They went to pick up Mickey Harris' without Liz Maud who had a pile of paperwork to clear before her trip to London. Morgan's lustful eyes watched her as she pushed through the swing doors. 'For a detective inspector, she's got a nice little bottom on her, guv,' he commented as they drove off.
'Can't you get your mind on higher things?' grunted Frost, who was thinking exactly the same. 'Turn left here…'
Mickey Harris's house was in darkness and the space outside where his car should have been parked was empty. Frost pounded and kicked at the front door and the noise echoed in a house that was obviously unoccupied. He climbed back in the car. 'We'll pick him up first thing in the morning.' He yawned. 'Back to the station, Taff.'
They never made it to the station. As they turned into the Market Square the radio called him. It was Bill Wells. 'Just had a call from a motorist, Inspector. Reckons he's found a woman's body.'
'Bum-holes!' moaned Frost. 'I could have done without this. Where?'
'In the undergrowth by the old Denton Road, near the Denton turn-off.'
'That's near the old service station where we were looking for the kid. What was he doing there?'
'He stopped off for a pee – said he nearly wee'd all over her. He sounded shattered… said she was naked with blood all over her.'
'I was all eager when you reached the naked bit,' grunted Frost. 'I've gone off her now. Is the motorist waiting for us?'
'No. He said he didn't want to get involved. He reported it, then rang off. Jordan and Simms are at the location waiting for you. Oh, and Wonder Woman's on her way over there as well.'
'The more the merrier,' said Frost. 'We're on our way.' He turned to Morgan. 'A chance to see your favourite bum again, Taffy. Turn right at the top here…'
The metal sign in front of the deserted petrol station was still clanging madly as the night wind sawed across the forecourt. Jordan and Simms climbed out of the area car and waited, coat collars turned up against the bitter cold, as Frost and Morgan pulled up.
Frost shivered and wound his scarf tighter as he surveyed the desolate area of scrubland dotted with skeletal bushes which were bending in the wind. 'The quicker we find her, the quicker we can get a nice marquee erected and keep warm.' He looked up and down the length of the old road. A lot of ground to be covered, but there were short cuts. 'If the bloke who found her stopped for a pee, we can assume he didn't want to walk far with a full bladder. He'd pick the nearest bushes to the road. Jordan, Simms, you take that side of the road, the Welsh Rarebit and me will take this. And mind where you tread; it's not only widdles that motorists do behind bushes.'
The wind was cutting through him like a rusty saw and he wished he was wearing something more substantial than his paper-thin mac. He cupped his hands round the glowing tip of his cigarette to steal some warmth. 'You take that end,' he told Morgan. I'll start from the old petrol station.'
He trudged through the long, wet grass which soon made his trouser legs sodden. In the distance was the glow of sodium lamps and constant throb of traffic from the new road. There were no lights along this section of the old road and they had to use torches. Frost's torch kept flickering and promising to die on him. He should have replaced the battery long ago. He swore bitterly as hidden bramble thorns scratched blood from his icy cold hands as he searched under bushes. He had the awful feeling this whole thing was someone's idea of a joke – give the fuzz something to do instead of handing out parking tickets to blameless motorists.
'Over here, Inspector!' Jordan was calling urgently from across the road, the beam from his torch soaring skywards like a searchlight, homing them over. Frost squelched across the road, Morgan hard on his heels.
Jordan's torch flashed down on the body, which was silvery white in the moonlight. Behind a clump of bushes, half hidden in the long, wet grass, lay a girl in her early twenties, sightless eyes staring up into the night sky, the mascara on her lashes running down her cheeks. She was naked. There were angry red and charred burn marks on her stomach.
Simms stared at the face. 'I know her, Inspector. I don't know her name, but she's one of the toms who hang out around the Tenwood area.'
Frost reached out a hand and steered Jordan's torch beam on to the girl's arms and legs. There were deep blooded grooves etched into her wrists and ankles where she had been tied down and where she had strained to get free. He touched the flesh. Stone cold and hard. She had been dead for some time. As he was radioing through for a full forensic team and a pathologist, another car pulled up and Liz Maud dashed over to them.
'Can I see her?'
Frost stepped back. Liz knelt by the body and studied the burn marks on the stomach, comparing them with the photograph of the earlier victim, Linda Roberts. 'Identical,' she muttered.
Frost nodded. He didn't need a photograph to tell him that.
'There's no dispute about it now,' insisted Liz. 'The same killer as Linda Roberts. This is my case.' She stared at him, her eyes hungry and pleading.
'You can have it with pleasure,' Frost told her, 'but you'd better clear it with Mullett first. Have a word with him in the morning.'
'I'll phone him now.' She hurried back to her car and dialled the Divisional Commander on her mobile. Mullett wouldn't be pleased being woken up at three in the morning, but this case was important to her. A successful murder investigation would clinch her promotion to inspector. She'd cancel her appointment at the clinic, even if it meant losing the hefty deposit. 'Come on, come on,' she muttered impatiently as the ringing tone droned on and on in her ear.
At last a sleepy voice answered. 'Mullett.'
'DI Maud, sir. Sorry to bother you, but it is important…' She quickly explained. A second prostitute murdered, identical to the Linda Roberts case – her case. She wanted to take charge; it was her right…
She could sense the ice crackling down the line as Mullett's annoyance grew.
'This could, and should, have waited until the morning,' he snapped.
I'm sorry, sir, but I thought it was important-'
He didn't let her finish. 'It is not important, and the answer to your ill-timed request is no.'
The ice now crackled from her direction. 'Might I be permitted to ask why, sir?'
'I was going to tell you in the morning. Inspector Allen is returning to Denton the week after next so you will be reverting to your normal rank. There is absolutely no point in Frost handing over to you, then in ten days' time you handing back to Mr Allen. Inspector Frost must handle it.'
'But, sir-'
Again Mullett didn't let her finish. Didn't the damn woman have any consideration? 'That's enough, Inspector. And if you hope to get on in the force, you will never phone me at this hour again with routine matters.' A click and the dialling tone. She switched off and stared at the dead phone, wanting to relieve her feelings by hurling it through the car window. The bastard. Ten days. With luck she could have had this tied up in ten days. She felt like bursting into tears, but wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction. She rammed a cigarette in her mouth, then spun the car around and drove back to Denton.
The bright blue marquee protecting the body from the elements flapped and whip-cracked in the wind. Frost, hands thrust deep in his mac pocket, a cigarette drooping from his mouth, watched as Harding and the forensic team poked about in the grass. He felt redundant and wished the pathologist would hurry up and arrive so he could get back to the warmth of the station.
'Inspector!' PC Simms had returned. He had been sent out with a photograph, knocking on doors of known prostitutes to see if any of them could name the dead girl. 'One of them recognized her. Her name is Angela Masters – new kid on the block.'
'When was she last seen alive?'
'Two nights ago. The other toms were surprised she wasn't on her regular beat. They thought she was ill.'
'The poor cow was bloody ill all right,' muttered Frost. He shivered and rubbed his hands together. Come on, bloody Drysdale. There was nothing the pathologist could tell him about the body that he couldn't see for himself and the post-mortem wouldn't be until the next day, preferably not at the crack of dawn like last time.
Headlights painted the sides of the marquee orange and the purr of an expensive car engine could just about be heard above the scream of the wind. The pathologist had arrived.
Drysdale, followed by his faithful blonde secretary, squeezed through the flap of the marquee, his expression souring at the sight of the loutish Inspector Frost. He should have guessed it would be him. Frost's cases always seemed to involve bodies in appalling weather conditions in the middle of the night. He nodded curtly. Frost stamped his cigarette out and waved a hand to the body. 'All yours, doc.'
Drysdale's lips tightened at the 'doc'. 'Another prostitute?'
'Yes, doc, and we've got a name this time so you can put a tag on her toe.'
The pathologist bent over the body and nodded his recognition. 'We had one like this a couple of months ago – one of Inspector Allen's cases, if I recall.' He knelt on the plastic sheet covering the grass and peered at the burns and wounds on the stomach. 'Exactly the same.' He stared hard at the face. 'She'd been gagged – you can see where the cord bit into her mouth.'
'Yes,' agreed Frost. 'The bastard who did this didn't want her screams to disturb the fun of his cigarette stubbing.'
Drysdale snapped his fingers as an order to his secretary to provide him with surgical gloves, which he slipped on for a brief internal examination. 'Sexual activity took place shortly before death… From the bruising around the thighs I'd say she resisted it.'
'I wouldn't expect her to welcome the bastard with open legs,' said Frost. 'DNA sample?'
Drysdale shook his head. 'I don't think so. He seems to have used a condom.' He straightened up. 'Can we turn her over, please?'
Frost nodded to the two uniformed men to do this. The girl's white back and buttocks were marked with a criss-cross pattern of blooded weals and cuts and mottled with yellowing bruises.
'Buttocks and back beaten with a thin cane… exactly like the other girl. As before, I'd say you're looking for some kind of sexual pervert.'
'Well, that lets the vicar off the hook,' grunted Frost. 'Cause and time of death?'
'Cause – suffocation, like the other one, probably a pillow held over the face. Time of death?' He shrugged. 'Twenty-four to forty-eight hours.' He peeled off the surgical gloves and dropped them into the plastic bag his secretary was holding out. 'I'll do the post-mortem tomorrow – eleven o'clock. You can move the body when you like.' With a jerk of his head for his secretary to follow, he marched back to the Rolls-Royce.
Frost stuck a cigarette in his mouth and watched as the body was lifted into a cheap coffin by the two undertaker's men, one of whom shuddered as they lifted her.
'Someone's given her a right going-over.'
'She wouldn't answer our questions,' grunted Frost.
Morgan ambled over. 'Who would treat a woman like that, guv?'
'A bastard who likes inflicting pain,' said Frost. 'She might have been willing, up to a point – let herself be tied up, but then it went too far. He was enjoying himself too much to stop.' He looked at his watch. Three thirty in the morning. 'Let's get back to the station.'
He pinned up the photograph of Angela Masters alongside the others on the wall of the murder incident room and waited while Morgan handed out copies. 'I'm sorry it's so late. If that bleeding motorist could have controlled his bladder, she might have been found at a more convenient time. I'm briefing you now so you can go off home for some kip then go straight out tomorrow morning knocking up toms. We need to know if they've had any kinky clients who wanted to tie them up and welt them with a cane. If so, we want details. When did they last see Angela Masters? Did anyone see her go off with a punter?' He turned to the pin-board. 'She was killed, beaten and used to stub out fags in exactly the same way as Linda Roberts, eight weeks ago. Inspector Allen questioned all the toms about Linda without any luck, and we're probably going to have the same flaming luck, but that won't stop us from asking all over again. Warn the girls they should only go with customers they know. This bloke did it once, he liked it and did it again. We're no longer looking for a punter who went too far. We're now looking for a serial killer.' He nodded to Arthur Hanlon who was waving a hand. 'Yes, Arthur? Not going to confess, are you?'
Hanlon grinned. 'The girl who was killed in Clayton Street – do you think there's any connection?'
Frost shook his head. 'No, Arthur. We're pinning that one on Mickey Harris. Mickey likes using women as a punch bag. He hits them with his fists and he doesn't tie them up first.' He turned back to the Pin-board and pointed to Big Bertha. 'We've now got to start worrying about Bertha. If a torn goes missing, from now on, we fear the worst, so ask around, find out when was the last time anyone saw her, who was she with. You know the drill.' He looked at the other two photographs on the wall; the skull dug up under the shed and the gap-toothed Vicky Stuart. Two cases that would have to be pushed into the background until they caught the torn killer. 'Right, off you go.'
As they filed out, he jabbed a finger at Morgan. 'You be here at nine tomorrow so we can pick up Mickey Harris. He's been known to put cops out of action when they try to arrest him and you can be spared more than anyone else.'
9.10 a.m. Morgan was late. Frost chomped tastelessly at the fatty bacon sandwich, dropping crumbs all over the lead story as he skimmed through the Denton Echo.
HOUSE OF HORROR REVEALS ITS GRISLY SECRETS, screamed the headline. The news about the dead prostitute had arrived after the paper had gone to press, so they were making a meal of a lesser story. The phone rang. 'Young lady to see you, Inspector,' said Bill Wells. 'I've put her in No. 1 interview room.' Before Frost could ask who it was, Wells had rung off. Damn. He hoped this wouldn't take long; there was more than enough to get through as it was.
No sign of Wells in the lobby, but the swing doors banged open and Morgan, just finishing knotting his tie, charged in and looked shamefacedly at Frost. 'Sorry I'm late, guv, but-'
I'll hear your lies in a minute, Taffy – we've got a young lady to see first.' He pushed open the door of the interview room, Morgan following quickly, running a comb through untidy hair as he did so. Shit! Sitting there, grim-faced, handbag clasped to her chest, was old mother bloody Beatty. I'm being stalked,' she said.
'Oh,' said Frost, trying to sound concerned. 'Give the details to the sergeant outside and we'll look into it.' He backed to the door.
'No,' she snapped. 'The sergeant said I was to talk to you.'
With a resigned sigh, Frost slumped down in the chair opposite her. 'Describe him.'
She leant forward. "That's just the point,' she said earnestly. 'He never looks the same. Sometimes he's thin and clean-shaven, sometimes he's fat with a moustache.'
'Sounds like Laurel and Hardy,' said Frost.
She glared. 'This is not funny, Inspector. He was outside my house last night, walking up and down the street, staring up at my window, hoping to see me undressing. I feel his eyes on me as I go to the shops. I turn, but there's no-one there. He's too clever for that.'
'Right,' said Frost, nodding gravely, 'I think I know who it is.' He stood up. 'Leave this to us. He won't trouble you again.'
She didn't look too convinced as he ushered her out. 'That bastard Wells!' he snarled.
'You said you know who he is?' said Morgan.
'Yes, I do, Taff. He's a figment of her bleeding imagination. See her getting undressed? I'd pay a hundred pounds not to.' He opened the door a crack to make certain she had left. 'Come on. Let's go and arrest Mickey Harris.'
Still no car parked outside and the milk on the step hadn't been taken in. Just to make sure Frost hammered at the door and gave it a couple of kicks, then crouched down and peered through the letter box at the morning paper with its HOUSE OF HORROR headlines lying on the mat.
'Where now, guv?' asked Morgan, hoping the inspector would say 'Back to the station' so he could calm his rumbling stomach with a canteen breakfast. But Frost had other ideas.
'We're going to call on super-ponce Harry Grafton. He's the one who tells Mickey which toms to beat up.'
The wages of sin had definitely paid off for Harry Grafton. Denton Grange was a large brick gabled house in mock Tudor, set well back behind a small spinney which sheltered it from the vulgar gaze of people driving along the main road – probably on their way to one of Harry's prostitutes. They passed a 'Warning!! – Guard Dogs' sign and coasted through the spinney and on to the main entrance. Four expensive cars were parked in front of the house. The doors of a mock Tudor garage were open and a heavily built man, carefully polishing an already gleaming silver grey Rolls-Royce, looked up as Frost's Ford juddered to an exhaust-coughing halt. He put down his chamois leather and walked over to them. 'If you haven't got an appointment, piss off.'
'I've got something better than an appointment, Jeeves,' said Frost. 'I've got this.' He flashed his warrant card. 'Kindly inform your master the fuzz want to see him.'
The man scowled at the card, then led them inside the house to an oak-panelled hall. 'Wait,' he grunted as he disappeared down the passage.
'Did he say "Feel free to look around"?' asked Frost. 'Let's see how the rich pimps live.' He pushed open a door which led into a large room with bay windows overlooking a lawn and a covered swimming pool. The room held the rich smells of expensive leather, wool and cigar smoke. Their feet sank ankle deep into thick-piled carpeting on which stood a five-seater settee in pale blue hide and four matching armchairs. Frost sniffed in the heady aromas. 'The smell of opulence, Taff,' he said, dropping down into one of the armchairs, his eyes taking in the forty-two-inch wide-screen digital TV set with surround sound, the massive corner bar, complete with beer pumps, then up to the ceiling which was painted a midnight blue and decorated with silver stars. 'All it wants is a slop bucket and a spittoon;' he decided, 'and it would be a proper home from home. I wonder how many dicks had to work overtime to pay for this little lot.'
The door clicked open and Harry Grafton came in, a swarthy-skinned man in his mid-forties, dark hair balding, a thin black moustache and cold eyes which failed to match the oily smile. He wore a scarlet dressing-gown and could barely close his mouth over the fat cigar between his lips. The car polisher was at his side.
'Inspector Frost. An unexpected pleasure.' He clicked his fingers and pointed to a cassette recorder on a side table which his sidekick switched to record. 'I hope you don't mind, gentlemen. I like to have all conversations recorded, in case there is any dispute as to what has been said.'
'A wise precaution, Harry,' nodded Frost. 'It stops me from lying my bloody head off. We want to see Mickey Harris.'
Grafton pulled the cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing end. 'Mickey? Why?'
'Grievous bodily harm. He beat up a torn last night.'
Grafton smiled as if the idea were preposterous. 'And what makes you think it was Mickey?'
'She fingered him.'
Harry Grafton frowned, then clicked the smile back on. 'She was mistaken, Inspector. Mickey was here all night, never went out.'
Frost shook his head and tutted. 'God can hear you telling these lies, Harry.'
Grafton walked over to the cassette recorder and pressed the pause button. 'Off the record, Inspector, I do look after a few girls. It's hard enough for them to make a living at the best of times without these young amateurs muscling in on their territory. There's not enough trade to go round, so sometimes we have to give them a little slap on the wrist and suggest they would be better opening up shop elsewhere.'
'This was more than a little slap, Harry. Mickey put this seventeen-year-old kid in hospital. Broken nose, cracked ribs – she was coughing up bits of blood and teeth when I saw her. Put me right off my black pudding for breakfast.'
It was Grafton's turn to do the head-shaking and tut-tutting act as he released the pause button on the recorder. 'Disgraceful, Inspector. The animals who do that should be put inside – but it wasn't Mickey. As I said, he was here all night. I have witnesses.'
'Who?'
'Myself and six of my employees.'
'Quantity, but not quality, Harry. A rich pimp and six of his hired thugs.'
'As against the evidence of a single prostitute.' He smiled smugly. 'I think we both know which of us the courts would believe. But to show my good faith, even though I am not involved in this in any way and just to ensure my good name should not be smirched, I will personally see that the unfortunate girl is well compensated.'
I'm sure you could buy her off, Harry, but there was another girl Mickey had a go at.'
'Oh?'
'Mary Adams. Had a place in Clayton Street.'
A brief flicker of recognition instantly suppressed as Grafton again studied the glowing end of the cigar and shook his head vaguely. 'Name means nothing to me. When was this supposed to have taken place?'
'The night before last.'
Grafton smiled. 'Then again it couldn't have been Mickey. He was here all that night as well.' He turned to the car polisher. 'Isn't that right, Richard?'
Richard nodded his vigorous agreement. 'Dead right, Mr Grafton.'
'Mickey didn't stop at slapping her wrist, Harry. He killed the poor cow.'
The cigar drooped as Harry's mouth gaped open. 'Killed…?'
'We're talking murder, Harry, and we've got Mickey well and truly in the frame. Before we start discussing perjury and perverting the course of justice, do you still want to give him an alibi?'
Grafton's finger crashed down on the stop key of the recorder. He rewound the tape then waited while it erased before turning back to Frost. 'I know nothing about any killings. I don't want anything to do with this.'
'So Mickey wasn't with you the two nights in question?'
'No.'
'Is he here?'
Grafton jerked his head to his sidekick. 'Fetch him.'
As the man sidled out, Grafton snatched the cigar from his mouth and squashed it out in an ashtray shaped like a naked, recumbent woman. Frost winced. It reminded him of the cigarette burns on the dead girl's stomach. Footsteps outside and the sidekick returned with Mickey Harris, a thickset brute of a man in his forties with a boxer's flattened nose and thick ears. He scowled at Frost before turning to Grafton. 'You wanted me, Mr Grafton?'
The fuzz want you for questioning,' snapped Wafton, underlining his instructions with a jab of his finger. 'Keep your mouth shut, don't say a bleeding word, don't even pass the bloody time of day until your lawyer gets there. Right?' Without waiting for Mickey's reply, he turned on his heels and stomped out of the room.
Frost took Harris by the arm. 'Come on, Mickey. We're going walkies.'
Frost thumbed through his in-tray as he impatiently waited for the brief to turn up. Harris wouldn't say a dicky bird until the solicitor arrived. He tugged out a report from Forensic. They hadn't found any traces of blood on the clothes and shoes from Lewis, the boyfriend of Mary Adams, so Mickey Harris was now his one and only prime suspect and somehow he couldn't see Mickey as a strangler. But he was all he had. A groan from Morgan attracted his attention. 'What's up, Taffy? You on heat again?'
'No, guv, it's this damn abscess.' He rubbed his cheek and winced.
'You know what they say, Taff – abscess makes the heart grow fonder.' Morgan quivered a wan smile. He didn't think that half as funny as Frost who was coughing and spluttering with laughter at his own joke.
A tap at the door and Liz Maud entered carrying a couple of case files.
'I thought you'd be away by now?' said Frost.
'I've got to clear it with Mr Mullett first,' she told him, 'and he's not in yet.' She dropped the files on his desk. 'Could you baby-sit these for me until I get back? The only active investigation is the armed robbery.'
Frost flipped the file open. 'You've found the getaway car, then?'
She sat in the vacant chair. 'Wesley Division found it down a back street in the town. Blood all over the floor by the driver's seat which matches blood from the mini-mart and splashes of white paint everywhere.'
Frost scratched his chin. 'Wesley? That's over twenty miles away.'
'Yes. Wesley are checking on known villains in their Division.'
'But why come all the way from Wesley to rob a tuppenny-ha'penny mini-mart in Denton? There must have been plenty of fatter targets closer to home.'
She blinked. That aspect hadn't occurred to her. 'Maybe the cashier was in on it and they thought it would be easy.'
'You checked out the cashier?'
Liz nodded. 'We found nothing on her – but that doesn't mean to say she's clean.'
Bill Wells poked his head round the door. 'Mickey Harris's brief has arrived, Jack.' He gave Liz a curt nod. 'And Mr Mullett has just come in, Sergeant -sorry, I'm ten days premature – I meant Inspector.'
Frost dropped down into the old, familiar chair which seemed to mould itself round him and watched Kirk-stone, the sleek and plump solicitor, dust his chair carefully with a handkerchief before allowing his Ј600 suit to touch it. Kirkstone grunted as Frost intoned the preliminaries and watched in a bored fashion as Morgan started the cassette recorder. Frost slid across a photograph of the seventeen-year-old Cherry Hall. 'Recognize her, Mickey?'
Mickey gave it the briefest of glances before shaking his head. 'No.'
'You don't know who she is? You don't know her name?'
Mickey glanced at the lawyer, who nodded he should answer. 'Correct.'
'She's a prostitute who'd been plying for hire on Harry Grafton's sacred turf. Did Harry ask you to warn her off?'
Another check with the lawyer. 'No.'
'Come off it, Mickey. Harry told you to warn her off but you were having such fun beating up a seventeen-year-old girl, breaking her ribs, knocking out her teeth, you just couldn't stop. Is that what happened, Mickey?'
Kirkstone gave a little cough and a slimy smile. 'As my client doesn't know the young lady and has never met her, there is no way he could have hit her.'
'Good point,' agreed Frost. 'But if he didn't know her and didn't beat her up, why did he phone the hospital to ask how the poor cow was?' As Mickey opened his mouth to answer, Frost's hand came up to stop him. 'Before you deny it, Mickey, you should know that the hospital tapes all calls and you came over loud and clear.'
'A word with my client,' said the lawyer. Frost leant back and smoked as Harris and Kirkstone huddled together murmuring inaudibly, until the lawyer indicated that Mickey was ready to answer.
'All right, Inspector. I didn't tell the truth because I was embarrassed. I was a client of hers a couple of nights ago. Someone told me she had been beaten up, so I phoned the hospital to enquire about her. I even sent her a bunch of flowers.'
'An act of kindness,' smirked the lawyer.
'You make me feel a swine for ever doubting you,' said Frost. He took the photograph back and swapped it for one of Mary Adams. 'Recognize this one, Mick?'
Mickey stared at the photograph then shot a quick glance to the lawyer who, with a barely perceptible shake of the head, told him to say no.
'No.'
'Her name is Mary Adams, trade name Lolita. She operated from a flat in Clayton Street. Ever been there?'
'Never.'
'When business was slack she used to go after the crumpet hunters in Denton Parade and King Street, an area on which Harry Grafton felt he had monopoly trading rights. Harry told you to warn her off, didn't he – to rough her up a bit?'
'No. And if she says I did, she's lying.'
'Yes – she's lying… in the bleeding morgue, Mickey. You went too far this time. She's dead.'
'Dead?' Mickey blinked with indignation. 'That's rubbish. I never touched her. I never went near her.' He turned to the lawyer for support but Kirkstone appeared to be busying himself writing copious notes on a sheet of A4 paper. Mickey was on his own with the murder charge.
'You like to phone them up after you pay them a visit, don't you, Mickey? You thought you'd phoned this girl, but she couldn't answer the phone as she was dead. You actually spoke to one of my women officers. You boasted about beating Mary up.'
Mickey's head was being violently shaken from side to side. 'No. It's bloody lies.'
'You phoned her, Mickey. We've got you on tape.' Frost was picking his words carefully in case of future legal arguments. He only had Mickey on tape for the hospital call. 'Couple more photographs you might recognize.' These were of the other two prostitutes, the ones who were tied and tortured. The solicitor leant over to look at them and shuddered, moving his chair slightly, distancing himself even more from his client. Mickey was staring aghast. 'Oh no – you're not pinning all your bloody unsolved crimes on me. All right, I beat up the kid in hospital, but I never laid a finger on Mary Adams.'
'But you phoned her, Mickey. You told her next time it would be really serious.'
Mickey stared at Frost, his eyes blinking rapidly, but before he could answer, the solicitor intervened.
'If my client had killed this woman, Inspector, why would he phone her up with further threats?'
'He phoned,' said Frost, 'to see if she was still alive.'
'No!' shouted Mickey. 'I phoned to tell her about her bloody car.'
'Her car?' echoed Frost, wondering what the hell this was about.
'I'd phoned a few times warning her to stay off of Harry's patch, but she took no notice. I was going in to give her a going-over but she wasn't in, so I decided to do her car in instead. I slashed the tyres and gave it a few welts with a sledge hammer. It was a warning. If that didn't work, next time it would be her; that's what I was phoning about.'
'Naturally,' smarmed Kirkstone, 'my client will pay for any damage he inadvertently did to the car.'
'You smashed her car,' said Frost, 'and then you went up to the flat to tell her what you had done. She went for you with a knife and you killed her.'
'Like I said, she wasn't in – out tomming on Mr Grafton's patch, I reckoned. I left it a couple of hours, then I phoned her and that's the honest, bloody truth!'
Kirkstone leant back in his chair and flashed Frost an ingratiating smile. 'Might I ask how this young lady was killed, Inspector? It's probably slipped your mind that you neglected to tell us.'
Frost groaned inwardly. It hadn't slipped his mind. This was the weaker part of his case against Mickey. 'She was strangled.'
'Strangled?' exclaimed Kirkstone in mock surprise. 'You're saying she wasn't beaten to death?'
'No,' grunted Frost.
'And these other two unfortunate women – did they show any signs of being punched… beaten with fists?'
'No,' admitted Frost grudgingly.
'So their injuries are not at all consistent with those of the young girl in hospital?'
'Correct,' muttered Frost.
'I take it there is nothing to connect my client with the two deaths?'
Frost nodded gloomily. The bastard had him on the ropes.
'So we can dismiss that allegation entirely. The only connection he has with the death in Clayton Street is the phone call which he admits to making and for which he has given a satisfactory explanation.'
'He's given an explanation,' said Frost, clutching at what little bit of straw was left, 'but it may not be the true one. I want the clothes he was wearing that night for forensic examination.'
'I was wearing the clothes I've got on now,' said Mickey, starting to take off his jacket. 'I take it you're not interested in my underpants and socks?'
'Definitely bloody not,' shuddered Frost. He was wasting his time with Mickey. He knew it. The man had nothing to do with the killings, but let Forensic have a sniff round the clothes, you never knew your luck. He shoved the photographs back in the folder and stood up. 'Give my colleague a statement, and your clothes, and you'll be released on police bail.'
Kirkstone patted his papers into shape and dropped them in the leather briefcase. I'll get your other suit sent in,' he told Harris. 'Don't sign the statement until you have read it out to me over the phone.' He followed Frost out. 'You haven't got the shadow of a case, Inspector.'
'We've definitely got him for the poor cow he put in hospital,' said Frost.
Kirkstone smiled. 'I wouldn't be at all surprised if the young lady dropped the charge, Inspector.'
How much is Harry going to pay to buy her off?' asked Frost.
Another smile from Kirkstone. 'I shall pretend I didn't hear that.' With a curt nod he took his leave, humming happily as he strode down the corridor.
'Oily bastard!' snarled Frost at the departing figure.
Police Superintendent Mullett suppressed a yawn and stared down at the waspish memo County had sent him, returning Frost's outstanding crime figures with the carping comment, underlined in red ink, that until this was corrected the All Divisions Quarterly Statistical Summary was delayed and the Chief Constable would want to know why. Mullett's lips tightened. A Division was judged by its paperwork and yet again Frost had let him down. A tap at the door. He sighed. Even the man's knocking had a slovenly air to it. He began to say 'Come in' but was forestalled as Frost slouched in and dropped unbidden into the visitor's chair, a cigarette with a length of ash threatening to fall any minute, drooping from his mouth. 'You wanted to see me, Super?'
'Yes.' Mullett hastily slid the ashtray across but was just too late to stop the cylinder of ash from dropping on the carpet. He winced as Frost scuffed it into the pile with his shoe. 'I've had this from County.' He pushed the memo and the return across.
Frost give it a disinterested sniff. 'Those silly sods in County seem to think their bleeding figures are more important than solving crimes.'
'Head Office judge us on our paperwork. Frost. And in any case, your crime-solving figures are nothing to boast about.'
Frost shrugged. 'Never thought I boasted about them. What's their beef?'
'Their beef, Frost, is that your return omits quite a few of your own unsolved cases, but includes cases already shown on Inspector Maud's return.'
Shit, thought Frost. Morgan must have got the files mixed up. He scooped up the return and stood up. 'I'll do it when I get time.'
'You'll get it done today,' snapped Mullett, 'and I still haven't finished.' The way Frost kept looking pointedly at his watch and raising his eyebrows to the ceiling was starting to irritate. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle another yawn.
'Out on the tiles last night, Super?' asked Frost.
'No, I wasn't. I was woken in the early hours by that wretched Inspector Maud wanting to be put in charge of the prostitute killing and then I couldn't get back to sleep again. And then she had the damn cheek to come in here this morning demanding to be allowed a few days off. She knows how busy and short-staffed we are. Said she had to have an urgent minor operation at a private clinic, but wouldn't tell me what it was about, said it was personal woman's stuff. Do you know what it's about?'
Frost shook his head. 'Perhaps she's having her breasts enlarged,' he suggested.
Mullett sat back and frowned. 'Surely they're large enough already?'
'You'd know more about that than me, Super,' muttered Frost. 'I haven't really studied them like you.'
Mullett flushed a deep red. 'I haven't studied them. Some things you can't help noticing. Anyway, she's off for a few days, which leaves us even more short-handed.'
'Get some of our men back from County then.'
'No. I want County to see that we can manage no matter how short-staffed we are. We'll all have to be that much more efficient. She'll be back next week and Inspector Allen will be returning soon after that. We can hold out until then.'
Frost stood up and moved to the door. 'As long as you don't mind the overtime bill going up.'
'No way,' said Mullett firmly, remembering what the Chief Constable had said at the meeting. 'That is the easy way out.'
But he was talking to a closed door.