A Touch Of Frost (35 page)

Inspector Allen, immaculately dressed and coldly efficient, so different from the wretched Frost, drew up the offered chair and sat down.

“Have you seen this?” asked Mullett, pushing the newspaper across, jabbing the offending editorial with his finger.

Allen smiled thinly, thanking his lucky stars that he had dumped the case on Frost before the newspaper story broke. “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“I want you back on the rape case as soon as possible.”

Allen reminded the Superintendent that he had to bring the murder inquiry to a satisfactory conclusion first.

“Yes, of course,” sighed Mullett. “That must be our number-one priority. What progress so far?”

Allen brought him up to date on the finding of the Vauxhall.

“Any fingerprints?”

“No, sir. No prints and, so far, no bloodstains.”

Mullett looked up from polishing his glasses. “No bloodstains? But Shelby’s wounds would have been simply pouring with blood.”

The inspector explained his theory about the waterproof sheeting taken from Shelby’s patrol car.

Mullett looked worried. “No blood, no fingerprints. But that makes it impossible to link Shelby’s body with the getaway car.”

Allen smiled. “We tie Shelby to the car by his notebook, sir. We found it on the other side of the hedge where the Vauxhall was abandoned.”

“Were Eustace’s prints on that?”

“No, sir. Like the car, it had been wiped clean. But that doesn’t matter. It’s solid evidence. All we’ve got to do now is catch Eustace, and that shouldn’t take long—a day or two at the most. He won’t have much money. All he’s got are the cheap pieces of jewellery he stole from Glickman, and we’ve put tabs on all the local fences. We’ve also put a twenty-four-hour surveillance on his house, and I’ve arranged for his phone to be tapped. We’ll get him, sir, and soon, I promise you.”

Mullett leaned back in his chair and relaxed. He almost felt like purring. How marvelous to have some good news for a change. A speedy result on the murder inquiry would take much of the heat off the rape cases. Thank goodness he had one officer he could rely on. He thanked Allen and sent him out to speed up the hunt for Stan Eustace.

As Allen left the office, Mullett jabbed the button on his internal and again asked if Mr. Frost had arrived yet.

The minute hand of the clock in the lobby gave a convulsive twitch and clunked nearer to twelve noon. The tall, thin, angular woman in the green coat, clutching the handbag, shifted her position on the uncomfortable seat and focused hard black eyes on Sergeant Johnny Johnson, who was doing everything possible to avoid her piercing gaze. Come on, Jack Frost, he said to himself. The Super wants you, this old dear wants you, and we all want you, so where the hell are you? He must have murmured this aloud, because the woman was now staring at him suspiciously. He grinned sheepishly. “I don’t think he’ll be too long, madam.”

Her sharp chin thrust forward. “It just isn’t good enough. A woman is brutally assaulted and then completely ignored by the authorities.”

“If you’d like to leave details, I’ll pass them on to Mr. Frost the minute he arrives,” suggested Johnson.

“Leave details?” She pushed herself up from the bench, her voice rising with her. “Am I hearing you correctly, Sergeant? I demand to be allowed to talk to a senior policeman, and I insist that a woman police officer be present.”

Mullett, crossing the lobby on his way back to his office, paused. This sounded like trouble. He walked over to the sergeant. “Who is this lady?” he asked.

“A Miss Norah Gibson, sir. She claims she has been raped.” Johnson stressed the word ‘claims,’ but Mullett failed to take the hint.

“Raped? And you’re making her sit out here and wait?” he gasped incredulously. “Good Lord, Sergeant, where’s your common sense? If the Denton
Echo
got hold of this . . .”

“Er, if I could have a quiet word, sir,” said Johnson, lowering his voice so the woman couldn’t hear. But Mullett was already on his way over.

“Good morning, madam. I am Police Superintendent Mullett, the Denton Divisional Commander. Do I understand you’ve been . . .” He hesitated for a second before bringing himself to say the word “raped?”

Her knuckles tightened on the strap of her handbag. “That is correct, but it seems no-one wants to know.”

At that moment, Frost breezed in, saw the Superintendent, saw the woman, and quickly backed out. But not quickly enough . . .

“Inspector Frost!” bellowed Mullett.

“Sir?” said Frost, coming in again as if for the first time. He acted surprised to see the woman. “Hello, Norah. What are you doing here?”

Her eyes iced over. “Miss Gibson to you,” she spat.

“She’s been raped,” said Mullett.

“She should be so lucky!” said Frost.

Mullett’s face went red. He had to compress his fists to control himself. He inched his face very close to Frost’s and said through clenched teeth, biting off and spitting out each word, “Get a woman police officer and also someone capable of taking a statement, and join me immediately in the interview room.”

He turned to the woman. “If you would kindly accompany me, madam?” As he led her to the interview room she turned and beamed Frost a thin, tight smile of smug satisfaction.

Frost looked up at the ceiling for sympathy. “Why does that stupid, horn-rimmed bastard always want to interfere?” He lowered his head as Webster, engrossed in conversation with Detective Constable Susan Harvey, pushed through the swing doors.

“Hold it, you two,” he called. “We’re wanted in the interview room. A lady’s been raped.”

Mullett sat the woman down, phoned for a cup of tea to be brought in for her, stressing that he wanted a cup, not a chipped enamel mug, then looked at his wristwatch to time how long it took Frost to obey a direct order. He didn’t have to wait very long. The tea arrived, followed closely by Frost with that reject from Braybridge and the good-looking Susan Harvey. Frost had a blue folder tucked under his arm.

Susan drew up a chair next to the woman to give her moral support. Frost leaned against the wall, a cigarette drooping from his mouth. Mullett wished he would smarten himself up a bit. And he wished the man wouldn’t slouch in that slovenly manner. He looked more like a street-corner layabout than a detective inspector.

When Frost was satisfied that Webster was ready with his shorthand notebook he dropped his cigarette end on the floor, then gave Miss Gibson a disarming smile. It failed to disarm her.

“If you’d like to tell us what happened, Miss Gibson?”

She looked down at the floor and blushed. “I was raped last night.”

“What, again?” asked Frost.

Her head snapped up. “Yes, again! Some women are natural targets for filthy men, and, sadly, I seem to be such a woman.” She fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“Tell me,” asked Frost, striking a match on the wall to light up yet another cigarette, “how many times have you been raped over the past three months?”

Her lips compressed. “It’s not the sort of thing one keeps count of, Inspector.”

“But we keep count of them, Miss Gibson. Every time your knickers are forcibly removed, the old computer clocks it up. Now let me see.” He opened the blue folder and flipped through its contents. “Here we are. At the last count it was seventeen times—but each time the doctor examined you he found you were still a virgin. So who raped you, the archangel Gabriel?”

It began to dawn on Mullett that things were not as he had been led to understand. Why hadn’t somebody told him? He cleared his throat and studied his watch as if surprised at the time. “Dear me . . . You must excuse me . . .” And he scuttled out of the room.

“We’ll carry on without you then, sir?” called Frost after him. Mullett affected not to hear.

The woman sat straight-backed in the chair, tightly clutching the handbag resting on her lap. “I might have made mistakes in the past, Inspector, but last night was real.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “You’ve got to believe me.”

Frost sat down. “If you say you were raped, then of course I believe you, Miss Gibson. Tell us what happened.”

She reached out for Susan’s hand and clutched at it. “I was walking through Denton Woods last night, a little after eleven o’clock, when a naked man leaped out on me from the bushes. He knocked me to the ground and savagely raped me.” She stared pleadingly into his face. “That’s the truth, Inspector.”

Frost rubbed his scar. “I’m sure you wouldn’t tell us lies, Miss Gibson.” To Webster’s surprise, the inspector’s voice was strangely gentle. “Can you describe this man?”

She dropped the handkerchief back into her handbag. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t let it worry you,” said Frost, patting her hand. “None of his other victims could describe him either.”

She blinked back her tears and smiled bravely.

“Would you be willing to submit to a medical examination?” Frost asked. “A lady doctor if you prefer.”

Her eyes widened in alarm and she firmly shook her head. “Oh no. It would be too humiliating.”

“I quite understand,” sympathized Frost. “Thank you so much for coming, Miss Gibson. You’ve helped us a lot. I’m sure we’ll catch him now. But in the meantime, stay away from the woods.” He whispered to Susan to drive the woman home, and gave a friendly wave as the door closed behind them.

“The poor cow always asks for me,” said Frost. “I’m the only one who’ll listen to her.”

Webster snapped his notebook shut. “Stupid bitch. What a complete and utter waste of time.”

“Don’t be too hard on her,” said Frost softly. “Imagine how you’d feel if the nearest you ever got to the real thing was making up stories for the police.” He aimed his cigarette end at the waste bin. “Let’s get a cup of tea.”

Sergeant Johnson was waving frantically as they crossed the lobby. “Mr. Mullett wants to see you right away, Jack. Understand he’s worried about your lack of progress with the rape inquiry.”

“Blimey!” exclaimed Frost. “I only took it over yesterday.”

The phone rang. “Denton police,” said Johnson. He listened, then smiled. “Yes, madam, he is.” He held the phone out to Frost. “One of your lady friends, Jack. Won’t give her name.”

Frost thought for a moment. “It must be Shirley. I think I was supposed to take her out last night.” He sent Webster to collect two teas from the canteen and reached for the phone but, seeing Johnny’s ears flapping, decided to take the call in the privacy of his office.

He sat at his desk trying to think of an excuse for Shirley. He saw the report from Forensic and skipped through it. “If they want to search, let them bloody well do it,” he muttered, pushing it away. He picked up the phone. “Hello, Shirley.”

There was silence from the other end, then a woman’s voice said “Mr. Frost . . . ?” It wasn’t Shirley.

“Yes, Frost here,” he said. “Who is that?”

“It’s Sadie—Sadie Eustace.”

Frost slid back in his chair. Sadie! The wife of Useless Eustace! “What do you want, Sadie?”

“Can I talk to you in confidence?”

“Of course you bloody can’t,” said Frost. “Your old man’s wanted for murder.”

“He didn’t do it, Mr. Frost.”

“Of course he didn’t, Sadie. He didn’t do any of the jobs he was sent down for. He’s a model citizen.”

“But he didn’t kill that copper. He swears it. Listen, Mr. Frost, this is for your ears only. Stan’s been in touch with me.”

Frost sat up straight. “No, you listen to me, Sadie. First of all, I’m not on this case, so you’re wasting your time talking to me. Secondly, whatever you tell me goes straight on the record—every word. If you don’t want that to happen, hang up and I’ll forget this conversation ever took place.”

“Stan wants to talk to you, Mr. Frost. He says you’re the only one he can trust.”

“Then let him come to the station and give himself up. I’ll talk to him then.”

“No, Jack, please. I don’t want to speak over the phone. Can you come over to the house?”

“Just a minute.” He put down the phone and wandered outside so he could see the lobby. The desk phone was on its rest and Sergeant Johnson was taking details from a woman whose cat had been locked in a neighbour’s shed. Satisfied that the sergeant wasn’t eavesdropping on the conversation, he went back to his desk. “Listen to me, Sadie. I can’t come to your house. It would be more than my job is worth. I shouldn’t even be talking to you now.”

“The cafeteria in Woolworth’s in the High Street.”

“What about it?”

“I’ll be there in five minutes. Corner table. Meet me.”

“No!” said Frost firmly.

“Please,” said Sadie as she hung up.

“No,” said Frost even more firmly to the dial tone. He hung up, then spun around guiltily as Webster pushed in with the teas. “Shut the door, son.”

Webster backed against the door to close it. He put one cup of tea on the inspector’s desk.

“Ta,” said Frost, stirring it with a pencil, still not certain what to do about the phone call. “I’ve just had Stanley Eustace’s wife on the phone. She wants me to meet her in five minutes.”

Webster raised his eyebrows. “Have you told Mr. Allen?”

Frost shook his head. “She doesn’t want me to tell anyone. Says it’s to be off the record. What do you think?”

Webster drained his cup and parked it on the window’s ledge. “I think you’d be mad to go.”

“That’s what I think, too,” said Frost gloomily. “Stark, staring, bleeding mad.” He stood up and shuffled on his mac. “If anyone wants me, you don’t know where I am.”

With the lunch-time rush the cafeteria was a cacophony of crockery, cutlery, and raised voices. Sadie was hunched up in the corner, staring at the brown plastic table top, which was puddled with spilt tea. Frost bought two coffees from the quick-service counter and carried them over.

“Anyone sitting here?” he asked, dropping down on the padded vinyl bench. He slid one of the coffees over. She raised her head, forced a smile, then began to stir her coffee mechanically.

“Thanks for coming, Jack.”

“That’s all right,” replied Frost. “I felt like getting kicked out of the force.” He tore open the little plastic bag of sugar and tipped it into his cup. “So what have I risked it all for?”