Night Frost (18 page)

   Frost looked around in surprise. "What’s going on?"

   Burton, a phone to his ear, noted down a few details, murmured his thanks and hung up. "It’s the response to the Paula Bartlett video. It went out on television again tonight. We’re flooded out with calls from people who reckon they saw her."

   "After two months they reckon they saw her," grunted Frost. "When the video went out the day she went missing, no-one could remember a damn thing." He picked up one of the phone messages from a filing basket. A woman reporting seeing Paula in the town two days ago. Frost flicked it back in the basket. "A waste of bloody time."

   "Excellent response to the video," boomed Mullett, sailing in and beaming at all the activity.

   "Just what I was saying, Super," lied Frost. "How did the press conference go?"

   "Very well," smirked Mullett. "I recorded an interview for BBC radio. They hope to repeat it in
Pick of the Week
."

   "Are you sure they said 'pick'?" Frost enquired innocently.

   There was the sound of stifled laughter and people in the room seemed desperate to avoid Mullett’s eye. One of the WPCs had a lit of the giggles and was stuffing a handkerchief in her mouth. Mullett frowned, uneasily aware he was missing out on something, and not sure what. He didn’t see the joke, but he smiled anyway. He remembered the messages he had to deliver. "Who’s been telexing the Metropolitan Police about someone called Bradbury?"

   "Simon Bradbury?" asked Gilmore eagerly. "That was me."

   "Who’s Simon Bradbury?" Frost asked.

   "The computer salesman. The bloke who picked the fight with Mark Compton. I thought he might be the one who’s been sending the death threats."

   "You could be on to something, Sergeant," said Mullett, handing Gilmore the telex. "The Metropolitan Police know Bradbury. He’s a nasty piece of work and he’s got form."

   Bradbury had been involved in drunken brawls, had served two prison sentences for assault and had been fined and disqualified for drunken driving. There was an arrest warrant out on him for beating up a barman who refused to serve him. He had defaulted on police bail and was no longer at his last known address. Full details and a photograph were following.

   Gilmore rubbed his hands. "Sounds like our man, Super. I could have a result on this case very soon."

   "Excellent," beamed Mullett. "Results are something we are very short of at the moment." He glared significantly at Frost then looked around the room where the phones were still ringing non-stop. "Anything interesting on the Paula Bartlett video?"

   "Yes," sniffed Frost. "Proof there’s life after death. She was still being seen delivering papers up to last week."

   Mullett forced a smile. "Ah well. Carry on with the good work." He turned to leave and was nearly hit by the door as Sergeant Wells burst in.

   "Urgent message for Mr. Frost from Fingerprints," panted Wells. "The senior citizen killing . . . Mary Haynes. One of the prints in the bedroom. It’s someone with previous."

   "Who?" asked Frost, pushing Mullett to one side.

   "Dean Ronald Hoskins. Collier’s pulling out his file."

   On cue, a panting Collier rushed in waving a buff folder. Wells snatched it and skimmed through the details. "Dean Ronald Hoskins, aged twenty-four. Three previous—burglary, breaking and entering and assault with a knife."

   "A knife," hissed Mullett, snatching the file from Wells. "By God, we’ve got him." He was so excited he could hardly hold the file still. He couldn’t wait to phone the Chief Constable . . . 'Sorry to disturb you at your home, sir,’ he would begin modestly, 'but a bit of good news I thought you’d like to know . . . Denton Division triumph yet again another murder solved within twenty-four hours watertight case . . . prints . . . full confession . . .’ "

   His soaring flights of fancy were abruptly grounded by Frost who had rudely snatched the file and was now staring at it, a cigarette sagging from his mouth. "Bloody hell! He didn’t have to travel far to kill her. He lives next door."

   "I interviewed him," said Burton. "It was Hoskins who told us about the key under the mat."

   Mullett was now bubbling with excitement. "Bring him in. Take all the men you need." He pulled open the door. "I want a result on this one, Inspector. Let’s see if we can’t give the Chief Constable some good news for a change."

The patrol car followed Frost’s Cortina as far as the road adjoining Mannington Crescent. Two uniformed men got out and sprinted to the rear of number 44 where they climbed the back fence into the garden, blocking Hoskins’ retreat that way.

   Gilmore coasted the Cortina around the corner, parking it at the end of the street where he switched off the lights and waited for the uniformed men to radio that they were in position. Next to Gilmore sat Burton. In the rear seat were Frost and WPC Helen Ridley, the beefy little blonde, who had changed into plain clothes and was spoiling for a fight.

   Most houses in the street showed lights, the exception being number 46, the murder house with its drawn curtains and a heavy padlock securing the front door. From next door, number 44, an overloud hi-fl belted out heavy metal.

   "Jordan to Inspector Frost," whispered the radio. "We are in position—over."

   "Right," grunted Frost. "We’re moving in."

   They climbed out of the car and casually sauntered up to the front door of number 44 which seemed to be pulsating as the wham of an electronic bass boomed from inside. Frost lifted the knocker and beat out a rhythmic rat-tat-tat. The others pressed tight against the shadow of the porch. The music blared out louder as an inside door was opened. Foot steps along the passage and a man’s shadow against the frosted glass of the front door.

   "Yeah? Who is it?"

   Frost muttered something unintelligible.

   "What?" yelled the voice from inside.

   Frost muttered again.

   "Just a minute . . . can’t hear a bloody word you’re saying." The latch clicked. As the front door opened, Frost moved quickly out of the way and Gilmore pounced, pinning to the wall a man in patched jeans and a washed-out red vest. A potted plant on a stand toppled and crashed to the floor, spilling earth all over the lino. Gilmore tried to yell "Police!", but the man suddenly sprang forward, his palm clamped under the detective’s chin, fingers clawing for his eyes. Gilmore swung him round and crashed him against the opposite wall.

   "Let him go, you bastard." A girl wearing a black T-shirt and very little else raced down the passage slashing at the air with a kitchen knife.

   "Police," spluttered Gilmore, trying to hold Hoskins with one hand and ward the girl off with the other. He had done it all wrong. The knife blade was whistling perilously close to his ear, but the hallway was so narrow, it prevented Burton and the WPC getting past to the girl.

   Snorting like a stallion on heat, the little WPC charged into the fray, sending the men crashing to the floor and leaping over them to grab the girl, spin her round and jerk her wrist up high into the small of her back. The WPC’s foot hooked round the girl’s ankle and sent her toppling.

   Frost stepped back and lit a cigarette. As usual, he was superfluous.

   "Get this bloody dyke off of me," screamed the girl, face down in earth and potted plant with the WPC kneeling on her back and twisting her knife arm to near breaking point.

   "Drop the knife," hissed the WPC.

   "I’ve dropped, it, I’ve dropped it," screeched the girl.

   "I’ve got it," said Frost, picking it up.

   Reluctantly, the WPC relaxed her grip and dragged the girl to her feet. Gilmore, panting away, now had Hoskins facing the wall in an arm lock. With his free hand he fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card. He stuck it under the man’s nose. "Police. Are you Dean Ronald Hoskins?"

   "Yes. How many of you are there?"

   "There’s two more of the sods in the garden," the girl told him. "Who are we supposed to be—Bonnie and bleeding Clyde?"

   "Well, you’re certainly not Di and bleeding Charles," said Frost. "Can we go somewhere comfortable?"

   "There’s nowhere comfortable in this bloody shithouse," said the girl.

   "You don’t have to live here," Hoskins snarled at her. "You can pack your carrier bag and go whenever you like." He nodded towards the far door. "In there."

   The room housed a settee that doubled as a bed, a hi-fl unit with two shaking, throbbing speakers spewing out heavy metal, a black and white television set and a motor bike which was leaking oil on to bare floorboards.

   Frost kicked at the hi-fl flex, yanking the plug from the power point. The music died abruptly and the resulting silence took some adjusting to. He opened the window to the garden and yelled for Jordan and the other uniformed man to come in. "Search this place from top to bottom. Bag all clothing for forensic examination."

   "Have you got a warrant?" demanded the girl.

   Frost smiled sweetly. "I don’t understand these technical terms, love." He found himself a chair, shook off the dubious pair of underpants it contained and sat down. He pointed to the settee, indicating they too should sit. "With an energetic shove the WPC helped them comply.

   Frost drew on his cigarette. Their heads moved simultaneously, watching his every move like a rabbit watching a snake. Smoke dribbled from his nostrils. He fanned it away. "My colleague thinks you might be able to help him with his enquiries." He nodded for Gilmore to take over.

   Gilmore stared at each of them in turn, holding their gaze and forcing them to break away. "You know why we’re here."

   "I’ve got no bleeding idea," snapped the man. "You come bursting in here with that bloody lesbian . . ."

   "A woman’s been murdered next door and you don’t know why we’re here." Gilmore thrust his face to within, an inch of Hoskins. "Why did you knife her? A poor old lady who never did anyone any harm."

   "Knife her?" exclaimed Hoskins incredulously. "Me?"

   "Don’t give me that innocent crap. You’ve used a knife before."

   "Only in self-defence."

   "This was in self-defence," snapped Gilmore. "She caught you robbing her house. She would have gone to the police. So, in self-defence, she had to be silenced."

   "Oh, marvellous," sneered the girl. "The police are bleeding baffled so they arrest the poor sod next door just because he’s got a police record."

   "Not just because he’s got a police record, love," said Frost. "It’s because the poor sod next door left his fingerprints all over the murdered woman’s bedroom."

   The girl’s head snapped round to Hoskins. "You stupid bastard! You never told me you touched anything."

   "That’s right, you mouthy cow!" snarled Hoskins. "Sign my bleeding death warrant!"

   Gilmore gave a yell of triumph. "Caution them," said Frost, "and take them down to the station." He went out to see how the search for the knife and for bloodstained clothing was getting on. The bedroom was a pigsty. Jordan and WPC Ridley were stuffing unwashed clothing into a black plastic dustbin sack, the same type of sack Paula Bartlett’s body was found in.

   "Nothing yet," Jordan told him. Frost nodded glumly. Outside through the window, he could see two police officers sifting through the contents of the dustbin. Something told him that this wasn’t going to be as easy as Gilmore seemed to think.

The interview room was cold. The heating engineers had managed to restore heat to the basement cells, but wouldn’t get round to this floor until the morning. So it was cold. But Hoskins was sweating. The girl, now wearing a thick sweater, sat by his side. Gilmore had wanted the pair questioned separately, but Frost favoured having them together.

   Gilmore switched on the tape recorder, announced the details of the time and who was present, then dragged a chair across and sat facing them.

   "I want to make a statement," said Hoskins.

   "You’re on the air, so go ahead."

   "I never touched her. Like I told the other cop, the old girl knocked at our door moaning that someone had got into her house with the spare key, but when I looked, the key was there all the time, so I left her to it. After a while, I got worried about her, so I went back and knocked, but got no answer. I thought I’d better check, just in case, so I used her spare key from under the mat to get in. I called, 'Are you all right, Mrs. Haynes?' Dead silence. Funny, I thought. I called again. Nothing. So I nipped upstairs just to make sure she’s all right and, Christ! There she was on the bed and blood everywhere. I couldn’t get down them bleeding stairs fast enough." He turned to the girl to verify his story.

   "Dean was as white as a sheet when he came in," she confirmed, "and he was sick as a bloody parrot down the sink."

   "What time was this?" Gilmore asked.

   "About eleven o’clock Sunday night."

   "And you didn’t think of calling an ambulance, or the police?"

   "Ambulance? She was dead—I could see that."

   "Police then?"

   "What—a bloke with a record inside a dead woman’s house? That’s as good as a signed confession to you lot. I’d have been in Death bleeding Row within the hour."

   Gilmore flicked through his notes. "You told the other officer it was five o’clock Sunday when Mrs. Haynes rang your bell."

   'That’s right."

   "And you were so worried about her, you waited six hours before knocking to see if she’s all right?"

   "Well, at least I did go and knock. Other people wouldn’t have bothered."

   "I don’t believe you," said Gilmore.

   "I don’t expect you to," said Hoskins, loud and clear to the microphone. "But it’s the gospel truth."

   Gilmore frowned as the door opened and the little blonde WPC hovered, waving something—a large brown envelope. He’d give her a mouthful for interrupting at a crucial moment. It was Frost who spoke to her, keeping his voice low, then he called Gilmore over. Murmurs of excited conversation while Hoskins looked on worried, straining his ears in vain, wondering what it was about.