The scribbled message on his desk informed him forensic had found no traces of dog hairs on Jenny Brewer's clothing. He had forgotten he had asked to test for this and stuffed the note in the case file.
He smoked and studied the cracks in the ceiling; nothing was going well. A full stop on the murdered girls, a complete blank on the serial killer of the toms. He considered phoning Belton Division to see if they had any luck with Big Bertha, but decided would have contacted him if they had. The antique skeleton was simmering, but he doubted if; they would get anywhere after all this time. He hated inactivity. He wanted to dash out and do something, even if it was pointless.
A tagged key was by his blotter. Puzzled, he checked the label. Of course, the key to Weaver's house, returned to him after they had tried to find damned toilet rolls. He shuddered. The thought he might have driven an innocent man to suicide him go cold. He hooked the key on to his key ring to make sure he didn't lose it.
The internal phone buzzed. Somehow he knew it was Mullett and wasn't in the mood for him. Snatching his scarf from the coat peg he padded out to the car-park. He drove around aimlessly before realizing he was turning into the side street that led to Weaver's house. He sighed. This was no coincidence. Something was making him come here.
Turning the key silently in the lock he let himself in and stepped into the darkness of the hall. The house had a cold, empty, desolate feel. For a while he stood still, wondering what he was supposed to be doing here. Forensic had been over every inch of the place and had found nothing.
A tiny sound broke the silence. He stiffened, ears straining. There it was again, the creaking of a floorboard… someone moving about upstairs. Some bastard who knew the house was empty had broken in. He dug into his mac pocket for his torch. The battery was flat, but it was heavy and could be used as a cosh if necessary. Slowly and noiselessly he made his way up the stairs.
Light leaked from under a bedroom door – the mother's room. Holding his breath, he listened. Silence, then a rustling. Carefully he inched the door open. Someone was bending over the chest of drawers, rifling through its contents. He tightened his grip on the torch and raised it above his head. 'Hold it – you're nicked!' The intruder spun round. Frost gawped. It was a woman, grey-haired, in her early seventies. For a split second they just stared at each other, then she suddenly leapt at him, nails clawing for his face, screaming, 'Police. Help. Police.'
He dropped the torch so he could have both hands free and managed to hold off her talons, then hissed with pain as she kicked him sharply in the ankle. 'I am the bleeding police,' he yelled, pushing her roughly aside and fumbling for his warrant card. As she charged forward again he shoved the card in her face. 'Look at it, you silly cow!'
She blinked at the warrant card in disbelief, then at him, keeping her distance. 'You don't look like a policeman.'
'And you don't look like a flaming mule, missus, but you've got the kick of one.' He rubbed his ankle. 'Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?'
'I'm Mrs Maisie White… Ada's sister.'
'Ada? Who's Ada?'
'Little Charlie's mother. I'm his Aunt Maisie.'
Frost dug in his pocket for his cigarettes. 'You've lost me,' he said, proffering the packet.
She waved it away. 'None of the family smoke – it used to affect Charlie's chest.'
Of course, thought Frost. Why am I being so thick? 'Little Charlie. You mean Charles Weaver, the bloke who lives here?'
'Lived here,' she corrected, dabbing her eye with a tiny lace-edged handkerchief. 'I can't believe it. First little Charlie, then Ada.'
'Ada? His mother? She's dead?'
The woman nodded. 'Early this morning. The nurse said she kept asking for him, but they didn't tell her… she never knew.'
'I'm sorry,' said Frost. He sat down, but realized he was on the commode chair, so quickly moved to the bed.
'A merciful release,' she said. Her expression changed. 'Are you the policeman who drove little Charlie to suicide?'
Frost winced. He wished she wouldn't keep calling the man that. It was hard to keep the image of Weaver as a child killer and rapist when he was called 'little Charlie'. 'We found photographs,' he told her. "The little girl was in his house the afternoon she went missing and he lied to us. Until we could eliminate him, he was our prime suspect.'
She sat on the bed beside him. 'He didn't do it, Inspector. Believe me, I know. He was sweet, gentle and kind. As soon as he knew his mother was ill, he had her moved in here. He devoted himself to her. A lovely boy.' Her lip trembled and she started to sob again.
Frost sucked at his cigarette. He saw Weaver as a murdering bastard, she saw him as a sweet little Charlie. 'The little girl who was raped and killed was a lovely girl.'
She dried her eyes. 'I know that boy. I brought him up. His mother wasn't married. It's commonplace now, but it was a dreadful thing then. The father deserted her and she had to go out to work, so I brought him up. Charlie loved children, not in a nasty way, but as a kind, gentle man. He didn't harm that little girl, Inspector, but you made him take the blame, and that was more than poor little Charlie could stand.'
Frost stood up. 'The case is still open,' he told her. 'If he's innocent, I won't keep it a secret.'
She looked at him. 'Too late for that now. Inspector.' She pushed the sodden handkerchief back in her pocket. 'It will be a double funeral. If you would like to come…?'
It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he nodded his thanks and didn't ask for details. 'I'll leave you to it then. Sorry if I gave you a start.'
At the front door he hesitated, then, on impulse, retraced his steps to the back door, the door through which Weaver had told him Jenny had left the house on the last afternoon of her short life. Unbolting it, he stepped out into the tiny walled garden, squeezed past the dustbin and out through the door which led to a narrow alleyway, hemmed in on both sides by high brick walls. If, as Weaver claimed, Jenny was alive when she left, was the real killer waiting here for her to come out?
Doubt after doubt crowded in. Had he been wrong about Weaver all the time? Mullett was right, he was always in too much of a hurry, making up his mind too quickly and then bending the facts to fit. He looked back at the house where the light was shining behind the curtains of the mother's bedroom. Auntie Maisie was tidying up for little Charlie's funeral.
The blue car! Weaver claimed the blue car, the car that brought Jenny to the house, was waiting outside all the time. Bernie Green claimed he had dropped the kid off and driven away after some ten minutes. Which of the two lying sods was telling the truth?
He hurried to his car and radioed through to Control, telling them he wanted Green brought in again for questioning right away.
A weary, fed-up Morgan was in the office waiting for him. The DC's jaw was swollen and his tongue kept finding the gap where a tooth used to be. 'I had the tooth out, guv.'
'Good.' Frost squinted through his in-tray. Nothing of interest. 'Bung it under your pillow for the tooth fairy.' He tried to remember what he had sent the DC out for. Ah yes, the bristol-flaunting woman with her simple-minded son. 'What joy, Taff?'
'None at all, guv. I've walked my feet down to the bone and knocked on every door in that street. I've been to the council, been through electoral rolls going back to the war. No Mrs Aldridge shown as ever living in Nelson Road.'
'The girl could have got the name wrong,' suggested Frost. 'It might be something similar like Shuffle-bottom.'
'I've checked everyone who ever lived in the street guv… married women with kids, single women with kids, the lot.'
'What about widows with kids? I'd even settle for a man in drag without kids.'
Morgan rubbed his jaw. 'Take it from me, guv, I've checked everything.'
Frost nodded and yawned. Tiredness was creeping up on him and he didn't want to waste any more time on this. 'OK, Taffy, leave it for now. Go off home and get some sleep in your own bed for a change and we'll make an early start tomorrow.'
Morgan smiled gratefully, but his early night was not to be. A tap on the door. PC Jordan looked in. 'We've picked up Bernie Green, Inspector. Where do you want him?'
'No. 1 interview room,' said Frost, grabbing the files. He jerked his head at Morgan who was trying to sidle out unnoticed. 'Come on, Taffy, suspect to interview. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours
The interview room was cold: the radiator had died and had to be kicked into life. Frost gave a welcoming smile as Green was brought in, a smile that was not returned.
'Why have I been dragged here again?' the man demanded. 'I've told you everything.'
'We've got lousy memories,' said Frost. 'We want to hear it all again.' He waited while Morgan started up the tape. 'Right, Bernie boy, you're on talk radio, every lie you tell us is being recorded.'
'You're condemned before you open your bloody mouth in this place,' Green protested sullenly.
'I know,' beamed Frost. 'It saves all that sodding about getting evidence.' He took Green's earlier statement from the folder. 'Right. You say you took the kid to Weaver's place, watched her go in, then after ten minutes, drove away?'
'That's right.'
'But we have a witness, Bernie, who says you didn't drive off… you parked outside.' He didn't tell Bernie that the witness was the dead suspect.
'He's lying, Mr Frost. I drove straight off again.'
'Not straight off, Bernie. It must have slipped your mind, so let me remind you. You left the car and waited in that back alley. When the kid came out, you grabbed her, forced her in the car, then raped and strangled her.'
'As God is my witness, Mr Frost, she never came out while I was there. All right – I did get out of the car and waited round the back. I waited half an hour, but she didn't come out so I gave up.'
'You waited half an hour… in the freezing cold… Why?'
Green hung his head and drew little circles on the table top with his finger. 'Can this be off the record?'
'Anything you tell us,' said Frost, with an encouraging smile, 'won't go any further than these four walls and the Central Criminal Court.' The smile clicked off. 'This is a murder investigation, Bernie, everything is on the record. The only time we switch the tape off is when we want to refresh your memory with a few knees in the groin.'
Morgan winced. He wished the inspector wouldn't say these sort of things. If the tape was played in court, it might not be taken as a joke.
Unperturbed, Frost folded his arms and leant back in the chair. 'So come on, Bernie, spit it out. Why did you wait?'
'I thought she might like to come for a little ride with me. She looked the sort. I wouldn't have forced her, but you know… for a couple of quid…' He gave a weak smile. 'You know… nothing harmful…'
'Just a spot of homely fun,' said Frost grimly. 'You dirty bastard.'
'Well, it never came to it. After half an hour of standing in the freezing cold, I decided the bloke inside was probably getting all the fun, so I called it a day.'
'You went home and took a cold bath?'
'I didn't need a cold bath. My dick was like an icicle.'
Frost grimaced. 'Bloody hell, Bernie, you've put me off frozen sausages for life.' He leant forward, his face inches away from Green. 'Let's try the truth for a change. You waited. She came out. You offered to take her for a drive in the nice blue motor car, you tried it on, but she screamed and yelled so you had to silence her.'
'No!' screamed Green. 'No!'
'You didn't mean to kill her, you just meant to keep her quiet… to stop her screaming, screaming, screaming…' His voice rose with each repetition of the word. 'It got on your nerves. You couldn't take it, so you put your hands round her throat and you squeezed and squeezed.'
'No… No!!' Green was standing and shouting. He suddenly stopped and sank down again in the chair. 'If they object, I stop. I don't want to know. It isn't fun if they object. I wouldn't have raped her. I don't do that sort of thing.'
'You're too good for this world,' murmured Frost. He showed him the photograph of Vicky Stuart. 'And when did you give her a lift, Bernie?'
Green shook his head. 'I've already told you, I know nothing about any other girl, Mr Frost. There's nothing else to tell. I've told you everything.'
Frost tapped a pencil on his teeth, then slipped the photograph and the statement back in the file. 'All right, Bernie. Give my colleague here a fresh statement, and you can go.'
Morgan followed him out. 'What do you reckon guv?'
Frost shrugged. 'If he's telling the truth and the girl was "in there for over half an hour, then what the hell was going on inside that house? Little innocent Charlie-boy said she nipped in, changed her dress, then legged it. That would take minutes. One of them is lying.'
'She could have nipped out the front way, while Green was waiting round the back.'
'Weaver said she went out the back way, why should he lie if she was only there a few minutes?' He yawned. 'I'm too tired to think. Let's leave it for now. Take his statement and get off home. See you tomorrow.'
He slept an untroubled sleep until two in the morning when the insistent ringing of the phone and the hammering at the front door woke him up.
The hot dog and pie and chip van, which catered in the main for the night trade – drunks rolling home from the local pubs, long distance lorry drivers, delivery men and cabbies – was parked in a cul-de-sac alongside the local comprehensive school. At half-past one in the morning it should have been a blaze of light, wafting out the greasy reek of fried onions, but it was now in darkness, and most of the onion smell had been blown away by the cutting wind. A little after midnight a crowd of noisy drunks from a nearby pub had amused themselves by distracting the owner's attention while two of them let down the tyres on one side. The van now drooped alarmingly.
The headlights of a minicab lit up the van and nosed in behind it as the owner, Ted Turner, a mournful-looking horse-faced man humping a foot-pump, clambered out and paid off the driver who had been chewing his ear-hole throughout the journey with good advice about always keeping a foot-pump handy in case anything like this happened.
As Turner went down on his knees to screw in the connection, he saw something underneath the van. A dosser, lying under some sacking, using the parked van as a temporary shelter. Just what he bloody needed!
'Oi you – out!' He hammered on the side of the van to wake the swine up, but was ignored. 'I haven't got all bleeding day. Out!' Still no response. He got down on his knees again and stretched out a hand to give the man a shake. He froze in horror. His outstretched hand was touching icy cold, hard, dead flesh.
'Bloody hell!' He snatched his hand back and wiped it down the front of his coat as he clambered to his feet. He kicked the foot pump under the van in case some bugger nicked it, then hared off to find the nearest phone box to call the police.
The area had already been cordoned off by the time Frost arrived. Arthur Hanlon scuttled across to meet him. 'Another dead tom, Jack. She's under the van.'
Frost rubbed his hands briskly. The biting wind was cutting right through him. 'Do we know her?'
'We can't get to her face until we can move the van.'
'Let's take a peep,' grunted Frost. 'I might recognize the rude bits.'
Watched by Hanlon and Collier he knelt and flashed his torch which picked out a naked arm, part of the torso, the rest covered by a piece of sacking. He straightened up. 'I don't recognize any of the bits I can see. Are we sure she's a tom?'
'I managed to squeeze part the way under,' Collier told him. 'She's naked, and she's been beaten and burnt, just like the others.'
Frost passed his cigarettes around 'This bastard is letting too bloody cocky. He's really taking the piss out of us and he's doing it too bloody often.' He accepted a light from Hanlon. 'This is what – number four or five, I'm losing count – and we're no nearer to catching him than we were with the first. Who found her?'
'The bloke who runs the stall,' said Hanlon. 'Some jokers let his tyres down and he had to go back home to fetch a foot-pump.'
'What time?'
'Just after half-past twelve. He checked the tyres then and she wasn't there.'
'And he got back when?'
'Half-past oneish. She was dumped between those times.'
'We've never been so close to the sod,' said Frost. 'He was here… less than an hour ago, he was right here.'
'I reckon he was a regular at the stall,' said Hanlon. 'Came for some grub, saw the place was deserted so decided to use it to dump the body.'
Frost chewed this over and shook his head. 'No, Arthur. If you've got a body on board, you want to get rid of it quickly, you don't stop on the way for a hot dog and chips. Besides, he had to be sure the owner was well away. He didn't want him coming back when the body was still being shoved underneath. I reckon he just happened to be driving past and saw the owner leaving in a minicab, so he grabbed his chance. If I'm right, we can pin him down to a time within minutes. This might be the break we're looking for.' He squinted down the street. Still a couple of houses with lights showing. 'Start knocking on doors. Not much chance there's anyone still up, but find out if anyone spotted a van, a car, a horse and cart, anything, coming down this road just after half-past midnight.' A long shot and he knew it. Cars and vans would be driving up here all the time to visit the stall and people tended to ignore the familiar.
He switched his attention back to the body. 'How do we get to her without dragging her out?'
'If we pumped up the tyres, we could move the van,' suggested Hanlon.
'Do it,' nodded Frost, looking up as headlights flooded the scene. He thought, at first, it was the doctor, but it was a minicab driver hoping for some fast food. PC Collier, guarding the cul-de-sac, was turning the driver away. 'Hold it!' yelled Frost, running across. The driver might have called earlier when the van was closed. 'Ask everyone if they were here earlier and if they saw anything suspicious.'
'Like what, Inspector?'
'Anything, son – I don't care how trivial. Even if they only saw someone stuffing a dead body under the van and happened to take down the registration number, it's little things like that that could help.' He turned away, spinning back as something else occurred to him. 'And take names, addresses and registration numbers of everyone you stop. We might want to talk to them again.'
Another car approached, but this time Collier waved it through. Frost grinned as Dr McKenzie, the police surgeon, climbed out. 'Over here, doc. We can do you a hot meat pie or a cold dead body.'
McKenzie waved his bag happily. He was always pleased to see Frost, even at three o'clock on a bitterly cold morning. 'Where is she?'
Frost pointed to the van where a perspiring Arthur Hanlon was working away at the foot-pump. 'Under there, doc. I keep calling, but she won't come out.'
McKenzie bent and squinted underneath the vehicle, aided by the beam of Frost's torch. 'How am I supposed to get under there?'
'Wait in your car, doc. We'll have the van moved soon.' Leaving the doctor, Frost went over to the van and climbed inside where Turner, a picture of misery, was drawing on a hand-rolled cigarette, its acrid smoke mixing with a strong smell of rancid fat and cold, fried onions. Turner's arm was resting on a fryer in which a dirty, oily brown substance had congealed. 'A dead body,' he moaned, kicking away a piece of broken cup on the floor. 'Just what I wanted, a bleeding dead body.' He shuddered. 'First some joker lets my tyres down, then a dead bleeding body…'
'Not your night, is it?' sympathized Frost, flicking ash on the floor. 'Tell me what happened.'
'I opened up just before ten as usual. All going fine until the pubs turn out, then a crowd of flaming drunks, singing and shouting, start rocking the bloody van. Next thing I know the van lurches over, cups smash and the fat's spilling out of the fryers. They'd let my flaming tyres down. Bastards! If I catch them…'
'Do you know who did it?'
'Yes, and if he turns up again he'll have a hot dog stuffed up his fundamental orifice.'
'Don't try and sell it to me afterwards,' said Frost. 'Right, your tyres were let down, then what?'
'A minicab driver turned up for some grub, so I got him to drive me back home so I could fetch a foot-pump.'
'You locked up, of course?'
'Too right I did. They'd pinch anything that isn't nailed down round here. If they'd sported that body they'd have pinched that as well.' He shuddered again. 'Bleeding body, just under my feet. It's not hygienic.'
'She's dead, she won't notice,' said Frost catching sight of something black floating in the fat. 'That's not a beetle, is it?'
Turner gave a cursory glance, then stirred the oil with a nicotined finger, swirling the mess around. 'Bit of burnt onion.'
'With bleeding legs?' asked Frost. 'You sure she wasn't under the van when you left for the pump?'
'I'm down on my knees, staring at the tyres – I'd have seen her, and the jokers who let down the tyres would have seen her too.'
'The bloke who shoved her under there might have been watching you leave. Did you see a car or anything as you left in the cab?'
Turner shook his head. 'No.'
Frost took details of the minicab driver in case he had seen something. 'As soon as we get your van moved, do us mugs of tea and beefburgers all round.'
'With onions?'
'Yes – and change that flaming oil.'
Hanlon, wiping the sweat from his face, straightened up as the last of the tyres was fully inflated. He disconnected the pump, stepping smartly back as the van was slowly driven forward, watched anxiously by Frost. It cleared the body by a good few inches and canvas screens were quickly erected.
Frost beckoned the doctor over. McKenzie made a brief examination. 'Female aged around thirty-five to forty, dead some twenty-four to thirty-six hours, probably asphyxiated, definitely sexually assaulted -you can see the blood – badly beaten and burnt, but you can see that for yourself.' He straightened up. 'Drysdale will fill in the details.' He scratched his chin and looked down at the body. 'Are you sure she's a tom?'
'The rest were,' said Frost. 'I don't recognize her though.' He stuck his hands in his pockets and took a good look at her. Short, dumpy, with straight black hair. The gag, which was cutting into her mouth, exposed near perfect teeth. He ignored the staring eyes and studied the face. No make-up of any kind. 'If she's a tom,' he decided, 'she's a bloody weird one.'
He stood back as SOCO took photographs, then watched one of the Forensic boys carefully move the sacking which covered most of the body, shuddering at the sight of the weals, burns and cuts. Frost pointed to the large refuse container fixed to the wall which was overflowing with used polystyrene food containers from the van. 'Someone take a look in there. He might have dumped her handbag or clothes.'
He jumped as the serving counter of the van suddenly thudded down with a bang and Turner pushed across a tray filled with mugs of tea. 'Here's your teas, beefburgers coming up.'
Glad of something hot, the team crowded round. Frost took a sip and nodded. 'Not bad.' He smiled at Turner. 'On the house?'
'No, it bleeding well isn't. That will be twenty-six quid.'
'I think I'll take a look at your tax disc,' said Frost.
'On the house,' said Turner quickly. He leant out to survey the canvas screen. 'How did she die?'
'Food poisoning,' said Frost. 'You're our number one suspect.'
'Bleeding funny.' Turner sniffed at something burning. 'The beefburgers are ready.'
Hanlon joined Frost at the counter and gratefully accepted his tea. 'Nothing you would want to know about in the rubbish bin, Inspector, and only two replies from the houses – neither saw anything.'
Turner began passing out the beefburgers which were eagerly grabbed. 'Don't know how you can eat with that dead body there.'
'She's a damn sight more appetizing than your beefburgers,' said Frost. He turned to Hanlon. 'I know it's late, but there might still be a few toms plying their lustful trade. Get some copies of her photo from SOCO and see if any of the girls recognize her.'
Another glare of headlights. Drysdale's black Rolls-Royce purred into the cul-de-sac. McKenzie pushed away his tea. 'Can't stand that toffee-nosed bastard, Jack,' he muttered. 'I'm off.'
As he hurried back to his car, Drysdale got out. The two men bared teeth at each other.
'Burger and tea if you want it, doc,' called Frost.
Drysdale shook his head in curt refusal, then disappeared behind the canvas screens, followed by the inspector. He gave the body a cursory examination, flinching as Frost's teeth noisily sank into the beefburger. 'Must you eat while I'm carrying out an examination?' he snarled.
'Sorry,' said Frost, unabashed. He winked at the blonde secretary. 'Fancy a hot sausage, love?' She blushed, shook her head violently and busied herself with her shorthand notebook ready for the pathologist's findings.
Drysdale was brief. 'Died elsewhere and brought here, so not a lot of point in examining the body in situ.'' He pulled on his gloves. 'Been dead at least thirty-six hours, suffocated, sexually assaulted, burnt and beaten.' A thin smile, 'A rather familiar pattern, Inspector.'
'Too bleeding familiar,' agreed Frost.
'I'll do the autopsy in the morning, nine o'clock sharp. I'm sure we will find a few things the good Dr McKenzie has missed.'
Frost nodded. 'That flaming place is becoming my second home. I'm thinking of moving my bed there.'
'I wish you would,' sniffed Drysdale, 'then you might turn up on time.' With a curt jerk of his head for the secretary to follow, he marched out to the warmth of his Rolls.
Frost urged him on his way with two fingers behind his back, then waved an arm at Jordan. 'Call the meat wagon, Jordan. They can take her away now.' Then he remembered something else he should have done and stuck his head inside the van. 'Oi, Fanny Craddock,' he called to Turner. 'Here a minute.'
Grabbing the man's arm, he steered him to the canvas shelter. 'You must get lots of toms, coming here for meat pies.' He pulled the sheeting from the face. 'Recognize her?'
Turner's mouth sagged, the spittle-soaked roll-up adhering to his lower lip as he jerked his head away. 'Never seen her before.' He backed away. 'You reckon she's a tom?'
Frost nodded.
'She'd have to fight bloody hard for my tuppence.'?
Frost stared back at the body. Short and dumpy, she wasn't much of a looker. But she had to be a tom. All the other victims were toms and she had received the same treatment as them. He went back for one more look. Whatever she was, the poor bitch hadn't deserved this. He covered the face, bumping into the undertaker's men on the way out.
He took one last bite at the burger which was now greasy and cold and tasted of death then hurled it at the rubbish bin, but the wind kicked it to one side and it landed on the pavement. As he passed it, he gave it a savage kick. A quick glance at his watch: twenty past four. Another autopsy in less than six hours. He yawned. Nothing much he could do until then. 'I'm off home for some kip,' he told Hanlon. 'Post-mortem tomorrow at nine. If you turn anything up, give me a ring.'
But the ring that wakened him came from his alarm clock.
Quarter to eight and he felt like death. A twinge from his stomach told him that lousy beefburger was a mistake. He staggered to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water, decided a shave could wait, dressed, and made his way to the station.
As he paid for his bacon sandwich and mug of tea in the canteen, he spotted Arthur Hanlon at one of the tables and carried his tray over to join him. 'Never like attending post-mortems on an empty stomach,' he told him. 'Always like something hot to bring up.'
With a weak grin Hanlon pushed his unfinished plate away. He looked dead tired. 'No joy last night, Jack. Found a couple of girls still working, but they didn't recognize the photograph.'
'We'll have to try again tonight,' said Frost. The bacon sandwich was stirring last night's beefburger into offensive action, so he dumped it on his plate and pulled out his cigarettes. 'Are we knocking on doors in case anyone saw something?'
'All in hand, Jack,' Hanlon yawned.
'Go and get some kip, Arthur. You're not much use when you're wide awake, but half-asleep you're useless.'
Hanlon smiled, took a last sip at his tea and stood up. 'See you tonight, Jack.'
Frost was stubbing out his cigarette in the bacon sandwich when the tannoy summoned him to the phone. It was Bill Wells. 'Someone in the lobby wants to talk to you about the skeleton, Jack.'
I've got the post-mortem at nine. Get Morgan to handle it.'
'It's that young bird you fancied with the baby.' 'They can't leave me alone,' sighed Frost. 'Put some bromide in her tea and I'll be right down.'
She hadn't put any make-up on and her hair flowed down her shoulders, making her look about fourteen, and Frost fancied her something rotten. She flashed him a warm smile that made things worse. 'Hope you don't think I'm becoming a nuisance, Inspector?'
'Of course not, love.' He sat opposite her. 'Where's the kiddy?'
'My sister's looking after him. I don't know if this would help.' She opened a small red and green plastic handbag and pulled out a dog-eared black and white photograph. 'I found this amongst my mother's things.' She passed it over to Frost.
The photograph showed two girls in their twenties, both wearing bathing costumes. One of the girls, dark-haired, bearing a strong resemblance to the woman facing Frost, had her arm linked round a ravishing long-legged blonde whose two-piece skimpy bathing costume was a mite too tight for Frost's comfort. A really sexy cow if ever he saw one. They were both grinning excitedly at the camera.
'That's my mum.' She pointed to the dark-haired girl. 'Taken a long time ago, of course. The other one is Nell Aldridge, the one I was telling you about. My dad took the photo – I think he fancied Nell.'
'I fancy your mum,' lied Frost, still staring at the blonde who simply oozed sex.
'Just behind them,' continued the girl, pointing to the fence they were leaning against, 'you can see her garden. That's where she used to sunbathe topless.'
'Disgusting,' said Frost, mentally stripping away the top of the swimsuit. 'Can I keep this?'
She nodded. 'I'd like it back, though.'
'If you find any more,' he told her, 'bring them in. I don't care how rude they are, I'll steel myself to look at them.'
He showed her out and watched for some time as her waggling bottom made its way across the road. 'She couldn't keep her hands off me,' he told Bill Wells as he cut through the lobby to his office. 'I had to give her a quick one to calm her down.'
A note in his in-tray from Mullett reminded him, with heavy underlining, that the promised progress report was very much overdue. He found the photograph more interesting than the memo. That blonde would have had more trouble beating off men than the poor cow whose post-mortem he was about to attend. He slipped the print in the file, then pulled it out again. Something he'd vaguely noticed. In the background, behind the two women, could be seen the spire of a church. It had to be St Aidan's, it was the only one in the neighbourhood… He rummaged in his drawer and found a street map. Yes – he was right. The fence the two girls were leaning against would have to be at the rear of the mother's house, not to one side. Nelly didn't live in Nelson Road, but in the road running parallel to it.
As he was unsuccessfully trying to refold the map, Morgan bounced in, all bright and breezy, a folded Daily Mirror poking from the pocket of his tweed overcoat. 'Sorry I'm late, guv… the damn car wouldn't start.'
Frost cut him short. 'I use that excuse myself, Taffy, so I know it's a bleeding lie.' He picked up the photograph. 'What do you want first – the good news or the bad news?' 'The good news, please, guv.'
Frost handed him the photograph. 'If you had your choice, which of these two would you pick?'
Morgan moved over to the window so he could study it better. 'No contest, guv – the blonde. I wouldn't say no to the other one, but just look at the blonde, those legs… that flat belly!'
'Did you notice,' said Frost, 'how tight her swimsuit is? How her lusty young nipples, full and firm like ripe wild cherries, are trying to fight their way through the thin fabric of her bra, how they are aching for the soothing, but rough rasp of a gentleman's thumb?'
'Pack it in, guv,' croaked Morgan. 'You know how responsive I am to that sort of talk. Who is she?'
'She's your next job, Taff. I want you to find her.'
A broad grin. 'You're on, guv!'
'Now for the bad news,' said Frost. 'That photograph was taken some fifty years ago. If she's not dead and buried, she will now be wrinkled, hairy in all the wrong places and stinking erotically of thermal knickers and wintergreen.'
Morgan's face fell. 'Oh!'
'You've been checking the wrong street, Taff. Old mother Aldridge's house was in the next street.'
'There's no next street, guv – just a through road and an estate.'
'That estate's only been up thirty years, they must have demolished the old street to erect it. There's some ancient street maps in the basement store room, go and dig them out.'
'Can it wait until I've had some breakfast?' pleaded Morgan.
'No, it can't. We've already waited fifty years. And hurry – I've got a date with a naked woman.' As the constable's eyes lit up, he added, 'She's dead and on a mortuary slab – so chop, chop.'
He was putting on his mac, ready to go, when Morgan returned smothered in cobwebs and dust from the basement store room and holding a yellowing map, its folds reinforced with brown sticky tape. 'Give it here, son.' Frost spread it out over his desk top. 'Where's Nelson Street… ah, yes. And look, there was a street running parallel… Beresford Street -that's where the girl with the wild cherry nipples lived. Back to the town hall, son.' He checked his watch. Ten minutes to nine. He was going to be late for the post-mortem.
Frost dragged the green gown over his mac and scarf. It was like the North flaming Pole in the autopsy room and he had to keep warm somehow. Drysdale, hovering over the body, scalpel poised, stared pointedly at the clock on the wall. 'I've been waiting for you Inspector.'
'Sorry,' muttered Frost, 'damn car wouldn't start.' The body on the slab looked even less appealing than the night before, the bruises, weals and burns standing out in stark relief against the pallor of the white flesh.
'I take it we still don't have a name?' Drysdale asked.
Frost shook his head.
A deep dramatic sigh as if this was only to be expected with someone like Frost. 'Right, let's see if we can uncover any points that the good Dr McKenzie overlooked.' He turned to his secretary. 'Autopsy on an unknown woman aged between thirty-six and forty-two years.' The blonde's pen flew across the page of her shorthand notebook. Drysdale didn't believe in tape recorders ever since one let him down and details of a lengthy autopsy were lost.
As the pathologist droned away with initial findings that the inspector thought almost too obvious to mention, Frost's mind drifted on to other things, although his autopilot was ready to switch him back to full alert should anything of interest come up. He was suddenly switched back. Everyone was looking at him as if expecting an answer.
'Sorry, doc, what was that?'
'I asked if Dr McKenzie told you that this woman I was a virgin before she was assaulted?'
Frost gaped. 'A virgin?'
'No doubt about it. You had her down as a prostitute?'
'Frost just stared, open-mouthed. 'Bloody hell, doc. I didn't think there were any virgins left in Denton – present company excepted, of course.' He winked at the blonde secretary who was blushing fiercely. 'Are you sure, doc?'
I am. Perhaps you'd like to call in Dr McKenzie for a second opinion?'
Frost shook his head, his mind in a whirl. They had put the killer down as a kerb-crawler, picking up toms. This required a radical rethink. No wonder she didn't look like a prostitute. Poor cow, what a lousy bleeding way to have your first sexual experience.
'Violent penetration, bruising, bleeding, but no trace of semen,' continued Drysdale.
Frost's gloom suddenly lifted. This was the odd one out, the victim that could lead them to the serial killer. The important thing now was to find out who she: was. A dig in the back made him turn and there was Morgan, grinning all over his face.
'I've come straight from the town hall, guv… I've I found that address.' He tailed off as he spotted the; blonde secretary and flicked her a wink. She reddened once more and pretended not to notice. 'I couldn't' half give her one, guv.'
'What for? She's got thousands pickled in jars. What have you found out?'
'Not a lot. She used to live at 44 Beresford Street.That almost backs on to the house where we found' the skeleton.'
'So where does she live now?'
'Can't tell, guv, vanished without a trace. She could be dead.'
'Then check with the Registrar of Births and Deaths, and you can check if she ever registered the death of her son.'
'Do you mind not holding private conversations while I'm performing an autopsy?' said Drysdale peevishly.
'Sorry, doc.' Back to Morgan. 'On your way, son.'
But Morgan was staring at the body on the slab. 'Is that your unknown victim, guv?'
'Yes '
Morgan stared again. 'I know her, guv. I'm sure I know her.'
'You can't know her,' said Frost impatiently. 'She's a virgin.'
'I've seen her, guv, and recently.' Morgan scratched his head in thought.
'I've asked you for silence,' snapped Drysdale.
'Sorry, doc,' said Frost. 'My colleague here thinks he can identify the body.'
Morgan moved forward for a closer look. He peered at the face. 'She's the spitting image of the receptionist from the dentist's when I went for the abscess injection.'
Frost frowned. This didn't seem likely. 'Are you sure?'
'It could be her, but she was wearing glasses.' 'Glasses?' Drysdale bent closer to look at the nose.
'She did wear glasses – there's an indentation across the bridge.'
'All right,' said Frost, still not impressed. 'Phone the dentist and ask if their receptionist is alive or dead on an autopsy table, and let me know either way.'
'Will do, guv,' said Morgan, giving the blonde another broad wink before trotting away.
'A dental receptionist?' mused Drysdale, picking up a scalpel.
'Don't get too excited, doc,' Frost told him. 'He's not as reliable as I am.'
'I wouldn't have thought that possible,' said Drysdale as he drew a red line with the scalpel across the stomach.
They both looked up as the swing doors crashed open and Morgan bounded back in, clasping his hands over his head sounding the 'Ta-ra' of a fanfare.
'No luck?' asked Frost.
Morgan smirked. 'She hasn't been in to work since Friday. They've phoned her flat but got no reply.'
'And no-one's been round to see what's up, or has reported her missing?'
'She had a row with her boss, so they assumed she'd walked out on the job.'
'All right,' said Frost. 'Then let's pay her a visit. If she opens the door, you can think of an excuse.'