"Oh dear," exclaimed Frost, looking worried. He turned to the scowler. "We might have the wrong man, Sergeant." Looking puzzled, he scrabbled through the green folder and plucked out some typed pages. "All these witnesses must be lying." Back to Gauld. "You’d swear on oath you don’t know her, sir?" Before Gauld had a chance to answer, he added, "What about Mrs. Elizabeth Winters, Roman Road, Denton? Surely you’re not going to tell us you don’t know her?"
"I know lots of people. I’m a coach driver. I drive people about all the time. I don’t necessarily know their names."
"Then here’s an easy one—Mary Haynes."
"I’ve just told . . ." He blinked and stopped dead, his expression freezing as if he had just realized what the inspector was on about. "Wait a minute! I’ve just twigged. Haynes . . . Winters! They were both murdered! Are you trying to pin them on me?"
"Yes," replied Frost, simply. "That’s exactly what we’re trying to do." He shook out the contents of the manila envelope and raked through Gauld’s possessions. There was a colour photograph of a grey-haired lady smiling doubtfully at the camera. He picked it up and studied it carefully. "I don’t recognize this one. When did you murder her?"
Gauld snatched up the photograph. "That’s my mother, you bastard!"
"Ah!" said Frost with an enlightened nod. He studied his notes. "Father died when you were three, mother alive and well."
"She’s not well!" retorted Gauld. "She’s got a bad heart."
"Sorry to hear that," said Frost. "Still, better a bad heart than having your throat cut. Any objection to our taking your fingerprints?"
"What happens if I object?"
"We’ll take them anyway, so why cause bad feeling?"
A young uniformed officer was summoned to take the prints. Frost waited patiently until the task was completed, then whispered something to the officer who nodded and left.
"I ought to have a solicitor," said Gauld.
Frost seemed astonished. "You’re innocent! What do you want a solicitor for?"
"Because I think you bastards are trying to frame me for something I haven’t done, that’s why."
"Oh no." Frost sounded hurt. "I might frame you for something you had done, but not otherwise."
The scowler moved forward. "All the murder victims travelled on your coach."
Gauld twisted in his chair to face the questioner. "So what? Hundreds of people travel on my coach."
"Where were you last Sunday afternoon?" barked the detective sergeant.
"I don’t know," smirked Gauld. "Where were you?"
The door opened and the fingerprint man returned to murmur in the inspector’s ear. Frost’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "All right, Gauld. You can stop the pretence. We’ve got you."
"Have you really?" he said cockily. "I’m shaking with fright."
"You’ll be shitting yourself in a minute," said Frost. "You told me earlier you didn’t know a Mrs. Julia Fussell."
"I said I didn’t know the name."
"You were going to fit a stronger security chain on her front door."
Gauld leant back in his chair. "Ah—now I’m with you. Little old dear—about seventy-five. Lives in Victoria Court."
"So you do know her!" said Gilmore.
"I didn’t know her name. I always call her Ma." He looked disturbed. "What about her? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?"
"You called on her late last night to fit the security chain."
"No, I didn’t. I was going to, but I felt tired, so I had an early night."
Gilmore, standing directly behind him, bent down. "You lying bastard. You went there and killed her."
Gauld’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of his chair. "Killed? You mean . . . she’s dead? That poor old lady is dead?"
"Don’t act the bloody innocent. You know damn well she’s dead," hissed Gilmore.
Gauld just stared straight ahead, slack-jawed, head moving from side to side in disbelief. Then his eyes narrowed. "And you’re accusing me of killing her?"
"That’s right," beamed Frost. "You got careless this time. You left a fingerprint behind."
"A fingerprint!" echoed Gauld, eyes wide open as if under standing for the first time. "So that’s why you think I’m the killer? Would you like me to give you a statement?"
"If you want to give us one, we’ll take it down, sir," said Frost, signalling to Burton who turned to a fresh page in his notebook. Frost was vaguely worried. The man was looking far too smug and self-assured. Could he possibly have made a mistake? No. His every instinct told him that this smirking little bastard had cut, slashed and mutilated.
When he saw Burton was ready, Gauld began. "I am making this statement freely, without any inducements being offered, solely to help the police find the perpetrator of this terrible crime." He paused to let Burton catch up with him. "On 14th November, around ten o’clock in the evening, I was returning from the Reef Bingo Club with a party of senior citizens. Amongst my passengers was a lady I now know to be Mrs. Julia Fussell, who expressed herself as being very nervous because of the killings of old people that were taking place and which the police seemed powerless to prevent. When we pulled up outside her destination, Victoria Court, I offered to escort her up to her flat. She accepted. At her door, she gave me her key. I opened the door, had a quick look around inside, and was able to assure her that all was well. I told her that her door chain was inadequate and suggested I fitted a stronger one when I got the chance. She accepted my offer. I then returned to my coach and continued dropping off my passengers. This may serve to explain why my fingerprints were found inside the flat and assist the police to eliminate me from their enquiries so they can concentrate on finding the real killer."
A pause. The detectives shuffled their feet and cleared their throats. Gilmore shot a glance across to Frost who was looking very worried. "You’re saying that this happened on the 14th . . . the day before the killing?"
"That’s right. I’ve got a coach-load of witnesses if you don’t believe me."
"We’ll check them out," said Frost, but he knew they would corroborate Gauld’s story. This slimy sod was too clever by half and Frost wasn’t anywhere near clever enough. He tugged the list of murder dates and times from the folder and began rattling them off one by one. "Where were you on these dates?"
Gauld shrugged. "I don’t know. Probably at work, driving."
"You weren’t," barked Gilmore. "We’ve checked."
Mockingly, Gauld knuckled his brow, then beamed. "If I wasn’t at work, then I probably stayed in and kept my mother company. I’ll ask her when I get home."
"We can save you the trouble," Frost told him. "We’ve got a team searching your house now. One of my men is having a word with your dear old mum this very minute." He jerked back as Gauld lunged forward, all composure gone.
"My mother’s got a heart condition. If any harm comes to her, I’ll kill you . . ."
"You know all about killing, don’t you," said Frost, getting in quickly while the man was rattled.
The only sound was Gauld’s heavy breathing as he fought to control his temper. Then he smiled. "I’m not taking any more of your insults, Inspector. You either charge me, or I’m walking straight out of that door."
"You’ll go when I say you can go," snapped Frost, frowning as someone knocked. He didn’t want to be disturbed. He wanted to get Gauld rattled again. The door opened. Detective Sergeant Hanlon, not looking like a man with good news to impart, beckoned him out. Hanlon had been leading the team searching Gauld’s house.
"We tore the house apart," reported Hanlon. "We found nothing. No bank books, no money we can tie in with the killing, no sign of blood on his clothes or shoes . . . nothing!"
"There must be some bloodstains," insisted Frost. "The pathologist said he would have been swimming in the bleeding stuff."
"Forensic have double-checked. Not a trace. And to make matters worse, his mother swears blind he was with her on each of the murder nights."
<
br /> "Then she’s lying," said Frost. "He’s as guilty as arseholes." He scuffed the brown lino moodily. "What about his car? Did you check that for blood?"
Hanlon nodded. "Forensic have given it the works—nothing."
Frost treated the lino to an extra hard kick. Things were not working out. His heart sank as the brisk clatter of polished shoes announced the approach of the Divisional Commander, all eager for news of yet another triumph for the Denton team.
"We’ve hit a couple of minor snags," Frost told him. "We’ve found sod all clues and his mother’s given him a watertight alibi."
Mullett’s jaw dropped. "But you told me you had conclusive evidence. A fingerprint!"
"It wasn’t so conclusive as we thought, Super. He explained it away."
"The house search?"
"We found nothing," said Hanlon.
Mullett switched his gaze from Hanlon to Frost. "So what hard evidence have you got?"
Frost shuffled his feet. All he now had was a gut reaction. He knew Gauld was the Ripper. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew.
"Your silence gives me the answer I expected," snapped Mullett. "You’ve blown this, Frost. You jumped in feet first without checking your facts. If he is the Ripper, which is by no means certain, all you’ve done is put him on his guard. Without evidence, there’s no way we can hold him." His lips tightened. "Thank goodness Inspector Allen is coming back on Monday and we can start getting things done properly." He spun on his heel and marched back up the corridor, pausing only to punch out one last below-the-belt blow. "The inventory?"
"Almost done," called Frost.
"I can tell County it will go off tonight?"
"Without fail," Frost assured him. Tell the buggers what they want to hear, then make your excuses later was his philosophy. Absently, he pulled out his cigarettes, only to realize he was already smoking.
"What are you going to do?" asked Hanlon.
"I’m nipping round to see Gauld’s mother and try and get her to change her story."
"Be careful—she’s got a weak heart," Hanlon reminded him.
"And I’ve got a weak bladder, so that makes us quits." Halfway down the corridor he turned and yelled, "Probably a waste of time, but send someone down to check out the Oxfam shop where Gauld works."
Gauld’s house was just round the corner from Jubilee Terrace where they had found the mummified body all those weeks . . . no days . . . ago. A small cul-de-sac of older-type properties, jammed on both sides of the road with parked cars so Frost had to leave the station runabout round the corner.
The hinges of the black iron gate grated as he walked through. The woman who answered the door stepped back in alarm. She had been expecting the return of her son and here was this man in a dirty mac, a knitted maroon scarf trailing untidily from his neck. She was about to shut the door on him when he held up a piece of plastic with a coloured photograph on it. "Detective Inspector Frost," he announced.
She peered at the photograph, then at the man. There was a slight resemblance. "I’ve had enough of police. Where’s my son?"
He gave his reassuring smile. "Ronnie’s fine. He’s having a cup of tea down at the station."
"I’ve got his supper waiting," she said.
Frost sniffed the savoury warm smell floating from inside the house. "Lucky devil. I’d like a couple of words, if I may."
She took another look at his warrant card. "Are you sure you’re a policeman?"
"Fairly sure," said Frost, following her down the passage, "although my boss has his doubts at times."
The radio was mumbling away, just around the limit of audibility. The tiny kitchen was warm from the gas oven which breathed out sausage and onion. On the small table a red and white checked cloth was laid with knife and fork and HP sauce. One place only. Frost unwound his scarf, pulled the green file from his pocket and sat down. He sniffed again. "Smells good."
She opened the oven door and peeked inside. "It’ll spoil soon. When is he coming home?"
"Difficult to say," Frost hedged. She moved a chair to the table and sat opposite him. Grey-haired, she was probably in her early sixties, but looked older. A nervous smile twitched on and off and her hands were constantly moving, plucking at her apron, smoothing out the table-cloth, straightening the knife and fork. A bag of nerves, he thought. He tried his smile out again. "I’m not stopping you from making us both a cup of tea, am I?"
"You’ve got a cheek" she said. But she filled the kettle from the sink. "This isn’t a restaurant, you know." A plop as she lit the gas. "Why are you still holding him?"
"Murder is a very serious charge, Mrs. Gauld." Her back stiffened as she reached for the tea caddy, but her face was composed and apparently unconcerned when she turned. From the hooks on the dresser she took two cups, her hands shaking a little as she set them down.
"He’s a good boy," she said flatly, "a very good boy."
A larger version of the photograph taken from Gauld’s wallet looked down from the top of the dresser. "Does he miss his father?" asked Frost.
She frowned. "His father died when Ronnie was three. He hardly remembers him."
Frost 'tutted' sympathetically. "He couldn’t have been very old. How did he die?"
She looked away. "He killed himself." At Frost’s start of surprise, she added, "He used to get very depressed. He threw himself under a train at New Street station."
"And you had to bring Ronnie up on your own?"
The tea in the pot was given a vigorous stir. "I had to go to work. His gran brought him up." She put the lid back on the teapot and filled the two cups. "It wasn’t a very happy time for him. She was very strict. She used to beat him. Poor little mite." She pushed the tea across.
"I’m sorry to hear that." He tried to conceal his excitement, but his hand wasn’t steady as he spooned in the sugar. Whatever vague doubts he might have had about Gauld being the Ripper were now dispelled. He endeavoured to keep his voice casual. "I suppose, being beaten by his granny made him hate old people?"
Her expression changed. "What are you trying to make me say?"
"We both know what this is about, Mrs. Gauld. He’s your son and you want to protect him. I understand that. But he’s killed four people. He could kill more."
She thrust out her chin defiantly. "Drink your tea and go!"
Frost took out the list of dates of the killings and waved it at her. "You didn’t tell my colleague the truth, Mrs. Gauld. Ronnie wasn’t with you on any of these nights. He was out killing old people. He gets a kick out of it."
"I don’t tell lies," she said. He stared at her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze and turned her head away.
He opened the green folder and dealt out the colour photographs of the victims. "Look at these," he ordered, jabbing the worst of them with his thumb. "This is what your precious boy is doing to get his own back on granny."
He heard her gasp with horror and then the gasp changed to an ominous choking sound. He looked up in alarm. Her face was contorted and blue and she was clutching at her chest. A heart attack! The old dear was suffering a heart attack. "Where’s your bloody tablets?" he shouted.
A gargling sound from her throat. Her finger shook weakly in the direction of the dresser.
By the time he had found them, she was slumped unconscious in her chair. He slipped the wafer thin tablet under her tongue, his other hand digging in his pocket for his radio. "Frost to Control." He paused. He couldn’t remember the damned address. "I’m at Gauld’s place. Send a bloody ambulance quick."
Mullett was feeling feverish. This wretched business with Gauld’s mother couldn’t have come at a worse time. The smoke from Frost’s cigarette wafted across and made him cough, and when he coughed, his head ached. He fanned the smoke away pointedly. Frost took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked ash all over the carpet, then replaced it. The phone rang. Mullett snatched it up, his expression hardly changing as he listened. "Thank you." He hung up, then stared grimly across to Frost. "That was the hospi
tal. A very mild attack. They’re keeping her in overnight for observation, but will probably send her home in the morning."
Frost dropped down in the chair, almost sweating with relief. "Thank God for that. I’ll try her again tomorrow. I think I can bust the alibi story."
Mullett took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. "You’re going nowhere near her. You’ve caused enough trouble. You knew she had a heart condition, yet you showed her those horrific photographs."
"Of people butchered by her son. Don’t worry, Super. I’ll be gentle with her next time."
"There’s not going to be a next time," said Mullett emphatically, thumping the desk and wincing as it made his head ache.
"I need to break his alibi," insisted Frost.
"Even if you broke his alibi. Even if his mother confirmed he was out on each and every one of the murder nights, that simply means he could have killed the victims . . . you still don’t have a shred of proof which says that he did kill them. I want proof, Frost, not suspicion, not gut reaction—good, old-fashioned solid proof."
"Let me talk to her and I’ll get your proof."
"No!" Mullett’s head was now throbbing constantly and he wished the inspector would accept the position and leave him alone.
"Without proof, I’ll have to let Gauld go," said Frost despairingly.
"That", said Mullett curtly, "is your problem." He winced as the door slammed behind Frost and set his headache roaring off again. He could feel the sweat beading his brow as he tugged open the drawer for the aspirins. It was this wretched virus, he knew it, but if he went down, then that would leave Frost as the senior officer. And there was no way he was letting Frost run the division.
Gilmore was waiting for him outside the interview room. "Gauld’s shut up like a clam. He’s going to sue us for what we did to his mother and he’s not saying another word unless we get him a solicitor."
"We’re letting him go," said Frost. He filled the sergeant in on his interview with Mullett. "But I still want him tailed twenty-four hours a day. At best we might get the bloody proof we want. At worst we can probably stop him killing another poor sod until Mr. Allen returns on Monday and takes over the case."
Frost 3 - Night Frost Page 35
