton, come in, please…’ Lambert flipped the switch to receive. A crackle of empty static from the loudspeaker. He tried again. ‘Control to Burton… are you receiving… over?’ More empty static. ‘He doesn’t seem to be responding, Inspector,’ said Lambert, redundantly.
‘Keep bloody trying,’ yelled Frost from the door. ‘Come on, Gilmore. Let’s get over there.’
The traffic light changed to red and Gilmore slowed to a halt with Frost grunting his impatience as they waited. As soon as the cross-road was clear he ordered Gilmore to jump the lights. They passed a huge building site with skeleton tower blocks and giant cranes. Frost peered through the side window. ‘Wedgewood Street should be along here some where…’ They nearly missed it. ‘There!’
Slamming on the brakes, Gilmore backed the car and turned into a dark side road. A dead street of empty windowless houses. Burton’s car stood by the corner. Further down the road another car. A grey Vauxhall Astra.
At the top of his voice Frost repeatedly shouted, ‘Burton!’ The empty houses flung his words back.
‘On the pavement – there!’ Gilmore pointed to some thing black and rectangular.
They ran over. It was a police radio, its casing smashed and caved in as if it had been stamped on. When Frost picked it up his hand touched stickiness. He stared at his fingers. Blood, fresh and ruby red that glittered in the ray of Gilmore’s torch. Frost yanked his own radio from his pocket and fumbled for the transmit button. He blurted out instructions to Control. ‘I want every available officer to come immediately to Wedgewood Street.’
‘There isn’t anyone to send,’ answered Control. ‘They’re all out. There’s a near-riot at the Denton Arms.’
‘Call them away and send them here… now! We’ve got an officer in trouble!’ He switched off before Control could come up with any more stupid objections.
All of the houses had been boarded up with corrugated galvanized sheeting blanking out the windows and heavy planking nailed across the front doors. But on quite a few of the properties vandals had torn away the planking and kicked in the doors. Frost poked his torch beam tentatively into one of the houses and ventured inside. The passage was thick with debris and breathed a sour, mildewy smell. As he shuffled in, the debris moved as rats squealed and scuttled to safety. He lashed out his foot to hasten them on their way. Before he could proceed further the sound of a car, then the slamming of doors. Back to the street where PC Jordan and four other uniformed men were waiting with Gilmore. Five men! Was this all Control was sending?
‘We’re stretched to the limit,’ Jordan told him. ‘The pub fight is getting right out of hand.’
Frost stripped cellophane from a fresh packet of cigarettes and passed it around as he quickly briefed them. ‘My guess is that Burton went in one of these empty houses after Gauld. The flooring’s rotten, the stair treads and banisters are broken, so he could have fallen and hurt himself. But that doesn’t explain his radio.’ He held it up and showed it to them. ‘We found it on the pavement, there, and it frightens the shit out of me. Anyway, sod the speculation until we find him. Take a house each and be careful… they’re bloody death traps.’
He took the middle property himself, the one nearest to where they had found the smashed radio. It reeked of damp and decay. His torch beam blinked feebly into the blackness, picking out rotting floorboards and slimy rubbish. A door to his right was closed. Warily he turned the handle and pushed. A groaning creak as it swung back on to an empty, dead, urine-smelling room. He moved on, things rustling and scurrying in front of him. To his left, stairs with broken jagged banisters lurching outwards. Another door in front of him. He kicked it open. The kitchen, piled high with rubbish and smelling of bad drains and cats and rotting food.
Back to the hall and up the stairs, testing each tread care fully before putting his weight on it. Half-way up he stopped and held his breath as he listened. A creaking. There was someone up there. There it was again. The soft creak of a floorboard. ‘Burton?’ He waited. Silence. No! A rustling, then another floorboard creaked. His torch kept flickering. The beam shuddered and died. He gave the casing a welt with the flat of his hand which frightened it into brief life again before it died finally a second time.
He waited to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and took another step. Then he froze. Something. He stopped dead, ears sharply focused for the slightest sound. Silence. Silence that screamed in the blackness. But there was something someone up there. ‘Burton?’ If it was Burton, why the hell didn’t he answer?
He rammed the useless torch in his pocket and fished out his matches. Up the stairs to the landing. The match burnt his fingers. Swearing softly, he shook it out and struck another. A door, slightly ajar, to his right. He nudged it open with his foot, then poked the hand with the match inside. He nearly dropped the match. On the floor, in the flicker of the flame, a face. Another match. God, it was Burton, his face a sweat-soaked dirty white, his lips mumbling incoherently.
Frost dropped to his knees on to a puddle of something wet which soaked his trousers. Another match. He was kneeling in a pool of blood. Burton’s hands were clasped round his stomach. A red trickle oozed from between slippery, red fingers. He was trying to say something. Frost brought his head down to Burton’s lips. ‘Gauld. The bastard stabbed me.’ His eyelids flickered and closed.
‘Up here!’ yelled Frost at the top of his voice. He tugged out his radio. ‘Control. Burton’s been stabbed. Get an ambulance over to Wedgewood Street… now!’
The ambulance men adjusted the strap around the red-blanketed Burton, then wheeled the trolley up into the ambulance. One of the uniformed men hopped in the back with it.
‘Got a stack of your chaps in Casualty,’ the ambulance driver told Frost cheerfully as he climbed into his seat. ‘Blood and broken noses everywhere. A bunch of yobbos breaking up a pub or something.’
Oh, sod! thought Frost. I’d forgotten all about that. He radioed through to the station.
‘We’re being massacred,’ Wells told him. ‘Things are getting out of control and bloody Mullett’s not answering his phone in case he should have to make a decision.’
Gilmore tugged at Frost’s sleeve. ‘Gauld’s been spotted. He’s got into that building site.’ He pointed in the direction of the giant crane.
‘Damn,’ said Frost. There were a hundred places Gauld could hide in in the sprawl of the building site. Back to the radio. ‘We know where Gauld is. Without more men we’ll lose him. Pull more people out from the pub.’
‘I can’t,’ insisted Wells.
‘Just bloody do it. Then phone County and get reinforcements from other divisions,’ said Frost.
‘Mullett won’t like that. He’ll do his nut.’
‘Sod Mullett. Just do it.’
Wells hesitated. ‘If it blows up in our face, will you take the can back, Jack?’
‘Don’t I always?’ said Frost.
The building site covered almost twenty acres and would eventually house a hypermarket, shops, and two tower office blocks which, at the moment, were skeletons of scaffolding and girders. The car picked its way along a muddy, temporary road to the main gates.
Chain link fencing encircled the area. A notice in red warned Keep Out. Guard Dogs Loose On This Site. The main gates were locked and chained, but there was a smaller gate to one side which sagged where it had been kicked in. Beyond the gate a brown and white shape twitched and whimpered in the mud. The knife-ripped guard dog.
Gilmore’s radio reported the arrival of reinforcements. Three pub-battle-scarred warriors were in position at the back entrance of the site, ready to move in from there. ‘It’s not enough,’ said Gilmore.
‘As the bishop said to the actress, son, it may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got.’ He took the radio and warned the newcomers to be careful. Gauld had a knife and was prepared to use it. ‘Right. Let’s go in.’
Near the entrance stood a green-coloured Portakabin. Frost tried the handle. Locked. He flashed a torch through a window. Desks, phones and drawing boards.
Other torches bobbed in the distance as the rest of his thinly stretched team carried out the search. The site was littered with hills and mountains of building materials; earthenware drainage pipes, concrete blocks, bricks on pallets covered with polythene sheeting, bag after bag of cement. And then there was machinery. Bulldozers, earth-moving equipment, cranes, and overshadowing everything, a giant skyscraper of a crane on its tower of scaffolding. The muddy ground had been churned into a Somme battlefield by the wheels of countless lorries.
It was a slow, laboured search. Heavy items had to be man-handled out of the way, planking covering drainage trenches removed, builders’ huts forced open and searched, canvas and polythene sheeting stripped away. They squeezed between stacks of splintery timber shuttering, crawled under wooden sheds and, finally, mud-caked, dishevelled and disheartened, there was nowhere else to look and Gilmore was wearing his ‘I told you so’ smirk
They gathered round Frost who was dishing out cigarettes, forming a tight circle as he struck a match to stop the rising wind from blowing it out. ‘Now what?’ asked Gilmore.
‘We go back and search again, son.’
‘He could be miles away.’
Frost’s chin poked out stubbornly. ‘No. He’s here. Laughing at us. I know it.’ He held up a hand. ‘I thought I heard something.’ Someone’s radio was burbling away about casualties and ambulances and shortage of manpower. ‘Turn that thing off.’ The offending radio was silenced. ‘Now listen.’
They listened. The wind, working itself up into a paddy, rattled chain link fencing, flapped polythene sheeting, and made the temporary overhead telephone wires sing and hum. Almost 200 feet above them, the jib arm of the giant crane, with its warning light on the far end, creaked and groaned and shrieked as if in pain.
A sudden clatter. All heads turned. Jordan grinned sheepishly. He had knocked over a stack of empty lubricating oil drums.
Frost shook his head. Whatever he thought he’d heard wasn’t going to repeat itself. Then he clicked his fingers. ‘The crane. We haven’t looked up there!’ Heads turned up and up and up. The distant warning light, a pin-prick of bright against the night sky, seemed almost another star.
‘It’s bloody high,’ croaked Jordan.
‘Yes,’ agreed Frost, now wishing he hadn’t suggested it. The damn thing seemed to go up and up and up for ever.
A yell from Gilmore. ‘Someone’s up there!’ And as the moon elbowed through black clouds, there was Gauld, on the ladder, nearly 100 feet up, clinging for dear life and looking down at them.
Making a megaphone with his hands, Frost yelled up into the night sky. ‘You can’t get away now, Gauld. We’ve got you. Come on down.'
The wind fielded Gauld’s defiant reply and hurled it away
‘He’s coming down,’ exclaimed Jordan.
‘He’s not,’ said Frost. ‘He’s going higher.’
Necks craned, they watched until he was swallowed by blackness. ‘Let’s have some lights,’ Frost ordered.
With much difficulty an area car zigzagged, bumped and slid its way towards the crane, and then a powerful spotlight sliced upwards, cutting a steamy white swathe in the night sky and picking out the doll-man as he climbed up and up.
Gauld was nearly at the top of the ladder and could see the platform of the driver’s cab just above his head. He gripped the rungs tightly with hands that the wind was trying to tear loose. Above him the jib groaned and whined and shuddered. He heaved himself up on to the small platform outside the cab. The protective metal handrail seemed flimsy and inadequate and he kept well back as he looked down, eyes squinting against the blinding spotlight beam. The police were still staring up at him, the one in the dirty mac yelling something which any fool should realize couldn’t be heard at this height. One of the uniformed men was running from a car with something in his hand. A loud-hailer.
‘Be sensible, Gauld. You can’t go anywhere. Come on down.’
Pointless shouting. They wouldn’t hear him. But the cop was right. He couldn’t go anywhere. They had him trapped. God, how had it all gone wrong?
‘Come on down, Gauld.’
The fool was yelling again. Come on down? He ventured another look over the edge. Just looking made him dizzy and he pressed back against the cab, his hands scrabbling for something to hold on to. If they wanted him, they’d have to bring him down.
Above him the jib gave another tortured scream of pain, then another sound pierced the night. A two-tone siren.
The fire engine halted outside the gate and a bearded fireman made his way across to the inspector. He looked angry. ‘You called a vet for that dog? It’s still alive, you know.’
‘He’s on his way,’ snapped Frost, annoyed with himself for not attending to it. He signalled to Jordan who moved out of earshot and radioed through to Control. Frost pointed to the crane platform. ‘We want to get up there. Would your turntable ladder reach?’
The fireman squinted up, then shook his head. ‘You’d need a bleeding helicopter to get up there.’ He moved to the ladder lashed to the scaffolding and gave it a shake. It didn’t seem very firm ‘That’s the only way up.’
‘Sod that for a lark,’ said Frost. ‘Take me up on your turntable ladder as far as it goes. I’ll see if I can’t sweet-talk the bastard down.’
The turntable platform gave a jerk, then the ground suddenly hurtled down and Frost had to grab the rail to steady himself as the ladder zoomed upwards. Briefly he chanced a look down, then quickly pulled his eyes away and concentrated on staring straight ahead at the bolts and nuts and rusted metal of the scaffolding as they zipped past.
After what seemed ages, the ladder slowed and juddered to a halt and the fire officer tugged Frost’s sleeve. ‘As far as we go.’
Frost looked down. Toy cars, tiny people, miles and miles away. He looked up. Lots more scaffolding roaring up to the sky and the white blob of Gauld’s face staring down at him. ‘There’s nowhere to run,’ shouted Frost. ‘Chuck your knife and we’ll bring you down.’
Gauld yelled something, but the wind snatched and tore the words to shreds. Then the blob of his face withdrew and they couldn’t see him any more.
‘Now what?’ asked the fire officer.
Frost’s neck was aching from craning upwards. He lowered his head. In front of him was the flimsy metal ladder which Gauld had climbed. It didn’t look very safe and was rattling in the wind. He shivered. ‘If we both went up, we could overpower him.’
‘Not our job to overpower nutters with knives,’ said the fire officer, firmly. ‘Disarm him and you can have as many of my men as you like. Until then, you’re on your own.’
Sod it, thought Frost. Let’s pack it in and starve the bastard into submission. But he’d come this far. He wanted to get it over and done with. Fumbling at the buckle, he released the safety belt. ‘Help me across to the other ladder.’
The fireman looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘I never know what I’m bleeding doing,’ said Frost.
The gap between the platform and the scaffold ladder grew markedly wider as he looked at it. Before common sense made his nerve fail he ducked quickly under the rail, holding it tight with one hand, and plunged forward in the blind hope his other hand would find something to hang on to. He managed to find one of the ladder rungs and squeezed it to death as he released his grip on the guard rail and grabbed at the same rung. He was now hanging over the gap, feet on the platform, hands on the ladder rungs and definitely at the point of no return.
‘You’re doing fine,’ called the fireman unconvincingly. ‘Now hold tight and swing your feet forward.’
He didn’t need to be told to hold tight. The skin over his knuckles was paper thin and the bones threatened to burst through. He swung forward, his feet kicking about as they tried to find the rungs. They found only space… pulling, plunging space. He was hanging by sweat-slippery hands, kicking wildly and he was terrified. Then he felt hands grabbing his ankles and placing his feet on a narrow rung. He managed to croak a word of thanks to the fireman and froze to the ladder, heart hammering, his face pressed against the cold metal, not wanting to look up or down or left or right, just wanting to be back on the ground, looking up at some silly sod doing what he was doing and telling everyone what a prat the man was.
‘Anything wrong?’ The fireman sounded anxious.
‘No,’ lied Frost. ‘Just catching my breath.’ He forced one hand to release its grip and move further up the rail. Then the other. One leg lifted and found the next rung. This was easy. As long as he didn’t look down, this was easy. It was just like climbing a ladder a couple of feet off the ground. But confidence cloaked near-disaster and he almost screamed when his foot slipped from the rung and he had to hug the ladder, shaking, feeling the ladder rattle like chattering teeth against the scaffolding. He forced himself to press on, rung by rung, his body stiff and rigid, leg muscles aching with the effort. ‘I’ll be fit for sod all when I get up there,’ he kept telling himself, trying to erase the mental picture of himself sprawled on the gantry, gasping for breath, while Gauld slowly hacked away at his windpipe. But even that prospect was currently preferable to going down, which meant moving backwards, descending the ladder in reverse. God, he was never going to get down again.
‘You’re doing fine!’
The voice seemed to come from a long way down. He risked a glance and saw the top of the man’s helmet floating in space below his feet. With an effort he forced himself on.
There was one frightening section which required him to swap from one ladder to another, holding with one hand to the first and reaching out for the next and swinging across. But not far now, thank God. He must be near the top. The teeth-setting grinding and squealing of the jib, like a giant fingernail scratching down a blackboard, screamed in his ears.
The ladder stopped and his sweat-blurred eyes were level with a wooden platform. His hands seemed fused to the ladder, but he tore them free and flung himself forward on to the gantry where he rolled across to huddle up tight to the side of the cab, keeping as far from the edge as possible.
‘Are you all right?’ A faint voice calling from a hundred miles down.
‘I’m fine,’ he yelled, not feeling it. A quick fumble through his pocket for a cigarette, turning his back to the hurricane force wind which, at this height, was making everything shake violently Far away to his left were the winking dots of light from the Lego town of Denton. His radio squawked.
‘Inspector!’ It was Gilmore from the smug safety of the firm ground. ‘Gauld’s round the other side of the gantry to you. Just seems to be standing there.’
‘Not much else the poor sod can do,’ he answered. He’d almost forgotten about Gauld, the whole purpose of this nightmare climb. Another squawk from the radio. Gilmore back again. ‘Mr Mullett is here, Inspector. He’d like a word.’ Mullett! Trust Hornrim Harry to be in at the kill. All ready to take the credit should the operation prove a success, and to dissociate himself from it in the more likely event of failure. The thought of realizing a long-held ambition to defecate on Mullett from a great height flashed across his mind as he waited.
'What’s the position, Inspector?’
‘I’m just about to go round and talk him down.’
‘Good. Let’s tie this up neat and tidy. Bring him down safely, and do it by the book.’
Stupid sod. How the hell do you get a knife-wielding mass-murderer down from a 200-foot crane by the book? He stuck the radio back in his mac and dragged himself to his feet. The wooden platform creaked and gave slightly under his weight, then the whole structure lurched and the stars danced in the sky as the wind pounded the jib. Through the cracks between the planks he could see straight down to the swaying, yawning black of the bottomless drop. One last drag of his cigarette before he flipped it away. The wind caught it and hurled it over the side where it nose-dived down to oblivion, spitting red sparks.
He inched round to the other side, keeping tightly to the solid reassurance of the driver’s cab. And there was Gauld, his back to the rail, hair streaming, legs braced against the force of the pummelling wind. ‘Keep away from me!’ In his upraised hand something bright reflected the twinkling blood gobs of the warning light at the end of the jib.
Frost leant against the cab and wearily shook his head. ‘It’s all over, son. You’ve got nowhere to go.’ He waited for a response, eyeing the man warily. If Gauld decided to put up a fight, there wasn’t much he could do. There was hardly room for a punch-up on this barely 2-foot-wide platform. They’d probably both end up over the edge, splashing blood, brains and guts all over Mullett’s patent leather shoes.
Gauld moved forward, the arm with the knife still raised, a manic grin clicking on and off. Then his face crumpled and tears streamed. ‘Why didn’t you leave me alone?’
Shit, thought Frost. Don’t make me start feeling sorry for you, you murdering bastard. He kept his eye firmly on the blade and edged forward a fraction. Gauld, the guard rail pressing into his back, couldn’t retreat. He could only move forward.
‘The knife!’ said Frost firmly, optimistically holding out his hand.
Again the flickering, manic grin. Gauld scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand to wipe off the tears. His eyes glinted slyly and the knife-hand shook. ‘You want the knife? You want the bloody knife?’ He held it out. ‘Here it is. Take it.’
‘Don’t try anything,’ warned Frost, ‘or I’ll push you over the bloody edge.’
Gauld raised the knife higher, then, as Frost steeled himself, flung it far out into the night where it spun and glinted before vanishing into the void. ‘It was only a penknife. You couldn’t cut bloody butter with it.’
A cold trickle of relief, but Frost moved warily towards Gauld who looked as if he still had a few aces hidden up his sleeve. Tugging out his radio he let the firemen know it was safe for them to come up and give him a hand.
‘You’ve got him?’ cried Mullett’s excited voice. “What’s the position?’
‘Later,’ snapped Frost. ‘I’ll tell you bloody later.’ He clicked off the set and felt for the handcuffs, still watching Gauld like a hawk.
‘I panicked,’ said Gauld, suddenly. ‘I had the knife in my hand and I panicked.’ He glared at Frost. ‘It was your fault. Why didn’t you leave me alone?’
Frost frowned. What the hell was the man talking about? ‘My fault?’ He now had the handcuffs and reached for Gauld’s arm.
‘Of course it was your flaming fault,’ yelled Gauld, snatching his arm away. ‘You hounded me. You frightened the shit out of my mother. That’s why it happened.’
Frost’s mind raced, trying to make sense of all this, but then the wind suddenly wailed and hit the crane jib with a tremendous punch, wrenching the gantry round until the anchor chains braked it with a shuddering jerk Frost was flung to the floor of the gantry, the stars zip-panning across the sky. And through the creakings and squeals and resounding clangs, the sound of a man screaming.
In an instant he was up on his feet, trying to regain his balance on the shaking platform. Gauld. Where was Gauld? The guard rail where he had been standing was broken and a section dangled down. Still that screaming. And yells from below as firemen clambered up the ladder.
‘Help me!’
Frost leaned over the edge. A spotlight from the fire appliance on the ground blinded him. He shielded his eyes with his arm. Someone on the ground saw what was happening and yelled for the beam to be directed downwards. It slid down and locked on to a screaming, pleading Gauld who was clinging by his fingertips to the protruding edge of a girder just below the platform, feet kicking wildly in a futile effort to find a foothold before his fingers gave way.
‘Hold on!’ roared Frost. A stupid thing to say. What else could the poor bastard do? He flung himself down on the gantry, kicking into a gap in the planking to wedge in the toes of his shoes. With the platform cutting into his stomach he leant out over the edge and reached down.
Below him, the white, upturned face of the dangling man who was whimpering with terror. It didn’t seem possible that Frost could reach him. The thudding of firemen’s feet on the ladder over on the far side was getting louder. He prayed that they would hurry. Way, way below, tiny dolls held out a circular white canvas, only part of which protruded from an overhanging section of the scaffolding. A tiny, inadequate, very missable target.
He groped and stretched. The bitter, cutting wind stung his cheeks, roared pain into his scar, and gradually sucked the feeling from his bare hands. He gritted his teeth and stretched further. Something. Cold flesh. Icy cold knuckles gripping raw-edged metal scaffolding.
‘Take my hand!’
Gauld moaned and gave a feeble shake of the head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Don’t sod me about,’ shouted Frost. ‘Take the bloody thing!’
Gauld’s hand fluttered, then snatched. Frost grabbed at wet, blood-slippery fingers, cut by the saw-edge of the metal. It was not a secure grip, but the first fireman was now up on the platform and could take over. As long as Gauld didn’t release his other hand, Frost could sustain him. ‘Wait,’ he yelled down.
But Gauld wasn’t going to wait. He wanted to be pulled to safety. He let go of the girder and snatched up at Frost, but he couldn’t reach and his body started to swing and his fingertips just brushed the hand Frost was straining out to him and his life depended on Frost holding on to his cut and bleeding fingers.
Frost could feel him going. He gripped tighter, but this squeezed more blood from Gauld’s torn hand. Slippery blood. The fireman flung himself alongside Frost, but even as he did so, Gauld was screaming. Frost, free arm flailing, desperately tried to find something to hold. Gauld’s hair raced through his fingers and the white terrified face grew smaller, smaller, smaller, still screaming. He screamed as he fell. He screamed as he hit and bounced off the protruding girder which broke his back He screamed as he smashed into the ground. After he was dead, after his heart stopped pumping blood out of his broken body, his screams still rang and rang round and round the building site.
RD Wingfield
Night Frost
Friday night shift (2)
The ambulance took away the pulp in a body bag and the firemen hosed away the mess. Frost, white and shaken, greedily sucked at a cigarette and was hardly listening to what Mullett was saying.
‘You’re absolutely certain Gauld was the Ripper?’
Frost took one last gloomy drag then chucked the cigarette away. Up until half an hour ago he was positive, but now the shrill, insistent nagging voice of doubt kept raising the terrible possibility that be might have hounded an innocent man to his death. ‘Yes, I’m certain,’ he said without conviction.
‘Did he admit it?’ persisted Mullett. ‘We’re a little short of solid proof and it would make things neat and tidy if I could tell the Chief Constable that we got a verbal confession.’
Admit it? It was those last words of Gauld that triggered the doubts. ‘It was your fault,’ Gauld had said. ‘You hounded me… that’s why it happened.’ That sounded more like an apology for stabbing Burton, not an admission that he was the Ripper. ‘No, he didn’t admit anything.’ He searched for his cigarette packet.
Mullett gave a deep sigh. Couldn’t Frost take the smallest hint? Gauld was dead. No-one would know whether he had actually admitted guilt or not, and if Frost was certain Gauld was the Ripper, then where was the harm in a little white lie? ‘Are you sure he admitted nothing?’ he asked, slowly and deliberately, giving the inspector the chance to amend his answer.
‘Of course I’m bloody sure,’ snapped Frost, turning his back on his Divisional Commander.
Mullett’s lips tightened. But he wouldn’t create a scene here. Just wait until he got Frost back to the office. ‘By the way,’ he hurled at Frost’s back, ‘the hospital called. Burton is quite comfortable… all he required was a few stitches. His wounds were quite superficial.’
‘Good,’ grunted Frost, his mind whirling, his doubts multiplying. Superficial! None of the Ripper’s other victims had superficial wounds. That poor cow with her head hanging off – that wasn’t superficial. The canker of doubt gnawed and chewed and got bigger and bigger. But it had to be Gauld. It just had to be. Only vaguely was he aware of Gilmore answering a radio call in the car, then hastening across to Mullett and murmuring something in his ear.
'What?’ Mullett couldn’t believe what he had been told. He listened, open-mouthed, as Gilmore repeated it, then spun round to Frost, his whole body shaking with uncontrollable anger. ‘You were so damn sure!! While you were chasing Gauld with his Boy Scout’s penknife, the real Ripper has struck again.’
Frost went cold. Icy, shivery cold. He could only gape at Mullett. He looked pleadingly at Gilmore, willing him to say it was all a mistake.
‘Elderly lady,’ said Gilmore. ‘Slashed to ribbons. They’ve rushed her to Denton Hospital.’
Hospital! Then she was still alive. He almost knocked Mullett over as he dashed for the car.
‘Come here, Frost,’ choked Mullett. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet…’ Doors slammed and the car roared off. ‘My office!’ screamed Mullett to the dwindling red lights. ‘I want you in my office
… now!!’ Panting with fury, he gasped for breath, then was aware of someone at his side. A stocky figure in a dark blue anorak poking a miniature cassette recorder at him.
‘Mr Mullett, I’m from the Denton Echo. Is it true you’ve caught the Ripper?’
Hunched over the steering wheel, dragging savagely at a cigarette he didn’t want, he went over the night’s events again and again. Could he have saved Gauld if he had tried that much harder to reach out and grab him? Was it his stubborn certainty that Gauld was the Ripper that stopped him from trying harder? And now, it seemed, Gauld was innocent.
He lurched to one side as the car spun into the main hospital access road. Out of the corner of his eye he was vaguely aware of an ambulance parked outside the mortuary and the stretchered body-bag being carried in.
The car had barely stopped when Frost was running up the steps and barging through the swing doors. A uniformed constable seated on a wooden bench by the night porter’s cubicle snatched the cigarette from his mouth. ‘She’s in Intensive Care, Inspector.’
His running footsteps clattered and echoed along the empty corridors. The night sister in Intensive Care looked up angrily as they barged into her domain and was completely unimpressed with the warrant card Frost flashed at her.
‘One minute, that’s all I’m giving you.’ She led him across to a bed where liquid-filled plastic bags dripped through tubes into the veins of a barely breathing woman who was swathed in white bandages through which blood seeped. The nurse adjusted the flow of one of the drips and gave the plastic bag a squeeze.
‘Will she live?’ asked Frost.
The nurse shrugged. ‘Cut throat… slashed abdomen. She’s barely alive now. She regained consciousness for a couple of minutes, then drifted off in a coma again.’
‘Did she say anything?’
‘She tried to. It was all garbled. Something about her son. She said he did it.’
Her son? Frost pushed the nurse to one side and bent close to look at the face. Shrivelled and sunken with her dentures removed, she looked a hundred years older than when he last saw her.
It was the mother. It was Mrs Gauld.
Her eyelids quivered, then fluttered open to reveal watery colourless eyes. She didn’t seem surprised to see the blurred face of Frost hovering over her. Her lips moved and her voice was so weak he had to press his ear close to her mouth and feel the hot rasp of her breath on his cheek. ‘I told him it had to stop or I’d tell the police. That made him angry. He always had a temper.’ With a strain of effort that made the nurse look worried, she lifted her head from the pillow and stared pleadingly at Frost. ‘He didn’t mean it. Not his own mother.’
‘Of course not,’ whispered Frost.
‘You won’t hurt him?’
‘No,’ said Frost. ‘Of course we won’t hurt him.’
She managed the ghost of a smile as her head dropped back.
He sat with her until she died.
‘So it was Gauld?’ Mullett’s mind was racing. Frost had dropped him in the mire yet again. The phone on his desk was still warm from his call to the Chief Constable, explaining that Frost had screwed up and Gauld wasn’t the Ripper.
Having dumped the blame for the debacle on Frost, it was going to be difficult to claw back any credit for himself.
‘Yes, Super,’ said Frost, dragging the visitor’s chair across the carpet and flopping wearily into it. ‘Those photographs of the victims I showed his mother apparently did the trick. She told him she was going to shop him, so he knifed her. Then he panicked and went on the run.’
‘I see.’ Mullett pointedly fanned away the smoke which drifted across from the cigarette Frost was puffing at without permission. ‘Well, somehow or other you seem to have muddled through to a correct result on this one.’
‘Thank you, Super.’ He pushed himself out of the chair and brushed away the cigarette ash that was all over the front of his coat. It snowed down all over the blue Wilton carpet. Making no attempt to cover his mouth, he gave a loud yawn and moved towards the door. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’m going home.’
Mullett looked down at the long list of casualties from the pub fight. The men returning from sick leave would not make up the deficiency and the manning level would be worse than before. Damn Frost. Why did he have to be saddled with such an incompetent? His eyes glinted malevolently. He’d almost forgotten. He’d poked through Frost’s in-tray earlier that evening and, to his fury, had found the inventory return, completely untouched. ‘Oh.’ He tried to keep his voice casual. ‘Before you go, Frost, I’d like you to drop in the completed inventory return. I’ve promised County they’ll get it tonight.’
‘Sure, Super,’ muttered Frost. He pulled the door shut behind him and felt his shoulders slump. How the hell was he going to get out of this one?
Back in his office, watched by Bill Wells, he retrieved the bulky wad of blank forms from the depths of his in-tray and thumbed through them despairingly. ‘The bastard,’ he moaned. ‘He knows damn well I haven’t done it.’
‘But you told him you’d finished them,’ said Wells.
‘He knew I was lying,’ said Frost. His eyes skimmed round the room. ‘Two desks, two chairs and a filing cabinet.’ He flipped through the pages and scribbled in the figures.
‘You’ve missed out the hat-stand, the typewriter, the filing trays, the telephones, the stationery stocks. You’ll never do it, Jack.’
The cigarette packet was generously proffered. ‘But if you helped me, Bill.’
‘If I did, it would cost more than a lousy cigarette. There’s no way you’re going to get it done tonight, Jack, even if we all pitched in. It used to take Mr Allen the best part of a week with three people to help him.’
Frost admitted defeat. He dragged his scarf from the hat-stand and wound it round his neck. ‘I’ll give the bastard the blank form and tell him to stick it up his arse. He can only sack me. Then I’m going home. I think I’ve got a dose of flu coming on. With luck, it’ll kill me.’
He shuffled along the corridor to the Murder Incident Room to collect Gilmore. The detective sergeant, anxious to take advantage of his new-found freedom, was chatting up Jill Knight, the red-headed WPC who operated the computer. She didn’t appear very interested.
‘I’m off home,’ announced Frost.
‘Message just in from Birmingham Police,’ Gilmore told him. ‘They traced a copper who remembers something about Gauld. Apparently, when he was twelve he attacked his grandmother with a knife but she wouldn’t press charges, so the case never went to court.’
‘Wouldn’t have hurt to have had that earlier,’ sniffed Frost. He pulled the inventory from his pocket. Now to face Mullett.
A cry of recognition from Jill Knight. ‘So that’s where it’s been. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.’
Frost could only watch and wonder as she took the blank inventory return from him and began pounding the computer keyboard. At her side, the dot-matrix printer clunked, then the print-head screeched as it shuttled back and forth, hammering out columns of figures on continuous stationery.
‘Inspector Allen put the inventory details on computer before he went off sick,’ she explained. ‘I’ve been hunting high and low for that return.’
Frost pulled out his cigarettes and poked one in her mouth. ‘Will it take long?’
She leant forward to receive a light. ‘You can have it now.’
She tore the sheets from the printer, clipped them together and handed them over.
Frost wound the scarf round his neck and buttoned up his mac. ‘I don’t know whether to kiss you or the bloody computer.’
With a happy, off-key whistle hampered by the cigarette in his mouth, Detective Inspector Jack Frost sashayed up the corridor. Gilmore, a thin look of contempt on his face, watched him go. Thank heaven Inspector Allen would be back on Monday and he’d be working with a real copper for a change.