Night Frost (34 page)

   "Neither is smashing someone’s skull in," barked Gilmore from behind him.

   "A tap, Mr. Frost, that’s all I gave her. A tap with me jemmy, just to discourage her. The bloody knife was stuck in my stomach and I had to pull it out. I’d tore my rubber gloves in the struggle, so I wiped the handle clean in case my prints were on it, then grabbed up a few bits of jewellery and got the hell out of there. When I read in the paper next day she was in Intensive Care, it frightened the shit out of me—if you’ll pardon the expression. I never did another job from that night to this. That’s the honest, gospel truth."

   Frost shook another cigarette out of the packet and tapped it on the table. "Tell me the honest gospel truth about the other poor cows, Wally. Did they all come at you with knives I and then commit hara-kiri?" He watched the prisoner closely, but unless Manson was a brilliant actor, he didn’t seem to know what Frost was talking about.

   "Others? What are you trying to pin on me?"

   Frost opened the file and spread out colour photographs of the two dead women showing their wounds in vivid close up, his eyes still locked on Manson’s face.

   Wally shuddered and turned his head. "Bloody hell, Mr. Frost. That’s horrible." He fumbled for a grubby handkerchief to mop his brow. "You ain’t suggesting they’re down to me? I’ve never killed anyone in my life." 

   "Yes, you have, Wally," said Frost, grimly. "The old girl you discouraged by caving in her skull died in hospital."

   "Come off it, Inspector," said Wally, grinning to show that he had seen through Frost’s bluff. "There’s no way a little tap would . . ." And then he saw Frost’s expression and knew he was serious. "Oh my God!" The grin froze solid and his face drained of colour. "Dead?"

   Frost nodded.

   "Bloody hell, Mr. Frost. She came at me—with a knife. I had no choice—it was self-defence."

   "Were these self-defence?" asked Frost, smacking his hand on the photographs.

   "You’re not pinning them on me, Mr. Frost. I’ll cough to the old girl, but that’s all."

   Frost gave him a disarming smile. "Fair enough, Wally. Tell you what—as we’re mates—cough to the others and I’ll give you self-defence on the first one."

   "I never bleedin’ did the others. How can I make you believe me?"

   "I’d consider an alibi, Wally. Where were you Tuesday night?"

   Manson looked appalled. "I can’t give you an alibi without incriminating myself. I was doing another job."

   "Don’t be a twat, Wally. We’re talking murder and you’re talking petty burglary."

   Manson gave a hopeless shrug. "I can’t bloody win, can I? All right, on Tuesday night I did some cars over at Forest View—I got a CD player from one and a couple of cassette players from the others."

   "What about Sunday?"

   "I did a house in Appleford Court. Got away with around £80. Then I tried a car round the back but the flaming alarm went off."

   Frost nodded. He knew about the Appleford Court burglary and he’d check on the cars. But this was Sunday night. Mary Haynes was killed in the afternoon. "What about Sunday afternoon?"

   "I stayed in. I had it away with Belle."

   "Let’s say that took a minute—half a minute if you kept your boots on. What did you do with the rest of the time?"

   "I stayed in until six—Belle will vouch for me."

   Frost gave a snort. "She’s as big a liar as you are. You’ve got no alibi for the time of the killing, and we’ve found a pair of your jeans soaked in blood."

   "That was my blood, Mr. Frost . . ." Wally was almost in tears. "You’ve got to believe me."

   "The court has got to believe you, Wally, not me." Frost scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Feel like doing a deal?"

   Manson regarded Frost warily. "What sort of a deal?"

   "A bloody good one, Wally. We’ve got a whole stack of outstanding burglaries and car thefts on file. I want you to cough to every single one that’s down to you . . ."

   "Now hold on, Mr. Frost," Manson protested.

   "Do yourself a favour and listen, Wally. Whatever sentences you get will run concurrently: one burglary or a hundred, you won’t even feel it. In return, I’m prepared to tell the court how helpful you’ve been and to recommend to the DPP that we accept your plea of manslaughter in the case of Alice Ryder. To help you make up your mind, if you say no, we’re going for murder."

   Manson chewed at his finger while he thought this over. "What about them two?" He pointed to the photographs on the table.

   "Call me a sentimental old sod, Wally, but providing nothing happens to make me change my mind, I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt over them two."

   Wally sighed. "All right, Mr. Frost. You win."

   "Good boy," smiled Frost, scooping the photographs back into the file and standing.

   Behind the prisoner, Gilmore’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. The inspector had given almost nothing away—the DPP would probably have settled for manslaughter anyway—and in return a whole stack of out-standings would be cleared in one go and Denton’s 'Crime Return' would start looking healthy again. Anxious to share the undoubted credit this would accrue, he dropped into Frost’s vacated chair, ready to start taking Manson’s statements. His scowl deepened when Frost informed him that the little fat slob, Hanlon, would be taking over from now and it was with the greatest reluctance he vacated the chair.

   At the door, Frost stopped and smote his forehead with his palm. He had almost forgotten the videos. "Where did you get them?"

   Wally hung his head. "I nicked them from a car. Wouldn’t have touched them had I known what they were like. Blimey, I like a bit of the old sex and violence as much as the next man, but I draw the line at dogs . . . they may be man’s best friend, but that one was being too bloody friendly."

   "Details, Wally."

   "I’m driving in the van the Saturday night before last, about ten o’clock, and I spots this big flash motor parked round the back of the Market Square."

   "What sort of car?" Gilmore asked. "What make?"

   "I don’t know. An expensive motor, all gleaming. Black, I think . . . the seats looked like real leather. Anyway, I wasn’t there to admire it. I jemmied open the boot, grabbed this box and I’m back in my van before anyone spots me."

   Frost prodded Manson for more details, but there was nothing else he could tell them, only that it was an expensive set of wheels.

   Outside in the corridor, Gilmore’s anger boiled over. "You’re letting Hanlon take his statement? We get a confession on the Ryder murder and Manson is going to cough on all his other jobs. We do all the work and you’re going to let Hanlon take all the credit!"

   "I can’t be sodded about with all that paperwork," said Frost. "We’ve got enough on our plates without having to take yards and yards of statement down." He yawned. "I don’t know about you, son, but I’m going home for some kip."

   Gilmore, still angry, watched the old cretin shuffle off down the corridor. Just his lousy luck to be stuck with that apology for a policeman. He was being associated with Frost’s many failures, but wasn’t getting the chance to be involved with his all too few successes. Just because the fool had killed all his own promotion prospects, there was no need to deny them to everyone else. Damn and blast the stupid burk. He stormed off to the car-park.

   As he was settling down in bed, Frost remembered he hadn’t reported back to Mullett about Wally Manson. Ah well, he’d worry about that in the morning.

The jangling of a bell woke Gilmore up. He fumbled for the alarm, but the bell rang on. The bedside clock tried to tell him it was ten o’clock but he felt as if he had only been asleep a couple of minutes. The ringing went on and some one was banging at the front door. He pulled on his dressing gown and staggered downstairs.

   A motor-cycle policeman holding a crash helmet asked him if he was Detective Sergeant Gilmore and told him to pick up Inspector Frost immediately.

   There had been another Ripper killing.

   "Why knock me up?" growled Gilmore. "Haven’t you heard of the telephone?"

   "Haven’t you heard of putting it back on the hook?" called the policeman, kick-starting his bike and roaring off.

   Yes, the damn handset was off. Mentally cursing Liz, Gilmore replaced it and dashed into the bathroom for a quick cold shower which he hoped would jar him into consciousness. He had finished dressing when the front door slammed and Liz returned from shopping, the bottles clinking in her carrier bag.

   "You’re going out again?" she shrilled. "Out all night and now you’re going out again?"

   He patted on aftershave, then knotted his tie and adjusted it in the bathroom mirror. "I’ve got to. There’s been another murder." His head was aching from not enough sleep and he could have done without any more aggro.

   She pushed past him, her face ugly, not saying a word.

   He slipped on his camel-hair overcoat and made sure he had his car keys. "I’ll get back as soon as I can—I promise."

   "Don’t bloody bother," she snapped, slamming down the shopping. "Don’t bloody bother."

Frost, looking as gritty and crumpled as he had done the night before, was waiting outside his house and he grunted thankfully as he slumped into the front passenger seat. "Another old girl slashed," he told Gilmore. "Haven’t got the full details yet."

   The address was Kitchener Mansions, a block of old people’s flats. The lift, its wet floor smelling of pine disinfectant, juddered them up to the third floor. DC Burton, waiting for them outside flat number 311, looked shattered. "It’s a messy one, Inspector."

   "Tell me something new," muttered Frost gloomily, following Burton into the flat.

   They walked into a tiny passage, squeezing past a small table holding a telephone and a plastic piano-key index, then on to a small living-room which seemed to be full of people, all keeping well back from the object in the centre of the floor. "Let the dog see the rabbit," said Frost, barging through.

   The old lady, fully dressed, sat in an armchair, her head back, empty eyes staring at the ceiling. Her neck grinned with the blood-gummed lips of a cut throat. Her stomach had been slashed open so that her intestines bulged out on to her lap. At her feet the grey-carpeted floor was sodden with the blood pumped out by her panic-stricken heart as the knife ripped and tore. The tiny room had the smell of an abattoir.

   "Flaming hell!" muttered Frost. He backed away. He had seen enough.

   Even Ted Roberts, the SOC officer, no stranger to violent death, was shaken and had difficulty in keeping his hands steady as he adjusted his camera lens for close-ups of the neck wound.

   Gilmore pulled his eyes away from the corpse, and looked around the room. He recognized the uniformed constable, PC Simms, who had arrested Manson the night before. He also recognized the two men from Forensic who had been at Greenway’s house. The duty police surgeon, a thin solemn-looking man busily engaged in filling in his Police Expense Claim form, he hadn’t seen before.

   A light oak sideboard stood against the far wall. On it a cut-glass fruit bowl held some apples and a black leather purse. Gilmore nudged Frost and pointed it out to him.

   Carefully stepping wide to avoid the puddles of blood, Frost picked up the purse with his handkerchief. It bulged with the pension money the old lady had drawn from the main Denton post office the previous morning. He counted it quickly. Nearly one hundred pounds. Gloomily he pushed it back into the purse. "How come the killer didn’t take this?"

   "Perhaps he was disturbed?" suggested Gilmore. "He heard someone coming and legged it away."

   "Perhaps," muttered Frost, who wasn’t convinced. He nosed through the other compartments of the purse. An uncollected prescription for some sleeping tablets, a hospital appointment card, a membership card for the Reef Bingo Club, and some ancient raffle tickets. In the last compartment he found two Yale keys; one was for the front door, but the other was a maverick. He clicked the purse shut and returned it to the fruit bowl. “What has been nicked?"

   "Nothing, as far as we can tell," answered Burton. "Nothing seems to be disturbed." He moved away so Frost could look into the bedroom where everything was as neat and tidy as the murdered woman had left it. Frost opened a couple of drawers. The contents clearly had not been touched.

   "Like I said," offered Gilmore, "he heard someone coming and legged it before he could nick anything."

   "Perhaps," muttered Frost, still doubtful. Back to Burton. "All right, son. Let’s have some details."

   Burton flipped open his notebook. "Her name is Doris Watson, seventy-six. She’s a widow and has a son living in Denton."

   "Anyone contacted him?" interrupted Frost.

   Burton shook his head. "We’ve been waiting for you, sir."

   Frost sent Gilmore to look the son up in the telephone index in the hall. "Ring him. Ask if he can come over. Don’t tell him what it’s about." He nodded for Burton to continue.

   "Her neighbour, Mrs. Proctor, in the next flat saw her at eight o’clock last night when she called here to borrow a
Daily Mirror
to read. A little before ten she knocked again to return it, but got no answer."

   "By ten, she was dead," called the police surgeon, picking up his bag ready to leave.

   "You’re bloody precise all of a sudden," commented Frost. "You usually won’t even pin yourself down to the day of the week. Are you certain she was dead by ten?"

   The doctor shrugged. Nothing was certain in determining the time of death. "Give or take an hour each way," he hedged.

   "Thanks for sod all," sniffed Frost as the doctor took his leave. He raised his eyebrows at Gilmore who had finished phoning.

   "All I get is his answering machine," Gilmore told him. "I left a message for him to phone the station."

   Frost’s eyes travelled round the room. No sign of forcible entry. The killer must have come in through the front door.

   They moved through the hall to take a look at the door which had additional bolts fitted and also a security chain, but not a very strong one. There was a peephole lens so any caller could be verified before the door was opened. She was nervous of callers, but when someone knocked some time after eight o’clock at night she had drawn the bolts, Unhooked the security chain and let them in. It had to be someone she knew. Someone she trusted.