"Right," said Burton, swaying slightly.
The poor sod’s dead on his feet, thought Frost. "I’ve got some more men coming soon, Burton. You can go home when they arrive."
The detective constable shook his head. "I can hold on for a while, sir."
Stifling a yawn, Frost wished there was someone to tell him to go home. He wouldn’t refuse. He turned his attention to Gilmore who was waiting to speak.
"I’ve checked her purse," Gilmore told him. "Empty except for a membership card for All Saints Church Senior Citizens’ Club and a hospital appointment card. Nothing else in the house appears to be disturbed or taken."
"A few quid," said Frost. "I can’t believe the bastard ripped her up for the few quid in her purse." He let his gaze wander around the bedroom, which smelt stalely of blood and lavender furniture polish. He lit a cigarette and added the smell of tobacco smoke. On the wall above the veneered walnut dressing table hung a framed black and white wedding photograph, the bride in white and the groom in morning dress amidst a snow shower of confetti. That same bride was now in funeral black, eyes wide open and staring up at the yellowing ceiling. Her dress and the bed-cover were rusted with gummy gouts of dried blood.
"That must be her grave-visiting dress," muttered Frost. Something brushed against his legs. The cat. He leant down and scratched its neck, then put it outside. Crossing to the window he twitched aside the curtain and looked down on the empty street where black clouds kept the morning dark. His head was buzzing. So much to do and he didn’t really feel he was capable of handling it.
An area car nosed into the Street and stopped outside the house. PC Jordan and two disgruntled-looking detective constables who had thought their shift was over climbed out. A second car brought Roberts, the SOC officer, with his cameras and flash-guns, and hardly had this pulled up when a green Honda Accord brought the two men from Forensic. Gilmore led them all up to take turns to view the body before sending the constables to join Burton, knocking at doors.
"Find out if anyone saw a blue van," bellowed Frost as they left.
"You haven’t touched anything?" asked one of the Forensic men.
"I haven’t even touched my dick," said Frost, giving his well-worn, stock reply.
The door knocker thudded. "The doctor’s here," called Gilmore, pushing Maltby up the stairs.
"Bit of fresher meat for you this time, doc," said Frost as a bleary-eyed Maltby, his face flushed, squeezed between the Forensic men into the tiny bedroom.
"I might have guessed it would be you again," growled Maltby, who seemed to be in a sour mood.
"Three bodies in one shift," agreed Frost. "I’m beginning to suspect I’m on Candid Camera."
The doctor grunted and bent over the body. His examination was brief.
"She’s dead."
"I worked that out myself," said Frost. I offered her a fag and she wouldn’t reply. When did she die?"
Maltby took a pad from his bag and scribbled something down. "You’ve sent for the pathologist, I understand?"
"That’s right, doc."
"Then let him answer your questions. He gets paid a lot more than I do. Found out who’s been sending those poison pen letters yet?"
"Blimey, doc," moaned Frost. "It was only six hours ago when you last asked me. I haven’t even had a pee since then."
Maltby blinked at the inspector. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing properly. "Hours ago? Is that all?" He felt for a chair and sat down heavily.
"Are you all right, doc?" asked Frost with concern.
"Yes, yes, of course I’m all right." He grabbed the inspector’s arm and pulled him down, dropping his voice and engulfing Frost in Johnnie Walker fumes. "Did you know Drysdale’s put in a complaint about me, just because I examined that body in the crypt before he did? He phoned me especially to tell me."
"The man’s a bastard, doc," soothed Frost. He nodded towards the bed. "How long has she been dead?"
Maltby lurched over to the corpse and prodded the flesh. "Rigor mortis has come and just about gone. Some time Sunday evening, say. Anything else you want to know, ask Drysdale." With a sharp snap he closed his bag and bustled off. "God’s here," he bellowed from half-way down the stairs. A burble of exchanged frigid conversation and the pathologist swept into the bedroom accompanied by his secretary. He stared pointedly at the Forensic men who took the hint and retired downstairs.
"Was that Dr Maltby who just brushed past me?" he sniffed.
Frost nodded.
"And he’s been mauling the body about, I suppose?"
"He never touched it," said Frost. "He didn’t want to spoil your pleasure. If you could speed it up, doc."
Drysdale gritted his teeth at the "doc", but his eyes gleamed when he saw the body. He took off his long, black, expensive overcoat and handed it to his secretary. She, in turn, passed the coat over to Frost who screwed it into a ball, dumped it on a chair and sat on it. He shook a cigarette from his packet.
"Please don’t smoke," snapped Drysdale, glad to have the chance of putting this oaf in his place. Methodically he examined every inch of the body, murmuring the results of his findings to the secretary whose pen translated the great man’s words into the loops and whirls of Pitman’s shorthand.
After fifteen long minutes, ignoring Frost’s repeated and over-loud signs of impatience, he straightened up to deliver his verdict. "She’s been dead approximately thirty-six hours."
"That’s what Dr Maltby said," grunted Frost. The pathologist smiled thinly. "Delighted to have my opinion confirmed by such an expert. The pattern of the bloodstains indicates she was standing upright when she was attacked. The killer would have come at her from behind . . ."
Frost wriggled in the chair. The overcoat buttons were biting into him. "He was waiting for her behind that door, doc. There’s a couple of lovely blood puddles there if you want to have a paddle."
Drysdale allowed himself a brief look, then carried on. "The killer would have clamped his hand over her mouth—you can see the thumb pressure mark on the, left cheek?" He moved away to allow Frost to inspect this if he wished, but Frost declined with a flick of his hand. He didn’t need a pathologist to point out something he had noticed as soon as he entered the bedroom.
The pathologist shrugged. "The killer then stabbed her three times in the abdomen with a knife. The blade would be single-edged, non-flexible, about 6 inches long—and—and razor sharp."
"Something like a kitchen knife, doctor?" asked Gilmore who had returned after giving instructions to the door-knocking team.
"Could very well be," accepted Drysdale.
"There was a similar attack last night . . . an old lady in Clarendon Street. He left a knife behind."
"Clarendon Street?" barked Drysdale. "Why wasn’t I called?"
"You can have first crack at her as soon as she dies," replied Frost, "but at the moment she’s still alive." He related the details.
"If you let me examine the knife," said Drysdale, "I’ll do some tests to confirm whether it could be the same weapon used to inflict these wounds."
Frost scribbled a reminder about the knife on his discredited car expenses. "I’ll get it sent over. Carry on, doc. I’m sure you and your secretary want to get back to your bed . . . er, beds."
Not noticing Frost’s lewd wink to Gilmore, Drysdale continued. "The killer jerked back her head, pushed the tip of the blade into her throat just there." His thumb pointed to the left-hand side of the gaping wound. "He twisted the knife so the blade was horizontal—that’s why the wound is much wider at that point, then slashed open her throat from left to right."
Frost yawned openly. The pathologist was making a damn meal of this. She was stabbed from behind and dumped on the bed. He’d deduced that himself within seconds. "Would he have got blood on his clothes?"
"Yes. Possibly on his upper left arm, but almost certainly a considerable amount of blood from the throat would have gushed on to his right hand—the knife hand—and the sleeve of hi
s coat or whatever he was wearing. He also stepped into the pool of blood when he carried the body across to the bed. You can see the imprints on the carpet."
"You mean the ones Forensic have ringed round in chalk? Yes, we did spot them, doc."
"How did blood get there?" asked Gilmore, pointing to a patch of discoloration on the left-hand sleeve of the black dress. "That doesn’t fit in with any of the wounds."
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 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 floor-boards. 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 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 tires 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 impotent, 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.
Frost 3 - Night Frost Page 10
