Night Frost (43 page)

   "Not much. He lives with his widowed mother. They moved to Denton some ten years ago from Birmingham. He’s never had a permanent job—just temporary work, mainly driving. The neighbours like him. Apart from his hospital work, he helps out at the local Oxfam shop in his spare time."

   Frost gave a derisory snort. "What else does he do? Cure the sick and raise the dead?" He thought for a while. "Do the neighbours see him coming and going late at night?"

   "Sometimes, sir. But you’d expect that with all the late-night coaches he drives." Burton paused. "I know you want to go for broke on him, Inspector, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep a watch on some of the other coach drivers."

   "Then do it, son. As long as you don’t let up on Gauld."

   "We could do with more men."

   "I could do with a new dick," said Frost, "but I’ve got to manage with what I’ve got." He stared miserably at the inventory. "You busy, son?" he asked Gilmore.

   Gilmore backed towards the door. "I’m due in court with Mrs. Compton in twenty minutes."

   Frost flicked through the wad of information-demanding pages and shuddered. He chucked it back in his in-tray and reburied it. His internal phone buzzed. He scooped his mac from the hat-stand. "Tell him I’m out," he yelled from the corridor.

   Burton picked up the phone. "I’m afraid Mr. Frost isn’t here, sir," he told the Divisional Commander.

The sound of the Westminster chimes reverberated inside the flat. A fat, motherly little woman in a green overall waddled into the hallway and opened the door. A shabbily dressed man twitched a shy smile. Not one of the regulars. She hadn’t seen him before. "I phoned," he said.

   She gave a welcoming smile to put him at ease. He looked so nervous. "French lesson, isn’t it? Miss Désirée’s expecting you." She led him through the hall into a dimly lit room with the curtains drawn. "The gentleman who phoned," she announced, then retired discreetly, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.

   The woman sitting on the bed was in her late thirties and looked like a young Mae West. The loose-fitting red dressing gown she wore was carefully flapped open to display black bra, black knickers and black stockings which were held up by rosette, red garters. An over-brilliant smile clicked on automatically as she greeted her visitor. "Don’t be shy," she purred in a thick French accent, "I am Mademoiselle Désirée."

   "Hello, Doris," said Frost, giving her a quick flash of his warrant card. "How’s your bunions?"

   The smile withered and died with the French accent. "Jack effing Frost! Well, you can piss off as soon as you like."

   "You can’t get round me with sweet talk," said Frost, helping himself to one of her cigarettes from a packet on the bed.

   He flopped into a chair and pulled a photograph from his pocket. "Recognize him?"

   She took the photograph and gave it a cursory glance. "Can’t place him," she said, disdainfully handing it back.

   "It’s dark in here," said Frost. "Perhaps the light might be better down at the station."

   "All right. Haven’t seen him for a while, but he used to be a regular. Every Wednesday just after five. His name’s John Smith."

   "It’s his John Thomas I’m interested in. What did he pay for, Doris—straight sex, or did you have to tart it up, if you’ll pardon the expression?"

   "More or less straight sex—but I had to dress up."

   "As what?"

   She crossed the room to a large fitted wardrobe and slid open the doors. Like the stock for a fancy dress ball, all sorts of bizarre costumes rustled and swung on hangers. On the floor of the wardrobe were whips, canes, a canvas strait jacket, some handcuffs and various ropes, straps and chains. She selected a hanger and unhooked it from the rail. It held a black gym-slip, a white blouse, black knickers and thick dark stockings. "He was kinky about schoolgirls," she said. "I had to wear this school uniform and act all bleeding coy. It didn’t half get him excited."

   "It’s getting me excited," said Frost, standing up and stuffing the photograph of Bell back in his inside pocket. "I only wish I had the time . . ."

Gilmore found Frost in the Murder Incident Room rummaging through the exhibits cupboard. "You wanted me, Inspector?"

   "Yes, son. Get the car. We’re going to call on the school master." He pulled out the plastic bag which held the shoes Paula Bartlett was wearing when they found her. He told Gilmore about his visit to the prostitute. "That’s clinched it for me, son. I’m going to nail the bastard."

   Gilmore hesitated. Frost’s case was strong on suspicion, but pathetically weak on proof. "How are you going to do that?"

   "I might have to cheat a little," said Frost, pushing the bag back into the exhibits cupboard, "and if that doesn’t work, I might have to cheat a lot."

Bell led them through into his cold, cheerless lounge, apologizing for the state of the place. "I still haven’t got over it." He cleared some old newspapers from a chair, but they declined his invitation to sit.

   "An official call, I’m afraid, sir," said Frost, looking grim.

   "Oh?" He straightened a few cushions and seemed more concerned at the state of the room than the unexpected visit of the two detectives.

   "Probably nothing in it," continued Frost. "We get these crank calls all the time and we have to follow them up?"

   "Crank calls?" blinked Bell.

   "Paula Bartlett, sir. We have a witness who claims he saw the girl in your house on the afternoon she went missing."

   "Here?" Bell frowned, finding the idea incredible. "Oh no, Inspector, that’s ridiculous."

   "I’m sure it’s ridiculous," continued Frost, "but as I said, sir, we have to follow these things through. Just a formality, but do you mind if we have a look around the house?"

   "Mind? Of course not. Look anywhere you like. It’s all such a mess though, I’m afraid."

   "We’re used to mess, sir," Frost assured him. "No need to come with us. We’ll do it quicker on our own." And he trotted up the stairs, Gilmore following close behind. The first door they tried led to the master bedroom, the unmade bed a shambles, discarded clothes everywhere. Frost grinned. "This will do fine. Start searching." He sat on the bed, smoking, as Gilmore poked around, dragging out the dressing table, peering behind the wardrobe.

   "It would help," grunted Gilmore, shouldering the ward robe back into position, then climbing on a chair so he could look on the top, "if I knew what I was supposed to be looking for."

   Frost puffed out three smoke rings then speared one with his finger. "We’re looking for proof the girl was in the house."

   Gilmore climbed down from the chair and rubbed the dust from his hands. "We’re never going to find it after two months."

   "I don’t know," said Frost, pushing himself up from the bed and wandering over to the dressing table. "There’s some thing poking out down there."

   He bent down and came up holding a shoe. A flat-heeled, lace-up brown shoe. Neatly written inside, in biro, the name 'Paula Bartlett'.

   Gilmore stared in confusion. "I looked there," he said. "I couldn’t have missed it." He snatched the shoe from Frost, his nose wrinkling in distaste as a clinging smell of decay floated up. "This is one of the shoes we found on the body. You took it from the exhibits cupboard."

   "Keep your voice down," hissed Frost.

   "You’re going to plant evidence?" croaked Gilmore. "You fool! You’ll never get away with it." He thrust the shoe back into Frost’s hand. "You can forget it as far as I’m concerned. I want no part of it."

   "Play along with me," pleaded Frost.

   "No bloody way." Gilmore’s mind was racing. He couldn’t wait to get back to the station. This was something Mullett had to be told about.

   "Please!" said Frost.

   The old twit looked so pathetic, Gilmore relented. "Just don’t involve me," he said.

Bell, slumped in a chair, straightened up as the two officers came back in. He forced out a smile which wasn’t returned The older detective’s face was grim and doom-laden. "Is there anything the matter?"

   Frost didn’t answer. He just held out the shoe in mute accusation.

   Bell backed away, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don’t understand."

   "Paula was only wearing one shoe when we found her, sir. We kept this information from the press. In searching your bedroom we found this. It matches perfectly the other shoe we found on the body."

   The schoolmaster’s face was a picture of incredulity. "It’s impossible. I don’t understand . . ."

   Frost felt the familiar, icy quiver of doubt. He was so sure he had the killer that he hadn’t fully considered the serious consequences of what would happen if his bluff failed. "In your bedroom,’ he repeated. "There’s no way it could have got there by accident." He was aware of the irony even as he said it.

   Still the man shook his head.

   "I’ve had a chat with your prostitute friend, sir. Very interesting. Did your wife dress up in kinky schoolgirl clothes for you as well?"

   Bell’s head jerked back as if he had been struck. He bit his lip tightly and shuddered, his face screwed up as if on the verge of bursting into tears. He went through the pantomime of searching hopefully in the empty cigarette box, then gratefully accepted one from Frost. "We all do things we’re ashamed of, Inspector. I was hurting no one. As I told you, my wife was incapable of making love during the last months of her illness. I had to find an outlet somewhere."

   "And you found it in poor little Paula Bartlett? You raped her."

   "No!" screamed Bell.

   "You strangled her, and rammed her in a sack like so much rubbish."

   "No! No, no, no."

   "So how did the shoe get in your bedroom?" asked Frost, hooking it on his finger and slowly swinging it from side to side.

   Bell stared at Frost, his gaze unwavering. Because you put it there, you bastard, his expression seemed to say. Unflinching, Frost stared back. Gilmore’s pen hovered over a page where nothing was written down.

   Slowly, Bell pulled his eyes away from Frost, away from the shoe. He drew deeply on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs, then gradually releasing it and watching the air currents catch it and tear it to shreds. Then he reached out a hand towards Frost. He wanted the shoe. He took it, turned it over slowly, then gave it back. "You have a witness who saw her in the house?"

   "Yes," lied Frost.

   He crushed out the cigarette in an ashtray and buried his face in his hands. "I’d better tell you about it. Yes, Paula was here that day. I should never have kept quiet. It was stupid. But I was terrified you’d think I’d killed her. She was alive when she left here, I promise you." Again he looked in the cigarette box, again seeming surprised to find it empty. Gratefully he accepted another from Frost.

   'When I got back from the cemetery, I was soaked to the skin. There’d been a cloudburst during the funeral."

   Frost nodded. This part, at least, was true.

   "To my surprise, Paula Bartlett was in the kitchen. All she was wearing was one of my dressing gowns and her shoes. She was putting her wet clothes in the tumble drier. She told me she’d been caught in the storm on her bike and had got absolutely drenched. She thought I wouldn’t mind if she dried off in my house. I could have done without it that day of all days, but of course, I agreed."

   "How had she got in?" Frost asked.

   "The back door wasn’t locked."

   "Why was she out in the storm—she should have been at school?"

   "She said she intended skipping the first lesson—she didn’t like the relief teacher who was taking my place."

   "I see." Frost signalled for him to continue.

   "We had a meal from the deep freeze in the kitchen, then she went upstairs to put on her dry clothes. She left here shortly after one. I thought she was going straight to school. I last saw her pushing her bike up that path." He pointed through the window. "And that’s the gospel truth, Inspector."

   "I don’t think so, sir," said Frost, shaking his head sadly and sounding genuinely sorry. "You say she pedalled away into the sunset on her bike?"

   "Yes!" insisted Bell.

   "Wearing only one bloody shoe?" asked Frost, holding it accusingly under the man’s nose.

   Gilmore, his pen hovering, held his breath. Frost was pushing his luck. If the schoolmaster remembered both shoes were on the body, he’d realize that there was no way the other shoe could have been found in the bedroom and that Frost’s case was built solely on a bluff.

   But Frost’s luck held. Bell was confused. His expression kept changing as various alternatives to his story flitted across his mind and were hastily discarded. His best bet would have been to keep quiet. To say nothing. To let the police do the proving. But he’d kept quiet for too long. He had to tell someone.

   "The girl had sex before she died, sir," Frost gently prompted. "And we found her shoe in your bedroom."

   Bell shrank visibly, and stared down at the carpet. "I’d like to make a statement."

   Concealing his relief, Frost gave the statutory caution and signalled for Gilmore to start a fresh page. "When you’re ready, sir."

   "We had lunch. I should have suspected something. Paula kept '
accidentally'
 letting the dressing gown slip open. Then she went upstairs to get dressed. She called me. She was in our bedroom. Sitting on the bed. She was naked. She was wearing lipstick—thick lipstick. She looked like a child tart. The girl was offering herself to me." He paused, then glared defiantly. "What the hell! What the bloody hell! I suppose you think I’m some sort of animal?"

   Frost said nothing.

   The man’s shoulders shook as he covered his face. "When it comes down to it we’re all bloody animals." He stood up and stared out of the window. "We made love. Half-way through she began to struggle. She yelled for me to stop. Then she started screaming rape. I panicked. I grabbed her by the throat to stop her screaming. We struggled. She wouldn’t stop screaming. Suddenly she went still. I must have squeezed too hard. I didn’t mean it . . . as God is my witness, I didn’t mean it. I tried the kiss of life, I tried everything . . . but she was dead."