Night Frost (17 page)

   "It was one of those folding ones. I put it in the boot. She could then cycle home when school was over. This is all in your files . . . I made a full statement to that other officer."

   "What sort of things did you talk about when you drove her to school?" asked Gilmore. "Did she mention boy friends, or crushes on any of the masters, or anything?"

   Bell shifted his position to face the sergeant. "We hardly passed more than a few words. She was a quiet girl, and that suited me. When I’m driving, I like to concentrate, not talk."

   "Was she a teaser?" asked Frost.

   His pale cheeks showed two red spots. "How the hell should I know?"

   "In the car, sir, you and her, close. The old knees rubbing together . . . flashes of elasticated knicker leg and tender young thigh all juicy and throbbing?"

   Bell’s lip curled contemptuously. "I find you offensive, Inspector."

   Through a haze of cigarette smoke Frost beamed at him. "You’re not alone in that, sir. But I found it offensive when I saw what that sod had done to that kid, so just answer my questions."

   Bell stood up and towered angrily over the inspector. "I hope you’re not suggesting I am involved in this poor child’s death?"

   "Let’s just say you’re quite high on my list of suspects." In fact, thought Frost, you’re my one and only bloody suspect, so if it isn’t you, I’m nowhere. "Can you tell me your movements for the morning she went missing?" His raised hand halted Bell in mid-protest. "I know you’ve told it all to the other bloke, but I’d like to hear it first-hand."

   "It was the morning of my wife’s funeral. The hearse arrived from the undertakers at 9.30. The interment was at ten. I got back home a few minutes before noon."

   "So, before the funeral, you were alone in the house until 9.30?"

   "No. My wife’s parents were here. They’d travelled down from Berwick for the funeral and stayed with me overnight."

   "Oh." Frost tried not to sound disappointed. "They’d confirm this, of course?"

   "I think you’ll find they’re already given statements to Inspector Allen."

   Frost groaned inwardly. Why the hell hadn’t he done his homework? "I’ve only just skimmed through the files, sir." Skimmed! He hadn’t even opened them. "Your morning paper hadn’t arrived by the time you left for the funeral. Didn’t that worry you? Didn’t you wonder why?"

   "I didn’t give it a thought, Inspector. The only thing on my mind was the funeral."

   "Of course, sir." Damn, thought Frost. There goes my best suspect. All he was left with now was the plumber. Which reminded him. "Did it rain during the funeral?"

   "There was a sudden cloudburst," said Bell. "We all got drenched."

   And damn again, thought Frost. Now I haven’t even got the plumber. He poked another cigarette in his mouth and lit up. The smoke curled and drifted and he followed it with his eyes, watching as it was drawn to the fireplace, some of it wafting up to the mantelpiece. In the centre of the mantel piece a clock in Chinese black lacquer, long unwound, had stopped at ten past eight. Something poked out from behind it. A light blue envelope, the address typed. It looked very similar to the one sent to old Mr. Wardley.

   A sharp cough to catch Gilmore’s attention and a jerk of the head to direct him to the clock. Silently, Gilmore sidled over and pulled out the envelope. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. The typing was identical.

   Bell, staring out at the rain-soaked garden, saw nothing of this extended mime show.

   "One final thing," said Frost casually. "What did the poison pen letter say?"

   Bell stiffened, then slowly turned. He saw the envelope in Gilmore’s hand and snatched it from him. "You’ve no right . . ."

   "We’ve every bloody right," snapped Frost, standing and holding out his hand. "The letter, please, sir."

   Bell stared at him, knuckles white, body stiff with fury. He almost threw the envelope at the inspector. "You bastard!" he hissed. "You lousy bastard."

   "Sticks and stones," reproved Frost, mildly. He unfolded the sheet of cheap typing paper. The typed message said, simply,
Fornicator
.

   "Terse," murmured Frost, passing the message to Gilmore. "Why should anyone accuse you of that, sir?"

   "It’s none of your damn business."

   "In a murder enquiry, sir, everything is my damn business."

   Bell walked back to the window and again stared at the puddled garden blurred out of focus by the curtain of rain crawling down the pane. He wouldn’t look at Frost. He spoke to the glass. "If you must know, my wife had been ill for a very long time. We were not able to live together as husband and wife. There was a woman in Denton . . ."

   "Do you mean a tart?" asked Frost, bluntly.

   His back stiffened. "Yes, she was a prostitute. Someone must have been spying on us, hence the letters. Filthy letters. I burnt the others. This one came on the day of the funeral." He covered his face with his hands and his body shook. "The day of her funeral."

On the way back to the car they detoured. There was the remains of an old bonfire at the end of the garden. Quite a large bonfire. Frost poked at the rain-sodden ashes with his foot. Bits of twigs, stalks and dried leaves. No burnt remains of buttons or the charred remnants of clothes stripped from a schoolgirl’s body. He added his cigarette end to the heap.

   "We’re wasting our time here," said Gilmore.

   "Maybe," muttered Frost, looking back to the house where a thin, bearded figure was watching them from the patio window. "But my philosophy in life is never to trust bastards with thin straggly beards."

   Burton started the engine as Frost slid into the passenger seat beside him. "Back to the station, Inspector?"

   "One more call, son. Let’s check with the headmaster of Bell’s school. I want to find out if there’s been any complaints of Hairy-chin teaching advanced anatomy to the senior girls."

   "We shouldn’t be doing this," protested Gilmore from the back seat. "You’re forgetting—Mr. Mullett said we should drop this case and concentrate on the stabbings."

   "Mr. Mullett says lots of stupid things, son. The kindest thing to do is ignore him."

   As Gilmore had predicted, calling on the headmaster was a waste of time. The man, stout and pompous, was outraged that such an accusation could be levelled at any member of his staff. Mr. Bell had an excellent record, was highly regarded, and didn’t the inspector realize that the poor devil had recently lost his wife?

   Frost felt like retorting, didn’t the headmaster know that while his wife was dying, his excellent schoolmaster was having it away with a tart in Denton? But he held his tongue and took his leave.

"Yes, son," he said, before Burton could ask. "Back to the station." And they nearly made it. Another couple of minutes and they would have been in the car-park when Control called.

   "Calling all units," said the radio. "Anyone in the vicinity of Selwood Road? Over."

   Before Frost could restrain him, Burton had snatched up the handset. They were a minute away from Selwood Road.

   "Eleven Selwood Road. Old-age pensioner living on her own. Neighbour reports she hasn’t been seen all day, her newspaper’s still in the letter-box and her milk is still on the step."

   The neighbour who made the phone call, a sharp-faced little busybody of a man wearing a too-big plastic mac, was hovering in the street and scurried over to the car as they pulled up. "Are you the police?"

   "More or less," grunted Frost.

   "I live next door," said the man, darting in front of them like an over-enthusiastic terrier as they made their way across to the house. "She always goes out during the day. I watch her through the window. She didn’t today. And none of her lights are on, her milk is on the doorstep. She’s an old-age pensioner, you know."

   "Thanks," muttered Frost, wishing the man would go away.

   "I’m an old-age pensioner too, but you’d never think it, would you?"

   "No," said Frost unconvincingly. "Never in a million years." The old sod looked at least eighty. They were now at the door, which was painted a vivid green.

   "Are you going to break in?" asked the neighbour, pushing between them. "Only the council have just repainted these doors."

   Frost leant on the bell push.

   "No use ringing if she’s dead!"

   "Nothing good on telly?" asked Frost pointedly, hammering at the door with the flat of his hand.

   "You could get over my garden fence if you liked," offered the man, "but she always keeps her back door locked."

   Frost moved the man out of the way so he could have a look through the letter-box.

   "You won’t see anything. Her morning paper’s stuck in there."

   Frost tugged at the paper, but it was wedged fast.

   "You won’t shift it, I’ve tried."

   Frost gave a savage yank and the newspaper came free. 

   "You’ve torn it," reproved the man pointing to a thin corrugated tongue of paper that had caught on the side of the letter-box.

   "If she’s dead, she won’t mind," said Frost, peering through the flap. All he could see was solid dark. He sent Burton for the torch.

   "I’ve got a torch," said the neighbour, "but it doesn’t work."

   Burton returned from the car with the flashlight. Frost shone it through the letter-box. He caught his breath. The beam had picked out a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. A woman. And there seemed to be blood. Lots of blood.

   "Kick the door in, son . . . quick!"

   At the second kick there was a pistol shot of splintering wood and the door crashed inwards. Frost found the light switch as they charged in. She was lying face down, her head in a pool of blood. He touched her neck. There was a pulse. She was still alive. Burton dashed back to the car to radio for an ambulance. Gilmore helped Frost turn her on her back, while the neighbour brought a blanket from the upstairs bedroom to cover her.

   Her eyes fluttered, then opened. She seemed unable to focus. Frost knelt beside her. "What happened, love? Who did it?" He turned his head away as the stale gin fumes hit him.

   "I fell down the bleeding stairs," she said.

Tuesday night shift (1)

Liz was in bed asleep when Gilmore arrived home late in the afternoon and was still asleep at eight o’clock when he staggered out of bed, tired and irritable, ready for the evening shift of Mullett’s revised rota. He was clattering about in the kitchen, frying himself an egg and. Liz came eagerly down stairs. She thought he had just come home and was furious to learn he’d been working when he should have been off duty and was now starting on another night shift.

   "You said it would all be different when they made you a sergeant. You said you’d be able to spend more time with me. It’s Cressford all over again."

   "It won’t always be like this," said Gilmore, wearily, cursing as the yolk broke and spread itself all over the frying pan.

   "How many times have I heard that before? It’s never been any damn different." She moved out of the way so he could reach a plate, not helping him by passing one over.

   Gilmore buttered a slice of bread. "Could you give it a rest? I’ve had a lousy day."

   "And what sort of a day do you think I’ve had? Stuck in this stinking little room."

   "You can always go out."

   She gave a mocking laugh. "Where to? What is there to do in this one-eyed morgue of a town?"

   "You could mix . . . make friends."

   "Who with?"

   "Well—some of the other police wives . . ."

   "Like his wife . . . that old tramp—the one who’s supposed to be an inspector?"

   "His wife is dead."

   "What did she die of—boredom?"

   Gilmore rubbed a weary hand over his face. "That old tramp, as you call him, has got the George Cross."

   "So he should. You deserve strings of bloody medals for living in this dump!"

   He opened his mouth to reply, but the door slammed and she was back in the bedroom. He pushed the egg to one side, he couldn’t eat it. He was pouring his tea when a horn sounded outside. Frost had arrived to pick him up.

   Outside the rain had stopped and a diamond-hard moon shone down from a clear sky. Frost shivered as Gilmore opened the car door to enter. "It’s going to be a cold night tonight, soil." He turned the heater up full blast and checked that all the windows were tightly closed.

   "Yes," agreed Gilmore. "A bloody cold night."

Bill Wells tugged another tissue from the Kleenex box and blew his sore, streaming nose. His throat was raw and he kept having shivering and sweating fits. And the damn doctor had the gall to say it was just a cold and he hadn’t got the flu virus. A couple of aspirins and a hot drink and he’d be as right as rain in a day or so. His pen crawled over the page as he logged the last trivial phone call which was from a woman who had nothing better to do than to report two strange cats in her garden.

   The log book page fluttered as the main door opened. "Without raising his eyes, Wells finished the entry, blotted it, then forced a polite expression to greet the caller. Then his jaw dropped. "Bleeding hell!" he croaked.

   A small, bespectacled man wearing a plastic raincoat stood in the centre of the lobby. When he had Wells’ attention, he parted the raincoat. He was wearing nothing underneath it.

   "Oh, push off," groaned Wells, slamming his pen down. "We’re too bloody busy."

   Defiantly, the man stood his ground, holding the mac open even wider. Another groan from Wells "Collier," he yelled. "Come and arrest this gentleman."

   The lobby door swung open again as Frost bounded in, a disgruntled-looking Gilmore at his heels. He glanced casually at the man, did a double take and stared hard. "No thanks, I’ve got one," he said.

   "When you want a flasher," moaned Wells, "you can’t find one. When you don’t want one, they come and stick it under your nose."

   There were extra staff in the Murder Incident Room where the phones were constantly ringing.