Annoyed that he had missed it, the pathologist studied the mark. ‘That’s where he wiped the blade clean of blood.’ He straightened up. ‘That’s all I can tell you for now, Inspector. You’ll have a full report when I have completed the post-mortem.’ He looked around the room. ‘Has anyone seen my overcoat?’
The body had been carefully placed in a cheap coffin and man-handled down the narrow staircase for transport to the mortuary. The Forensic team had departed with their spoils and Frost, alone in the empty bedroom, sat moodily dragging at a cigarette and staring down at bare floorboards. All the bedding had been stripped from the bed and the carpet and underfelt removed for examination.
He stubbed out his cigarette in one of the little glass dishes on the dressing table. The young bride in the photograph, her face wreathed in smiles, beamed down happily through the shower of confetti to the stripped, bleak room where she died, alone and terrified.
He wandered downstairs, his feet clattering on the bare wood where the stair carpet had been taken away for examination. Gilmore and Burton and two of the uniformed men were in the kitchen drinking tea. ‘Any joy with the neighbours?’
‘No reply from most of the houses,’ said Burton, handing him a mug. ‘Probably gone to work. We’ll have to try again tonight. Three people saw someone suspicious hanging around yesterday afternoon.’
Frost’s head came up hopefully. ‘Did you get a description?’
‘I got three descriptions,’ Burton ruefully admitted. ‘All different. One medium build, darkish hair who may or may not have a beard aged between thirty and fifty. He was walking up and down the street just after two, staring at windows. The next was a skinhead on a motor bike who kept going round and round the block and the third was a West Indian in a dark suit.’
‘And what did the West Indian do to arouse suspicion?’ asked Gilmore.
‘He just walked by, Sarge, minding his own business. I don’t think the lady I spoke to liked West Indians.’
Frost sipped his tea. It was lukewarm. ‘It’ll be a waste of time, but check them out anyway. Have we traced any relatives, or anyone who might be able to tell us if anything’s been pinched apart from her purse money?’
‘Not yet,’ answered Gilmore. ‘I’ll check with that senior citizens’ club she belonged to. They might be able to help.’
‘Good. What sort of woman was she? Did she get on well with the neighbours?’
Burton shook his head. ‘A cantankerous old biddy by all accounts, always finding something to complain about. No-one liked her much.’
‘We’ll have to find out what she’s been complaining about recently. Perhaps someone resented it enough to kill her.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the moggie?’
‘The RSPCA bloke has taken it away,’ Gilmore told him.
‘I expect the little bleeder will have to be put down,’ gloomed Frost, swilling down the dregs of tea and pulling a face as if it were bitter medicine. ‘Tell me something to cheer me up.’
‘Forensic found a few alien prints dotted about,’ offered Gilmore. ‘One looked very hopeful.’
‘It’ll be from the sanitary inspector or her family planning adviser, anyone but the killer.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘I’m too tired to think straight.’ He glanced across to Gilmore who was grey with fatigue. ‘Let’s call it a day. We’ll have a couple of hours’ kip, then back to the station at noon.’
Noon! The detective sergeant sneaked a look at his watch. That would give him about three hours’ sleep if he was lucky. He hoped Liz wouldn’t be awake, waiting up for him, spoiling for a row.
He sat tense in the car as Frost drove him back after dropping off Burton, expecting every radio message to be the one sending them out on yet another case. But none of its messages were for them, although one call rang a familiar bell. ‘Neighbours complaining of strange smells coming from 76 Jubilee Terrace.’
‘Must have been your aftershave,’ muttered Frost as the tyres scraped the kerb outside 42 Merchant Street. He had to shake Gilmore awake.
The house was quiet when Gilmore got in. A plate of cold, congealed food stood accusingly on the dining room table. His supper. He scraped the food into the waste bin and dropped the plate in the sink.
Upstairs, Liz was sleeping. Even in repose her face was angry. He undressed and crawled into bed beside her, moving carefully for fear he would wake her and the row would start. Almost immediately he plunged into an uneasy sleep, full of dreams of bodies bleeding from knife wounds and all looking like Liz.
Frost slammed the car into gear and headed for home and bed. He nearly made it.
‘Control to Mr Frost. Come in, please!’
The plumber. The suspect in the Paula Bartlett case. Able Baker had picked him up. They were holding him at the station.
‘On my way,’ said Frost, spinning the wheel for an illegal U-turn, deaf to the shouts from a minicab driver who had to brake violently to avoid a collision.
Tuesday morning shift (2)
Superintendent Mullett strode briskly into the station, pausing only to remove and shake the rain from his tailored raincoat. At 9.30 in the morning the lobby had a tired, slept-in look, which reminded him that he wanted to have a few words with Frost to ascertain his progress with the Paula Bartlett case.
‘Mr Frost in yet, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Wells, barely managing to camouflage a yawn. ‘He’s out on another fatal stabbing – an old lady in Mannington Crescent.’
Mullett’s forehead creased in anguish. ‘Oh no!’
‘Nasty one by all accounts,’ continued Wells. ‘Stomach ripped and throat cut.’
‘Send the inspector to me the minute he comes in, Sergeant. Do you know if he left a report for me on the Paula Bartlett case? I’ve got a press conference at two.’
‘I haven’t seen one, sir.’
Mullett sighed his annoyance. ‘How can I answer press questions if I’m not kept informed? It just isn’t good enough.’
‘We’re all overworked, sir,’ said Wells.
‘Excuses, excuses . . . all I hear are excuses.’ His eyes flicked from side to side, doing a brisk inspection of the lobby. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Wells, swaying slightly from side to side, trying to give his impression of a loyal, dedicated policeman almost dead on his feet from overwork. ‘The thing is, with this flu epidemic. . .’
‘We mustn’t use that as an excuse to lower standards, Sergeant. This lobby is our shop window. The first thing the public see when they come in. A clean lobby is an efficient lobby . . . it inspires confidence.’ He paused and stared hard at the Sergeant. ‘You haven’t shaved this morning. A fine example to set the men.’
In vain Wells tried to explain about the double shift and that his relief sergeant was down with the virus, but Mullett wasn’t prepared to become involved in the trivial details of station house-keeping. ‘Excuses are easy to make, Sergeant. Those of us fortunate enough to escape the flu virus must work all the harder. Standards must be maintained.’
Waiting until the door closed behind his Divisional Commander, Wells permitted himself the luxury of an importent, two-fingered gesture.
‘I saw that, Sergeant!’ rasped the unmistakable voice of the Chief Constable.
Wells spun round, horrified, then flopped into his chair, almost sweating with relief. Grinning at him from the lobby doorway was Jack Frost who had been hovering in the background, waiting for Mullett to leave.
‘You frightened the flaming life out of me, Jack.’
‘The man of a thousand voices but only one dick. So what’s been happening?’
‘Well, I’ve been working all bleeding night. . .’
‘Excuses, excuses, Sergeant . . . give me the facts, man.’ He pushed a cigarette across and lit it for Wells.
‘Rickman’s given us a statement.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The porno video merchant. Says he bought them from a man
in a pub . . . didn’t know his name. We’ve released him on police bail.’
‘What about my plumber?’
‘Interview Room number two.’
‘Thanks,’ said Frost, making for the swing doors. He paused. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘I’ll get you a broom,’ grinned Wells. The internal phone rang. Bloody Mullett again. Wells’ expression changed. ‘The canteen’s closed, sir. I haven’t got anyone who can make your tea.’ He jiggled the receiver, then slammed the phone down. Not interested in excuses, Mullett had hung up.
Outside the interview room an excited Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon ran forward to meet Frost. ‘We could be on to something here, Jack.’ He opened the door a crack so the inspector could see inside. A fat, balding man with shifty eyes in his mid-forties was slouched in a chair. He wore dark blue overalls over a beer belly.
‘He’s guilty,’ said Frost. ‘Never mind a trial, just hang him.’
Carefully closing the door, Hanlon continued. ‘Bernard Hickman, forty-four years old, married, no children. The day Paula went missing, Hickman was supposed to be working in the cemetery, installing that new stand-pipe by the side of the crypt. His time sheet says he started work at eight, but the vicar is positive he didn’t arrive until gone nine.’ He opened a folder to show Frost the time sheet.
‘Where does he live?’
‘63 Vicarage Terrace, Denton.’
Frost chewed this over. The area where Paula went missing was north of Denton Woods. Vicarage Terrace was some four or five miles to the south. ‘Has he got a motor?’
‘Yes. It’s in the car-park.’
Then Hickman could have driven and forced the girl into his car, raped and killed her and got to the cemetery by nine. But what was he doing north of the woods in the first place? The cemetery was in the opposite direction.
‘It wasn’t a chance encounter,’ suggested Hanlon. ‘It was planned. He’d seen the girl before and lusted after her. He knew where she’d be and waited for her.’
‘Lusted after her?’ said Frost, doubtfully. ‘Why her? The poor cow was a pudding.’
‘There’s no accounting for taste, Jack. Some men lust after the ugliest of women.’
Frost looked reproachful. ‘That’s no way to talk of the Divisional Commander’s wife.’ Hanlon froze in midlaugh, alerting the inspector to danger.
‘Inspector!’
And there was Mullett charging down the corridor. Please don’t let him have heard, pleaded Frost as he slid into his guileless smile. ‘Sir?’
‘Where’s your report for me on the Paula Bartlett case? I’ve got a press conference at two.’
‘Just about to interview a suspect now,’ said Frost, jerking his head at the interview room.
Mullett’s eyes gleamed. ‘A suspect? Already? Marvellous. That’s just marvellous. If we can tie this up in time for the press conference . . .’ He beamed at the two men, then his expression hardened as Hanlon took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. ‘I hope you’re not going down with this flu thing, Hanlon?’ he snapped accusingly. ‘We’re enough men short as it is.’ He turned on his heel and stamped off down the corridor.
‘You can’t even blow your blinking nose, now,’ moaned Hanlon.
‘Don’t breath your filthy germs over me,’ said Frost. ‘Let’s question our suspect.’
Hickman shifted his position in the hard, uncomfortable chair and stared unblinkingly at the nervous young uniformed constable, forcing him to look away. He smirked to himself, proud of his small triumph. ‘I could smash you with one hand,’ he leered.
‘Not if we handcuffed you first and gave him a truncheon,’ said a voice.
The tubby bloke had returned with a grotty-looking man in a shiny suit.
‘Detective Inspector Frost,’ announced the man, dropping into the chair opposite Hickman. ‘Like to ask you a few questions.’
‘I’d like to ask you one,’ said Hickman. ‘Why am I here? Or is it a state secret?’
‘You’re here,’ Frost told him, ‘because we’re investigating a very serious matter. I hope we can eliminate you from our enquiries, but if we can’t, you’re in dead trouble. So just answer my questions.’
‘Then ask,’ said Hickman. ‘Let’s get this bloody farce over.’
‘September 14th. I want to know everything you did. From when you got up, to when you went to bed.’
‘That’s over two months ago. How the hell can I remember that?’
‘Perhaps this will jog your memory,’ said Frost, pushing over a sheet of paper.
Hickman took the time sheet and stared at it in disbelief. ‘So this is what it’s all about? I fiddle an hour on my time sheet and the bastards call in the flaming Flying Squad! They can stuff their job . . .’
‘Your firm didn’t call us in,’ Frost told him, ‘and it’s a darn sight more serious than fiddling your time sheet. Tell me what you did on that day.’
‘I was working at All Saints Cemetery, fitting a new stand-pipe. They were extending the burial section so the old piping had to be rerouted. On that day – it was a Thursday, I think – I’m ready to drive to work when the flaming car dies on me. I fiddle about with it – no joy. So I have to call in a mobile mechanic and walk to work. I got there an hour late, but it wasn’t my fault so why should I let the firm have the benefit?’
‘We’ll want the name and address of the mechanic.’ said Hanlon.
‘I’ve got it at home. Anyway, I worked until half-past twelve, nipped across to the pub for lunch, came back for more work and finished at six.’
‘So you were at the cemetery from nine until six,’ checked Frost. ‘Then what?’
‘In the pub for a few more drinks, home for dinner, then back to the pub until closing time. Supper at eleven, then bed, a bit of the other, and sleep.’
‘How can you be so sure about the bit of the other?’ asked Frost with genuine interest.
‘I’m a creature of habit. Every night without fail whether she wants it or not.’
Frost lit a cigarette and dribbled smoke from his nose. ‘How old is your wife?’
‘Forty-two.’
‘Ever fancied a younger bit of stuff?’
‘Like bleeding hell, I have,’ giggled the man. ‘Trouble is, they never fancy me.’
‘Big chap like you,’ said Frost, ‘that shouldn’t be a problem. You could force them to do what you wanted – whether they wanted to or not.’
Hickman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think I’m getting your drift.’
From a green folder Frost removed a colour photograph and slid it across the table. ‘Do you know her?’
Hickman stared down at the serious, unsmiling face of Paula Bartlett. ‘Never seen her before . . .’ Then he recognized her. ‘Bloody hell! It’s that kid!’ Then he realized the implication and sprang up, sending the chair flying. ‘Just what the flaming hell are you accusing me of?’
A nervous PC Collier moved forward to restrain the man and was relieved when Frost waved him back. Frost snatched up the photograph and thrust it under Hickman’s nose. He spoke slowly and calmly. ‘I’ve just come from her post-mortem. I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell her parents what’s been done to her. So, no matter how loudly you scream and shout and bluster, you’re going to answer my bloody questions. Now sit down!’
His face sullen, Hickman pushed the photograph away and lowered himself into the chair.
‘That’s better,’ said Frost, beaming disarmingly. ‘Now tell us why we found fingerprints all over the inside of the crypt which match the fingerprints on your time sheet.’ No fingerprints had been found inside the crypt, but Hickman wasn’t to know.
‘The crypt? Is that where you found her?’ He leant back in his chair and smirked. ‘If I wanted to rape someone, I’d pick somewhere more romantic than a flaming coffin store.’
Frost’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who said she’d been raped?’
‘I’m not stupid. What have you bee
n asking me questions about sex for if she hadn’t been bloody raped?’
‘And what were you doing in the crypt in the first place?’
‘About eleven o’clock we had this dirty great bleeding thunderstorm. Didn’t last long but it was bucketing down. There was no cover and I was getting drenched. I thought the crypt was a tool shed or something, so I forced out the screws with a claw hammer and stood inside the door. When the rain stopped, I hammered the screws back in and went on with my work.’
‘What do you think, Jack?’ asked Hanlon while Hickman’s statement was being typed, ready for his signature.
‘I’ve got an awful feeling the sod’s innocent. We’ll have to let him go for now, but check every bit of his story out. I want confirmation that his car was up the spout that day, witnesses who saw him working in the bone yard that day, and I want you to find out if it was peeing down with rain like he said.’
‘He knew about the rape,’ said Hanlon.
‘He thought she was raped in the crypt,’ said Frost, ‘but she was already dead and bagged when she was dumped there. He’s our only suspect, but I don’t think he did it – so let’s go and wipe the smile off our Divisional Commander’s face.’
Mullett pulled his overflowing in-tray towards him and flicked through the contents. No sign of the promised amended car expenses from Frost but a complicated-looking batch of multi-coloured forms from County requesting a detailed inventory of the station. He shook his head in dismay. County did pick the worst possible time for their returns. A tap at the door. He straightened his back, smoothed his hair and called, ‘Enter.’
A disgruntled-looking Sergeant Wells came in with Mullett’s cup of tea which he banged down rather heavily on the desk. ‘Could I have a word with you, sir?’
Mullett’s face fell. No more moans from the sergeant, he hoped. Everyone was overworked, but the solution was to buckle down and do that little bit extra, not keep whining about it all the time. He forced a creaky smile and pointed to the chair for Wells to sit.
The phone rang. Mullett glared at it, then frowned at Wells. He had specifically asked that all his calls be held. Wasn’t there anyone capable of obeying a simple order? ‘Mullett,’ he snapped, but immediately his expression changed, his back went straighter than straight and his free hand was adjusting his tie. The caller was the Chief Constable. ‘How are we coping, sir? Well – you’ve seen our manning figures . . . Yes, I appreciate Shelwood Division are in the same position as us . . . I see, sir . . . Well, if Shelwood can cope, then so can we . . .’
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