"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 mid-laugh, 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 dam 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 been 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 specifica
lly 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 . . ."
Wells gave a silent groan. The Chief Constable was playing Denton off against neighbouring Shelwood, knowing both Divisional Commanders were at daggers drawn in rivalry, each striving to be next in line for promotion.
Mullett swarmed on. "Yes, sir, this epidemic has hit us pretty badly too, but thanks to . . ." and he gave a modest cough, "good leadership, marvellous team work and . . ." He raised his voice and shot a significant glance across to Sergeant Wells. ". . . uncomplaining co-operation from the full team, we’re coping extremely well." He swivelled his chair around and lowered his voice. "Sorry if I sound a mite ragged, sir, but I’ve been up half the night. You’ve heard we’ve found Paula Bartlett’s body?"
"Stinking to high heaven and raped."
Mullett cringed. He hadn’t heard Frost come in. He spun his chair round and signalled frantically to the inspector to be silent. "Apparently the poor child was sexually assaulted, sir, although I don’t have the details at the moment." He glared to let Frost know whose fault this was. "However, we do have a suspect . . ."
"No, we don’t," called Frost. "I’ve let him go." Mullett clamped his hand over the mouthpiece and his eyes spat fire. "Keep quiet," he hissed. Back to the phone. "Events seem to be moving faster than I thought, sir. I’ll come back to you." He smiled sycophantically until the receiver was safely back on its rest, then the smile snapped off. "You will not make comments when I am on the phone," he snarled at Frost.
"Sorry, Super. I didn’t want you to make a prat of yourself with the Chief Constable."
The inspector didn’t sound sorry and Mullett was irked to note the lighted cigarette wiggling in the man’s mouth. He expected people to ask permission before smoking in his office. In Frost’s case that permission would have been refused, but that wasn’t the point. However, he would see what Wells wanted first.
"Sergeant Johnson is still away. I’m doing double shifts and I’m on again tonight, sir. It’s getting a bit much."
Mullett tried to look sympathetic. "Don’t talk to me about double shifts, Sergeant. It goes without saying that no-one works harder than I do . . ." He paused. He thought he heard a snort of derision from Frost. But the innocent look on the man’s face suggested he was wrong. "If Shelwood Division can cope without extra help, then so can we." He raised a hand to silence the sergeant’s protest. "A little extra uncomplaining effort and we’ll come out with flying colours. If you’ve got any problems, any worries, come straight to me. My door is always open." He beamed at the sergeant. "Perhaps you’d close it as you leave."
Wells opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it and accepted his dismissal. He resisted the temptation to slam the door behind him.
Without waiting to be asked, Frost slid into the vacated chair and yawned loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth. What a pig the man is, thought Mullett. "How are you coping?" he asked.
"We’re not coping," said Frost. "We’re struggling and sinking bloody fast."
"Shelwood . . ." began Mullett.
"Sod Shelwood Division," chopped in Frost. "Shelwood haven’t got three major murder enquiries on the go."
Mullett breathed on the lenses of his glasses and polished them carefully. With his glasses off, the blurred image of Frost didn’t look quite so scruffy. But when he replaced them, there was the man, creased, crumpled and slovenly in sharp focus. "The reason we are not coping, Inspector, is because of sloppiness and inefficiency."
"You’re doing your best, sir," said Frost generously.
Mullett glared. "No-one can accuse me of inefficiency, Frost. I prepare the rotas, but no-one sticks to them. I never know who is on duty and who isn’t. We’ve got to organize ourselves . . . allocate the tasks, use our resources to the best advantage. I’ve prepared new duty rosters." He pushed a neatly typed list across the desk. "And they will be strictly adhered to. I will not tolerate any deviation . . . any excuses."
Frost picked up the roster and studied it. Like most of Mullett’s edicts, it was beautifully laid out, but would be impossible to adhere to.
"We’ll all have to work that little bit harder," cajoled the superintendent, "but it won’t be for long. Mr. Allen will be off the sick list next week and you’ll hand the Paula Bartlett case back to him. Other men are coming off the sick list all the time." He flashed his 'be reasonable’ smile. "It will only be for a few days."
Right, you sod, thought Frost. We’ll play it your way. He yawned and heaved himself up. "I see from the roster I’m off duty, so I’ll slope off home and get some kip."
"Wait!" Mullett waved him back to his chair. "I need an update on the cases you are working on." He listened distastefully as Frost spared him none of the gory details of the stabbing and the post-mortem. "One victim’s still alive—so it’s only two murders."
"She’s eighty-one," said Frost, "and her skull’s fractured. The hospital don’t reckon she’ll pull through. I’m anticipating on this one."
Mullett clenched his fist angrily. "Catching this swine must be our number one priority, even to the exclusion of other cases." He pulled his notepad towards him. "I’m holding a press conference at two on the Paula Bartlett case. No joy with your plumber?"
"Not unless we can pick holes in his story, and I don’t think we will."
"A pity," said Mullett pointedly, as if it was Frost’s fault. "Have you told the parents yet that she was raped? I don’t want them to find out from the media."
Damn! thought Frost. He’d completely forgotten this aspect. "No, sir. I don’t want to sod up your nice new roster, so as I’m off duty I’ll leave that for you."
The Parker pen doodled in the air and dotted an imaginary 'i'. "I’d do it willingly, Inspector. But you’ve got their confidence. They don’t want a stranger breaking such bad news. I’ll leave that in your capable hands."
Frost smiled his "you bastard!" smile. "Of course, sir."
Mullett studied his list. "Only one case demands urgent attention. This maniac with the knife. He’s got to be caught before he kills again. That’s the case we deploy our manpower on. The rest can go on the back burner until we’re back to full strength."
"But what about Paula Bartlett?" protested Frost. "She’s been murdered and raped—do we stick her on the back burner?"
Mullett nodded emphatically. "She’s been dead for over two months. The trail’s gone cold. Waiting a week until Mr. Allen returns is sensible and won’t make the slightest bit of difference." At Frost’s continued hesitation, he added, "It’s a question of priorities, Inspector. Face facts! We haven’t the manpower to handle more than one major investigation. By concentrating our resources, I’m looking forward to an early arrest."
Frost pulled a cigarette stub from behind his ear and poked it in his mouth. "I’ll give it a whirl," he muttered doubtfully. He wasn’t happy at back-pedalling on the school kid. His every instinct screamed for him to go all out to find the bastard responsible. But Hornrim Harry was right for once. They didn’t have the resources for more than one big case and they weren’t going to get any help from County.
"Good man!" Mullett smoothed his moustache with his two forefingers. "But we must keep a high profile with the public. We mustn’t let them know we are marking time on the Bartlett case." His eyes gleamed and he snapped his fingers triumphantly. "I’ve got it! There’s a video somewhere that Mr. Allen had made when the girl first went missing. I’m sure we could get the TV companies to run it again." The video showed a Paula Bartlett look-alike, wearing similar clothes and riding the identical bike along the route of Paula’s newspaper round. It was hoped it
would jog someone’s memory, but it hadn’t been successful. As Paula did her round every day, same route, same time, there was much confusion in the minds of people who had come forward as to the actual day they had seen her. The usual reports of strange men in slow-moving dark cars, but none of the leads had led anywhere.
"If it didn’t work when memories were fresh, I can’t see it working two months later," said Frost, "but I’ll arrange it if you like. I could do an appeal to the public."
"Leave it all to me," cut in Mullett hastily. "You’ve got far too much to do." There was no way he was going to let Frost appear on TV, slouching in front of the cameras in that terrible suit, retrieving half-smoked cigarettes from behind his ear. He beamed at Frost. "See the parents, then go and get some sleep. And remember, we concentrate only on vital things. Nothing else matters."
Frost had almost reached the door when Mullett called him back, waving the complicated inventory return from his in-tray. "You might fit this in when you have an odd moment, Inspector."
Frost’s gave the return a dubious stare. "It doesn’t look vital to me."
Mullett’s smile didn’t waver. "Shouldn’t take you long, now that I’ve lightened your work load. County want it back this week."
County can bleeding want, thought Frost morosely as he walked back to his office. He buried the inventory return in his in-tray, screwed up the new duty roster and hurled it at the waste bin, then kicked shut the door and sank wearily into his chair. In two minutes he was fast asleep.
Tuesday afternoon shift
Frost, cold and stiff from an uncomfortable sleep, staggered into the Murder Incident Room where Gilmore and Burton, seated at adjacent desks behind mounds of green folders, barely gave him a glance. They were transferring details from the folders on to roneoed forms which were then collected by WPC Jill Knight who fed them into the computer for collation.
Frost 3 - Night Frost Page 11
