'Inspector . . . ?' said the nurse, waiting for her reply.
Liz sighed and forced a smile. 'Would you take me to him, please.'
With the body and Liz Maud out of the way they were able to move furniture about and give the room a thorough search. This produced two major finds. A bloodstained flick-knife was found under the divan bed, probably kicked there during the struggle. 'Get it checked for prints,' said Frost, who then remembered the green business card in his pocket. He passed it over to Detective Sergeant Hanlon. 'If we haven't found out who the poor cow is by the morning, Arthur, show this to the local print shops. They might come up with a name.'
Hanlon wasn't too sure. 'You can run these off on a home computer now, Jack. She probably printed it herself.'
'Try anyway,' said Frost.
And then Simms, who was dragging the wardrobe away from the wall, yelled with excitement. 'Something here, Inspector.' Wedged between the wardrobe and the wall was a wallet. Frost took it carefully by the edges and picked through the contents. Banknotes to the value of some £400, credit cards and credit card receipts and a diary full of telephone numbers. Frost beamed. 'Our drunken friend's missing wallet,' he announced. 'And he told us a porky about his name . . . it's Gladstone . . . Robert Gladstone and he lives in Denton.' He radioed for Morgan to go and pick him up.
One of the search parties radioed in to report they had had no luck in finding the missing knife. 'Ah!' said Frost. 'Might be a good idea to let them know we've already found it.' There was little more he could do on the spot, so he left them to get on with it and drove back to the station.
Gladstone, now sobered up, looked uneasily at Frost. He was wearing a white, one-piece overall provided for him while his own clothes were away for forensic examination. 'Look ... I don't want to get involved in this. You've got no right-'
'Shut up!' said Frost cheerfully, dropping into the chair opposite and sticking a cigarette into his mouth. 'Do you want to confess now, or shall we waste time beating you up and claiming you fell down the stairs while drunk?'
Gladstone stared warily at Frost, not certain whether to take this seriously or not. 'I don't have to put up with this. I'm the victim here.'
Frost dragged the cigarette from his mouth, eyes opened wide in mock amazement. 'You're the victim? I thought the poor cow on the bed was the victim!' He nodded for Morgan to start up the tape machine to record the interview.
'I came to you to report a crime.'
'You reported the wrong one, though, didn't you? I suppose it slipped your mind to tell us you'd killed her.'
'Killed her! That's bloody stupid. If I killed her, why did I take that dozy Welsh cop back to her place?'
'You killed her, then you panicked and drove off, then you realized she'd nicked your wallet . . . You didn't have the guts to go back in case you were spotted, or in case some other punter had already found the body and called the police.'
'That's bloody ridiculous!'
'If we found a body and your wallet, we wouldn't have wasted time looking for anyone else to pin it on, would we? You know how we like to jump to conclusions.'
'You're jumping to conclusions now. I told you what happened.'
'Then tell me again. It might sound less like a pack of lies the second time round.' Frost dribbled smoke which rolled across the table between them like a creeping barrage and put on his look of absolute disbelief as the man told his story.
'I'm driving down King Street eyeing the talent when I spots this one, leaning against the phone box. I hadn't seen her before and I fancied a bit of fresh meat so I beckons her over. I said, "How much?" she says, "Forty quid" and I said, "You'd better be bleeding good for that, love," and she answers, "Try me." She hops in my motor car and directs me to her place. I thought I was on to a winner. She was doing all her stuff, squeezing the old thigh and what-not in the car, but as soon as I pulled up outside her gaff, she seemed to change.'
'How do you mean?
He shrugged. 'It was as if something had upset her. She just lost interest in me.'
'Perhaps she'd just felt the size of your dick?' suggested Frost.
'Bloody funny! Anyway, I follow her up the stairs, she strips off and we gets down to it.'
'And . . . ?'
'She was rubbish - just lay there like a bleeding wet fish studying the cracks in the ceiling.'
'And you complained?'
'You bet I did. I told her she was crap and if I paid her what she was worth she'd get sod all. I offered twenty which was bleeding generous. She told me to stick it up my arse and pay the agreed price.'
'Just love talk, then. Was that when you knifed her?'
Gladstone glared at Frost. 'I only stuck one thing in her and it wasn't a bleeding knife.'
A tentative tap at the door. Wearily, Frost pushed himself up. No-one would interrupt the questioning of a murder suspect unless it was important. He opened the door. Bill Wells beckoned him outside. 'Forensic have matched the prints on the knife, Jack. They're the tom's ... no other prints.'
'Shit!' He scratched his chin in thought. 'Her prints . . . which means it was probably her knife. She must have cut herself in the struggle. Has the lab checked for blood on Gladstone's clothes yet?'
'They're still working on it. I'll let you know as soon as I hear. Oh, and Mr Mullett wants to see you.'
'Bloody hell! I thought the sod had gone home. What did he say about his motor?'
'Nothing I could repeat.'
Frost nodded and returned to the interview room. 'Right ... so she came at you with a knife . . . then what?'
'Knife? Of course she didn't come at me with a knife. She came at me with her bleeding long fingernails. I didn't mind them digging in my back, but when she tried to scratch me eyes out. . .'
'Was that when you strangled her?'
'Strangled her? I never touched her!'
Frost leant across the table. 'Show me your hands.'
Frowning, Gladstone put his hands, palms upwards, on the table. Frost turned the right hand over and tapped the knuckles. They were grazed with a dribble of blood and slightly swollen. 'You punched her . . . she had a black eye. Don't bother denying it, we can get Forensic to match skin samples.'
'All right, so I hit her - once - and in self-defence ... I didn't want my eyeballs stuck on the ends of her painted bleeding fingernails. I finished getting dressed and got the hell out of there.'
'Slow down,' urged Frost. 'You've missed out the bit about wrapping your hands round her neck and squeezing the life out of the poor cow.'
'The poor cow was alive, well and effing and blinding as I left. I drove off, realized the bitch had nicked my wallet, so ... back I go . . .'
'Is this when you strangled her?'
'How many more bleeding times ... I didn't even get back in ... The cow had locked the door on me.'
'The door wasn't locked when I took you back there,' said Morgan.
'Of course it wasn't, you Welsh twit - she had to open it to let the killer in ... unless he was already in there. Come to think of it, I did hear a man's voice.'
'And you've only just remembered it,' cut in Frost. 'Do me a bloody favour!'
Gladstone leant back in the chair and folded his arms defiantly. 'All right. If you're not going to believe anything I say, I'm not saying another word. I want a solicitor.'
'Your prerogative,' said Frost. He watched Gladstone being led back to a cell, then yawned and stretched his arms wearily. He wondered if there would be time to watch the videoed fight in the rest room before the duty solicitor arrived and he wished Liz Maud would hurry back so she could take over this case.
'You won't forget Mr Mullett wants to see you,' reminded Morgan.
'It's one treat after another,' said Frost, pushing himself up, but before he could do so, Bill Wells came in. 'Good news, Jack.'
'Mullett's gone home?'
'Not quite as good as that. Forensic phoned. Traces of blood on Gladstone's jacket which match the blood from the knife woun
d.'
Frost expelled a stream of cigarette smoke in a happy sigh of relief. 'We've got him then. That's the clincher we need. He can lie and deny it as much as he flaming well likes, but there's only one way he could have got her blood on his jacket . . .' His voice tailed off as he became aware that Morgan was wriggling uncomfortably in the chair next to him. 'What's the matter, Taffy - do you want to do a wee?'
'No, guv . . .' He was squeezing his hands and staring at the ground in embarrassment, hoping Bill Wells would leave. 'Something I should have mentioned earlier,' he mumbled.
Sensing something tasty, Bill Wells kicked the door shut and leaned forward with interest.
'Go ahead, Taff,' urged Frost. 'We're all friends here. What have you done - had it off with Mrs Mullett?'
'Nothing like that, guv. It's about Gladstone. When I took him back to the flat. . .'
'Yes?' prompted Frost.
'When I went back to the flat with him, he was up the stairs and in the room before I could stop him. By the time I got there he was shaking her and demanding to know where his wallet was.'
Frost's jaw sagged. 'Are you telling me you let him touch the body?'
'To be fair, guv, I didn't know there was going to be a body.'
'So any blood on his jacket could well have got there then?'
Morgan nodded miserably. 'I thought I'd better mention it.'
'Flaming heck,' said Wells, dropping into the vacant chair. 'I've heard some stupid things in my time-'
'Yes,' cut in Frost, 'mainly about me. Your phone's ringing, Bill.'
Wells strained his ears. 'I can't hear it.'
'Whether it's ringing or not - go and answer it!'
Reluctantly, Wells left, taking his time, hoping to hear more, but Frost waited patiently until the sergeant was out of earshot.
'A bit of a balls-up, Taff, to put it mildly?'
Morgan nodded his dejected agreement.
'We all make balls-ups, son. I've been known to make the odd one myself, but when it's a murder inquiry you don't keep it a bloody secret.'
'I know, guv . . . I'm sorry, guv . . .'
The DC was the picture of misery. No point in nagging him any more, the damage was done. Frost chewed at his knuckles, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. 'The thing is this, Taff. Are we dealing with a clever bastard who deliberately got in there first so there would be a reason for the blood on his jacket? He doesn't strike me as that clever, but you never can tell by appearances. Mullett doesn't look a complete twat, but he is.' He stared up at the ceiling. 'I think we've got to let him go.'
'Let him go?' echoed Morgan.
'We've got nothing to hold him on. When his solicitor turns up he'll tear our case to shreds.'
'I'm sorry guv. It's all my fault.'
'No. In a way, you've helped, Taffy. You've made me look at it from another angle. If he was that bloody clever, why would he run away? Why would he give us a fake name and address?' He stood up. 'I don't think he did it. We let him go. We can always pull him in again if we're hard up for another suspect.' He yawned. 'What a bleeding night; false gen about the missing kid, the pillow burglar strikes again, an armed robbery and a dead tom. If it wasn't for Mullett's car being smashed it would be a complete wash-out.' He snapped his fingers. 'Mullett! Let's see what he wants.'
Mullett was in the car-park examining what those drunken hooligans had done to his Rover. The wing was crumpled, the rear light smashed. It was in no state to be driven to County tomorrow. He'd be a laughing stock. He would have to borrow his wife's Honda. Ah, at last! Frost shuffling out of the station and coming over to him. The same scruffy mac, that same tired scarf. Hadn't the man anything else to wear? But that wasn't the main thing on his mind. He wanted to find out about the prostitute killing. He had the awful thought the victim could have been the harridan who approached him when he was stopped at the traffic lights. There weren't many blue Rovers in Denton. What if someone had seen her approach him? Headlines about kerb-crawling top policeman kept flashing in his mind.
'Nasty,' said Frost, nodding at the damage.
'Yes,' agreed Mullett through clenched teeth. That stupid Sergeant Wells. He was commanding a Division of incompetents.
'It must be hard to say no to a drink at these County meetings,' muttered Frost, bending to take a closer look himself. 'Your best bet is to say it was parked and some drunken sod ran into it.'
'That's exactly what did happen,' snapped Mullett.
'Good for you!' nodded Frost approvingly. 'I almost believe you myself and I can always see through a lie.' He straightened up, fingering the car expenses form in his pocket, anxious to gauge the opportune time to present it to Mullett for his signature. 'You wanted to see me, Super?'
'Ah . . . yes.' Mullett tried to sound disinterested. 'This prostitute killing. Was she young . . . old . . . ?'
'Early twenties,' said Frost. 'Dark-haired, medium height. Why - do you think you know her? We're trying to trace her regulars.'
'No, no . . .' said Mullett hastily, relieved that she didn't sound at all like the same one. 'Of course I don't know her. I want this case cleared up quickly, Frost. We now have a second dead prostitute. We don't want panic because there's a serial killer on the loose.'
'We don't know it's the same bloke,' said Frost. 'The victims are toms but there seems no other connection.'
'I understand you've handed the case over to Acting Inspector Maud? You didn't think of clearing it with me first?'
'I didn't believe it necessary. The first dead tom was investigated by Inspector Allen and she's taken over from him.'
Mullett waved a dismissive hand. 'I know all about that, but we're talking serial murder. What are they going to say at County tomorrow when they learn that a woman - I mean an acting inspector is in charge of such an important case? No. I want you to take it over.'
'She can handle it,' insisted Frost.
'Allow me to be the judge of that,' snapped Mullett. 'She's an inexperienced woman officer.'
'Who's got to gain experience.'
'But not at our expense, Frost. If this blows up in our face it will be my head on the chopping block. She can work under you if you like, but you are in charge.'
Frost looked up as a grey Nissan bumped its way into the car-park. 'There she is, Super. Shall I call her over so you can tell her yourself?'
'No,' said Mullett hastily. 'Better if it comes from you. It will underline that you're in charge . . .' He tugged open the door of his Rover. 'Got to go ... early start tomorrow.'
'Hold it, Super.' Frost grabbed the car door, preventing it from closing. 'Before you go, would you OK my car expenses?'
Mullett stared in annoyance at the claim form with its wad of scruffy petrol receipts attached. For some reason Frost never seemed to patronize petrol stations who provided a printed receipt. He fingered through them doubtfully.
'Got a minute, Liz?' called Frost, beckoning her over. Mullett snatched the pen from Frost's hand and scribbled his signature. 'Keep me posted,' he muttered as he slammed the car door and drove off.
She took the news badly, staring tight-lipped at Frost as if it was all his fault. 'I presume you'll be covering the post-mortem tomorrow then?' she asked icily, before spinning on her heel and marching to her office.
'Unless you'd like-' said Frost, his sentence cut off as the doors slammed behind her. 'I'll take that as a no,' he muttered. Shit. What a lousy bloody night. He looked at his watch. 3.15 in the morning. In five hours he would be watching Drysdale slice the dead tom up. But sod it. That was tomorrow. Mullett had gone. He had the station to himself. Nothing he could do about the dead tom until the morning. An Indian takeaway, a handful of Mullett's fags from the hospitality box and the recording of the big fight on the telly in the rest room. Things could be worse.
I'm sorry, guv,' mumbled Morgan. 'I'm truly sorry. I don't know how it happened.'
'It happened, you Welsh nit,' snarled Frost, 'because you recorded the wrong flaming channel.
We're all sitting there like a load of prats, expecting the big fight, and what are we watching? The flaming singing nuns in The Sound of bloody Music.'
'Sorry, guv,' said Morgan again.
'Sorry, guv! That's your catch phrase. I can forgive you letting that drunk maul the corpse last night, but sodding up the recording of the big fight. . .'
Morgan hung his head in shame.
'Chance to redeem yourself. Go and get me a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich and bring it to the murder incident room. If you turn up with cocoa and a fairy cake, you're sacked.' Frost yawned. He'd had a rotten night. After the fiasco of the big fight video, he'd staggered off to bed just after four, but sleep had stubbornly eluded him. He just lay there, smoking, sucking hard on the cigarette from time to time so he could check the crawl of time on his wrist-watch in its red glow. When he finally drifted off to sleep he had dreams of the autopsy, but the body being hacked about by Drysdale was not the prostitute; it was Vicky Stuart, the little girl with the gap in her teeth, who suddenly sat up from the autopsy table and screamed, waking him in a cold sweat. And just as he was drifting off again, the flaming alarm clock shook him awake at 7.45, just in time to tumble out of bed, splash his face with water, a quick shave, then off to the mortuary to watch Drysdale slice open the unknown tom on an empty stomach.
Drysdale, methodical, waspish and impassive, was able to tell him little he didn't know already. Death due to manual strangulation and the stab wound probably self-inflicted as her attacker tried to wrest the knife from her.
Frost was puzzled that there were no traces of the assailant's skin under the long, unbroken fingernails. 'Surely she would have tried to scratch the bastard's eyes out, doc?'
Drysdale lifted the head and indicated the swellings at the back of the skull. 'Her head was banged several times against the wall with considerable force. This could have caused concussion at which point she would have been incapable of defending herself.' He pointed to the livid yellow patch near the left eye. 'She was punched.'
'We've got the bloke who gave her the black eyes, doc, but we don't think he was her killer.' His stomach rumbled noisily. 'I need to get some stomach contents myself, doc ... a bacon sandwich - so unless there's anything else you can tell me?'
Winter Frost Page 6
