Gilmore pushed his untasted cup of gin to one side and followed him out.
In the murder flat they had to flatten themselves against the wall as the body was manhandled out on a stretcher by two ambulance men who had difficulty getting it round the tight bend to the front door, the corner of the stretcher ripping a section of the floral wallpaper in the process. Immediately following the stretcher came the pathologist, looking like an undertaker in his long black overcoat. ‘I’ve given preliminary details to your detective constable. I’ll phone your office with a time for the autopsy.’
In the lounge the Forensic team were packing up. The chair and the bloodstained carpet had been removed and the blood which had soaked through to the exposed floorboards had been ringed in yellow chalk. The warm, sticky slaughter house smell still tainted the air. Moodily, Frost tore off the dangling strip of wallpaper. The poor cow. She’d have a fit if she saw the state of her little flat now.
From the bathroom door came grunting and a metallic clanging. He looked inside. Harding from Forensic was on his knees, swearing softly to himself as he tried to manoeuvre a long-handled spanner underneath the tiny wash-basin in an effort to remove the waste trap. ‘Blimey,’ Frost exclaimed, ‘isn’t there anything you won’t pinch?’
Harding grinned. ‘There’s traces of blood in the sink waste, Inspector.’
Frost showed surprise. ‘You mean he had a good wash afterwards?’
‘The way he sliced her he’d have been splattered with blood. He couldn’t go out like that.’
‘What about his clothes?’
Sucking barked knuckles, Harding gave the spanner one final push and sighed his relief as he felt something give. He looked up at the inspector.
‘I reckon his clothes are smothered in blood — unless he took them off before he butchered her.’
‘Oh,’ sniffed Frost. ‘And what is she doing while he strips off? Staring hypnotized at his John Thomas?’
Harding grinned. ‘Just a theory, Inspector.’ He dropped the spanner and found he could now turn the large nut by hand.
Frost stuck his head out of the bathroom. ‘Don’t forget to check all dry-cleaners.’
‘Already done!’ replied Burton. A waste of time. This killer was too smart.
Back to the bathroom where Harding was easing off the waste trap. ‘So, if he washed himself, the blood you’re going to find in the waste trap will be the old girl’s blood — right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do we need any more? We’re nearly swimming in the bleeding stuff out there as it is.’
Harding shrugged. ‘We’ve got to be thorough, sir.’
‘Smile when you say that,’ said Frost wandering out to the empty-looking lounge. ‘I might think you’re getting at me.’ Gilmore watched him meander about aimlessly, picking up pieces of bric-a-brac and putting them down again. The old fool had no idea what to do next.
PC Jordan and another uniformed officer returned from their door-to-door enquiries to report no joy. As usual, every one was shocked at what had happened, but no-one had heard or seen anything.
‘This bloke’s too bloody lucky.’ Frost dropped his cigarette end on the floor and ground it underfoot. He felt tired, useless and inadequate. Mrs Proctor’s gin was sloshing about in his stomach, he was beginning to feel sick and his head was starting to throb. He flopped into an armchair.
‘What do you want us to do now?’ asked Gilmore.
Just leave me alone, he wanted to answer, then sat up frowning at a burst of voices from outside. He groaned out loud as Mullett, bright and morning fresh, bounced into the room. He could have done without Hornrim Harry at this particular moment.
Mullett’s lips tightened. Typical. A serious murder enquiry. Forensic busy and conscientious as always in the next room and here was Frost, sprawled In an armchair, and — Mullett’s nose quivered to confirm his suspicion — reeking of drink. ‘Another body, Inspector?’ he said testily, his tone implying it was all Frost’s fault.
‘Where?’ said Frost, jumping up and pretending to look around the room. ‘I can’t see it, Super.’
Teeth gritted, Mullett raised his eyes to the artex ceiling and sighed loudly. Frost never knew when it was the wrong time to act the fool. ‘What progress have you made?’
‘So far, sod all. This bloke’s bloody lucky. No-one sees him, no-one hears him and he leaves no prints. Unless Forensic can come up with something spectacular we might have to wait for him to make a mistake. His bleeding luck’s bound to run out sometime.’
A derisive snort. ‘Wait? You mean until he kills again? No way! I want these killings stopped!’
‘Oh?’ muttered Frost. ‘And how do we achieve that, Super?’
‘By finding the killer and arresting him.’
‘Oh! Make a note of that, Gilmore,’ said Frost, the gin making him reckless. ‘Any other bright ideas, sir — I’m always ready to learn.’
Mullett glared angrily, his jaw twitching. The man’s insouciance always infuriated him. He jerked his head at Burton and Jordan. ‘Wait outside, would you, please.’ He waited until they had gone. ‘You made a damn fool of me last night, Inspector.’
‘Did I?’ asked Frost, sounding very interested. ‘How did I do that?’ His tone implied he would mark it down for future reference.
‘That Ripper suspect. You led me to believe you had a water-tight case against him, and I now understand that your big due, the knife, belonged to the victim all the time.’
‘I’m afraid so, Super,’ agreed Frost, ruefully.
‘And you left me dangling. You didn’t even come in and tell me what had happened. I was waiting for your report and the Chief Constable was waiting for my report.’
‘Sorry about that,’ mumbled Frost. ‘I forgot all about you.’
Mullett’s mouth opened and closed. He was almost speechless. ‘Forgot?’ he spluttered. ‘Forgot to inform your Divisional Commander about a suspect in a major murder investigation?’
‘I have got a lot on my plate,’ snapped Frost. ‘We’re going flat out, we’re working double shifts and we get lots of stupid interruptions.’ He hoped Mullett might take this subtle hint and go, but the superintendent hadn’t finished yet.
‘Detective Sergeant Hanlon works under the same conditions as you, Frost, but he managed to get results. He’s obtained a murder confession from Manson and confessions on at least thirty burglaries. Excellent work that will put us right at the top of the league for crime rate figures this month. It’s results that count, Inspector, not excuses. It seems to me,' and here his glare of displeasure clearly included Gilmore, ‘that you may not be up to the task, in which case I will have no hesitation in replacing you.’ With that he spun on his heel and marched out, oblivious to the near-audible raspberry that followed him out.
Now it was Gilmore’s turn to be angry. If he were to share in Frost’s failures, he wanted to share in his few triumphs. ‘Why didn’t you tell him about Hanlon? He was the one who sodded up the knife and Manson was our collar, not his.’
‘We’re supposed to be a team, son,’ said Frost, ‘not all fighting for Brownie points.’
Gilmore’s reply was stifled by the return of DC Burton and PC Jordan. But all right, he muttered to himself, if it takes Brownie points to get on, I’ll give the bastard Brownie points.
Desmond Watson scooped up the post from the mat and closed the front door behind him. He dumped his brief-case by the hall stand and checked through the letters on his way through to the living-room. Two bills, a bank statement and a commission cheque from his firm. Watson was the Northern Area Sales Representative for a double-glazing company. In the living-room the little green light on his telephone answering machine told him there were messages waiting. He fast-forwarded on cue and review, his ear able to recognize from the high-pitched gabble the girl from his firm passing on sales leads which he would note down later, and then the familiar sound of his mother’s voice. He released the button and listened as he opened up t
he envelope to check that his firm hadn’t yet again made a mistake with his commission payment.
Hello, son. It’s mother. You needn’t worry any more about… Just a moment, there’s someone at the door… A pause. A long pause. And then the automatic cut-off operated.
He raised his head from his checking of the commission payment and waited for the next message which should have been his mother phoning back. But it was a strange voice. A man’s voice. It asked him to ring the Denton Police Station. The commission cheque fluttered from his fingers. His stomach churning with foreboding, he reached for the phone.
Thursday afternoon shift (1)
Gilmore spooned sugar into a cup of hot, strong tea and placed it in front of Watson who was still in a state of shock after formally identifying his mother’s body. The cup clattered on the saucer as his shaking hand raised it to his mouth. He tried to concentrate on what the scruffy inspector was saying.
‘I know it’s been an awful shock, sir, but if you could answer one or two questions.’
The cup was rattling against his teeth. He lowered it back to the saucer, the tea untasted, and pushed it away. ‘Yes… anything.’
‘We’ve been listening to a tape from your answering machine, your mother’s last message. You said she made the call at 9.35 p.m. If you weren’t at home, how do you know that?’
‘My answering machine logs the time and date of all calls.’
‘I see, sir. And where were you at 9.35 last night?’
‘Me?’ His head jerked up. ‘You suspect me?’
‘I’d be happy if I had anyone to suspect, sir,’ said Frost, wearily. ‘I just want to eliminate. Your mother was a nervous woman. She kept her front door chained and bolted and yet someone calls at 9.35 at night and she cheerfully lets them in. It had to be someone she knew and trusted… some one like you, sir. So where were you?’
‘I was in Birmingham. The Queensway Hotel.’ He pulled a receipt from his inside pocket and handed it across. ‘You’ll want to check, of course.’
Frost glanced at it and passed it to Gilmore who went out to phone.
‘I’d like it back,’ said Watson. ‘I need it for my expenses claim.’
Frost nodded. He knew all about expenses claims. ‘On the tape, sir, your mother starts by saying, “You needn’t worry any more about..” Any idea what she meant by that?’
‘I think she was referring to a new security chain. The one on her front door was inadequate. After hearing about those burglaries and then those two women killed, I’d been on to her to get a stronger one.’
‘Can you think of anyone your mother would be happy to admit into her flat at 9.35 at night?’
‘No-one. She was a very nervous woman.’ He looked up as Gilmore returned with the receipt and murmured some thing in the inspector’s ear.
‘The hotel confirm your visit, sir.’ Frost handed the receipt back and stood up. ‘Thank you for your help. We’ll let you know how our enquiries progress… and, of course, you have our deepest sympathy.’ As the door closed behind Watson, Frost’s solemn expression changed to a grin. ‘So he had a double room and a woman and he asked the hotel for a single room receipt?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Gilmore.
‘The crafty bastard,’ said Frost, shaking his head in admiration. ‘He gets his firm to pay for his nookie. I wish I could wangle something like that. Anyway, Sonny Boy’s in the clear.’ He picked up the cassette from the answering machine. ‘Let’s find out if this can tell us what we want to know.’
The Murder Incident Room was swirled with a fog of duty-free cigarette smoke. Frost sat on the corner of the front desk watching Gilmore slot the tape into the Yamaha cassette deck. He clapped his hands for silence.
‘Right. As you know, we’ve had another Ripper murder.’ He held aloft some enlarged colour prints where red was the predominant colour. ‘We’ve got photos of the victim, but unless you get a kick out of steaming entrails, I suggest you take them as read. The bastard almost disembowelled her.’ He stood up, the cigarette waggling in his mouth as he spoke. ‘The victim is a Mrs Doris Watson, aged seventy-six, a widow with one son. She rarely went out, except to the twice-weekly senior citizens’ afternoon sessions at the Reef Bingo Club. The poor cow was terrified of being attacked so she had extra bolts, a spy-hole and a security chain fitted to her front door. Last night, at 9.35, she made a telephone call to her son. The son was out, but his answering machine picked up the call. This is it.’ He nodded for Gilmore to start the tape.
A bleep. Then, Hello, son. It’s mother. You needn’t worry anymore about… Just a moment, there’s someone at the door… Vague sounds as the tape continued, then another bleep. Gilmore jammed down the Stop control.
The room was dead quiet.
‘She put down the phone,’ continued Frost, ‘and went to the front door. She squints through the spy-hole, likes what she sees, so this nervous woman undoes the chain, draws the bolts and welcomes in the bastard who’s going to rip out her intestines.’ He took the cigarette from his mouth and spat out a shred of tobacco. ‘You’re all a lot smarter than I am, so let’s have some brilliant suggestions. Come on — you’re a nervous woman of seventy-six. Who would you let into your flat at night — apart from a toy-boy with his own teeth and a big dick?’
Burton raised his hand. ‘Something we’ve never considered, sir. She’d never let in a man — but what if the Ripper was a woman?’
Frost chewed on his lip as he thought this over. ‘It’s possible, son. It would explain a lot, but my gut reaction is against it. We’ll keep it in mind, though.’
WPC Jill Knight raised a hand. ‘If she’d phoned for a doctor, she’d let him in.’
A buzz of excitement.
‘You’re right,’ said Frost. ‘She’d let a doctor in.’
‘Or a priest,’ added Gilmore. Purley was still his number one suspect.
‘Or a priest,’ agreed Frost. ‘OK, son You can check on the curate. We want to know where he was last night. And you, Jill. Find out who her doctor was. See if she asked him to call last night and even if she didn’t, find out where he was at 9.35. Anything else?’
He waited. Nothing. He took out a fresh cigarette then threw the pack to Burton to offer around. ‘I’ll tell you some thing that worries me.’ He struck a match on the table leg. ‘This time he took no money. He didn’t ransack the bed room. Over a hundred quid in her purse in full view on the sideboard and it wasn’t touched. Now Sergeant Gilmore suggests something disturbed the Ripper and he had to hoof it off before he could nick anything.’ He blew out the match and let it drop to the floor. ‘But stupid sod that I am, I can’t buy that. This bloke is icy cold. Nothing panics him. I reckon money’s never been his motive.’
‘So what is his motive?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Killing,’ said Frost. ‘I reckon he gets his kicks out of cold, bloody killing.’
The room went quiet. Chillingly quiet. This had the ring of unpalatable truth.
‘Right.’ Frost slipped down from the desk. ‘Let’s play the tape again.’
It was played again, and again and again. Frost, smoking, chewing his knuckles, hunched in front of the loudspeaker. Just a moment, there’s someone at the door… Vague sounds. A bleep. Gilmore’s voice… Mr Watson, this is Denton Police
‘Again,’ snapped Frost. There was something there. Some thing his subconscious had caught but which kept slipping away. ‘This is no damn good,’ he moaned. ‘I want it louder.’
‘It won’t go any louder,’ said Gilmore.
‘We could use the hi-fl equipment in the rest room,’ suggested Burton.
They crowded into the rest room. Gilmore slotted in the cassette and turned the amplifier up almost to its maximum. He pressed Play and the hiss of raw tape crackled from the twin speakers.
The bleep screamed out like an alarm signal. Tape hiss. Hello, son. It’s mother, shouted the old lady, the sound almost hurting their ears.
‘Leave it,’ ordered Frost as Gilmore
’s hand moved to turn down the volume. You needn’t worry any more about… Through the mush, a buzzing vibrating sound. Then an other.
‘The door bell,’ muttered Frost. At ordinary volume level it was inaudible.
Just a moment, there’s someone at the door… A rustling, then an echoing bang as if someone had hit a microphone. She had put the phone down. Fading footsteps as she padded up the hall to the front door, eager to let in her murderer. Now the tape background roar was paramount. Frost pressed his ear to the speaker. ‘Nothing. I imagine she’s giving him the eyeball through the peep-hole. Ah…’ He moved back. Just about audible, the sound of bolts being drawn and the chink of the chain being removed. The lock clicked. The door opened. The woman said something, but it was so faint and the background so loud, they couldn’t distinguish a word. Then a screaming bleep as the automatic cut-off operated.
‘Let me have a go,’ said Burton, elbowing Gilmore away and adjusting various controls on the hi-fl’s graphic equalizer which could cut and boost individual frequencies. ‘Now try it.’
By now, they almost knew every squeak, rustle and click off by heart. When the woman spoke after opening the door it was clearer, but tantalizingly not clear enough for them to make out a single word. ‘Again,’ ordered Frost. But Mrs Watson might have been talking in a foreign language for all the sense it made. God, thought Frost. She could be naming her killer — ‘Come in, Mr Ripper of 19 High Street, Denton’ — yet they couldn’t understand what she was saying.
‘Try the earphones,’ said Burton.
The earphones were better, but still not good enough.
‘Let me have a go,’ said Jill Knight, adjusting the earphones over her tightly curled hair. She listened and frowned. ‘Again,’ she said. The frown was deeper, but this time her lips were moving as if she was repeating what she heard. She took off the earphones. ‘She’s saying, “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you so soon.” ’
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