Winter Frost (8 page)

   
"When they spoke, what did they sound like?"

   
"Just ordinary. I think they were local . . . they didn't say much, just 'Give us the keys.' "

   
Liz persisted with her questioning, but got little more from the woman except that she doubted if she would recognize cither of them again. A tired-looking doctor, making a great effort to stifle his yawns, approached them. "We've sent your husband up to Nightingale Ward for the night, Mrs. Redwood. His injuries are minor, but he's in a state of shock. Hopefully he can go home tomorrow."

   
"His leg?"

   
"We've got all the pellets out and cleaned him up. No permanent damage." He pointed to the staff nurse. "The nurse will take you to the ward."

   
"Is he in a fit state to answer questions?" asked Liz.

   
The doctor shook his head. "He's still groggy from the anaesthetic . . . Best wait until the morning."

   
She smiled her thanks. This suited her. She wanted to get back to the more important murder inquiry. Frost could take over the questioning of Redwood in the morning. She radioed the description of the two men to Control, then made her way back to her car. She was almost at the exit doors when a red-faced and panting young nurse caught up with her. "Inspector. The old gentleman who was shot in the petrol station. He wants to speak to you. Says it's important."

   
Damn and double damn. Liz hesitated, trying to think of a reason to get out of seeing him. The longer she delayed getting back to the murder investigation, the more Frost would be getting his heels dug in too far to give it up. This was her case. A successful murder inquiry would give her chance of promotion the boost it needed.

   
"Inspector . . . ?" said the nurse, waiting for her reply.

   
Liz sighed and forced a smile. "Would you take me to him, please."

With the body and Liz Maud out of the way they were able to move furniture about and give the room a thorough search. This produced two major finds. A bloodstained flick-knife was found under the divan bed, probably kicked there during the struggle. "Get it checked for prints," said Frost, who then remembered the green business card in his pocket. He passed it over to Detective Sergeant Hanlon. "If we haven't found out who the poor cow is by the morning, Arthur, show this to the local print shops. They might come up with a name."

   
Hanlon wasn't too sure. "You can run these off on a home computer now, Jack. She probably printed it herself."

   
"Try anyway," said Frost.

   
And then Simms, who was dragging the wardrobe away from the wall, yelled with excitement. "Something here, Inspector." Wedged between the wardrobe and the wall was a wallet. Frost took it carefully by the edges and picked through the contents. Banknotes to the value of some £400, credit cards and credit card receipts and a diary full of telephone numbers. Frost beamed. "Our drunken friend's missing wallet," he announced. "And he told us a porky about his name . . . it's Gladstone . . . Robert Gladstone and he lives in Denton." He radioed for Morgan to go and pick him up.

   
One of the search parties radioed in to report they had had no luck in finding the missing knife. "Ah!" said Frost. "Might be a good idea to let them know we've already found it." There was little more he could do on the spot, so he left them to get on with it and drove back to the station.

Gladstone, now sobered up, looked uneasily at Frost. He was wearing a white, one-piece overall provided for him while his own clothes were away for forensic examination. "Look . . . I don't want to get involved in this. You've got no right—"

   
"Shut up!" said Frost cheerfully, dropping into the chair opposite and sticking a cigarette into his mouth. "Do you want to confess now, or shall we waste time beating you up and claiming you fell down the stairs while drunk?"

   
Gladstone stared warily at Frost, not certain whether to take this seriously or not. "I don't have to put up with this. I'm the victim here."

   
Frost dragged the cigarette from his mouth, eyes opened wide in mock amazement. "You're the victim? I thought the poor cow on the bed was the victim!" He nodded for Morgan to start up the tape machine to record the interview.

   
"I came to you to report a crime."

   
"You reported the wrong one, though, didn't you? I suppose it slipped your mind to tell us you'd killed her."

   
"Killed her! That's bloody stupid. If I killed her, why did I take that dozy Welsh cop back to her place?"

   "You killed her, then you panicked and drove off, then you realized she'd nicked your wallet . . . You didn't have the guts to go back in case you were spotted, or in case some other punter had already found the body and called the police."

   
"That's bloody ridiculous!"

   
"If we found a body and your wallet, we wouldn't have wasted time looking for anyone else to pin it on, would we? You know how we like to jump to conclusions."

   
"You're jumping to conclusions now. I told you what happened."

   
"Then tell me again. It might sound less like a pack of lies the second time round." Frost dribbled smoke which rolled across the table between them like a creeping barrage and put on his look of absolute disbelief as the man told his story.

   
"I'm driving down King Street eyeing the talent when I spots this one, leaning against the phone box. I hadn't seen her before and I fancied a bit of fresh meat so I beckons her over. I said, 'How much?' she says, 'Forty quid' and I said, 'You'd better be bleeding good for that, love,' and she answers, 'Try me.' She hops in my motor car and directs me to her place. I thought I was on to a winner. She was doing all her stuff, squeezing the old thigh and what-not in the car, but as soon as I pulled up outside her gaff, she seemed to change."

   
"How do you mean?"

   
He shrugged. "It was as if something had upset her. She just lost interest in me."

   
"Perhaps she'd just felt the size of your dick?" suggested Frost.

   
"Bloody funny! Anyway, I follow her up the stairs, she strips off and we gets down to it."

   
"And . . . ?"

   
"She was rubbish—just lay there like a bleeding wet fish studying the cracks in the ceiling."

   
"And you complained?"

   
"You bet I did. I told her she was crap and if I paid her what she was worth she'd get sod all. I offered twenty which was bleeding generous. She told me to stick it up my arse and pay the agreed price."

   
"Just love talk, then. Was that when you knifed her?"

   
Gladstone glared at Frost. "I only stuck one thing in her and it wasn't a bleeding knife."

   
A tentative tap at the door. Wearily, Frost pushed himself up. No-one would interrupt the questioning of a murder suspect unless it was important. He opened the door. Bill Wells beckoned him outside. "Forensic have matched the prints on the knife, Jack. They're the tom's . . . no other prints."

   
"Shit!" He scratched his chin in thought. "Her prints . . . which means it was probably her knife. She must have cut herself in the struggle. Has the lab checked for blood on Gladstone's clothes yet?"

   
"They're still working on it. I'll let you know as soon as I hear. Oh, and Mr. Mullett wants to see you."

   
"Bloody hell! I thought the sod had gone home. What did he say about his motor?"

   
"Nothing I could repeat."

   
Frost nodded and returned to the interview room. "Right . . . so she came at you with a knife . . . then what?"

   
"Knife? Of course she didn't come at me with a knife. She came at me with her bleeding long fingernails. I didn't mind them digging in my back, but when she tried to scratch me eyes out . . ."

   
"Was that when you strangled her?"

   
"Strangled her? I never touched her!"

   
Frost leant across the table. "Show me your hands."

   
Frowning, Gladstone put his hands, palms upwards, on the table. Frost turned the right hand over and tapped the knuckles. They were grazed with a dribble of blood and slightly swollen. "You punched her . . . she had a black eye. Don't bother denying it, we can get Forensic to match skin samples."

   
"All right, so I hit her—once—and in self-defence . . . I didn't want my eyeballs stuck on the ends of her painted bleeding fingernails. I finished getting dressed and got the hell out of there."

   
"Slow down," urged Frost. "You've missed out the bit about wrapping your hands round her neck and squeezing the life out of the poor cow."

   
"The poor cow was alive, well and effing and blinding as I left. I drove off, realized the bitch had nicked my wallet, so . . . back I go . . ."

   
"Is this when you strangled her?"

   
"How many more bleeding times . . . I didn't even get back in . . . The cow had locked the door on me."

   
"The door wasn't locked when I took you back there," said Morgan.

   
"Of course it wasn't, you Welsh twit—she had to open it to let the killer in . . . unless he was already in there. Come to think of it, I did hear a man's voice."

   
"And you've only just remembered it," cut in Frost. "Do me a bloody favour!"

   
Gladstone leant back in the chair and folded his arms defiantly. "All right. If you're not going to believe anything I say, I'm not saying another word. I want a solicitor."

   
"Your prerogative," said Frost. He watched Gladstone being led back to a cell, then yawned and stretched his arms wearily. He wondered if there would be time to watch the videoed fight in the rest room before the duty solicitor arrived and he wished Liz Maud would hurry back so she could take over this case.

   
"You won't forget Mr. Mullett wants to see you," reminded Morgan.

   
"It's one treat after another," said Frost, pushing himself up, but before he could do so, Bill Wells came in. "Good news, Jack."

   
"Mullett's gone home?"

   
"Not quite as good as that. Forensic phoned. Traces of blood on Gladstone's jacket which match the blood from the knife wound."

   
Frost expelled a stream of cigarette smoke in a happy sigh of relief. "We've got him then. That's the clincher we need. He can lie and deny it as much as he flaming well likes, but there's only one way he could have got her blood on his jacket . . ." His voice tailed off as he became aware that Morgan was wriggling uncomfortably in the chair next to him. "What's the matter, Taffy—do you want to do a wee?"

   
"No, guv . . ." He was squeezing his hands and staring at the ground in embarrassment, hoping Bill Wells would leave. "Something I should have mentioned earlier," he mumbled.

   
Sensing something tasty, Bill Wells kicked the door shut and leaned forward with interest.

   
"Go ahead, Taff," urged Frost. "We're all friends here. What have you done—had it off with Mrs. Mullett?"

   
"Nothing like that, guv. It's about Gladstone. When I took him back to the flat . . ."

   
"Yes?" prompted Frost.

   
"When I went back to the flat with him, he was up the stairs and in the room before I could stop him. By the time I got there he was shaking her and demanding to know where his wallet was."

   
Frost's jaw sagged. "Are you telling me you let him touch the body?"

   
"To be fair, guv, I didn't know there was going to be a body."

   
"So any blood on his jacket could well have got there then?"

   
Morgan nodded miserably. "I thought I'd better mention it."

   
"Flaming heck," said Wells, dropping into the vacant chair. "I've heard some stupid things in my time—"

   
"Yes," cut in Frost, "mainly about me. Your phone's ringing, Bill."

   
Wells strained his ears. "I can't hear it."

   
"Whether it's ringing or not—go and answer it!"

   
Reluctantly, Wells left, taking his time, hoping to hear more, but Frost waited patiently until the sergeant was out of earshot.

   
"A bit of a balls-up, Taff, to put it mildly?"

   
Morgan nodded his dejected agreement.

   
"We all make balls-ups, son. I've been known to make the odd one myself, but when it's a murder inquiry you don't keep it a bloody secret."

   
"I know, guv . . . I'm sorry, guv . . ."

   
The DC was the picture of misery. No point in nagging him any more, the damage was done. Frost chewed at his knuckles, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. "The thing is this, Taff. Are we dealing with a clever bastard who deliberately got in there first so there would be a reason for the blood on his jacket? He doesn't strike me as that clever, but you never can tell by appearances. Mullett doesn't look a complete twat, but he is." He stared up at the ceiling. "I think we've got to let him go."

   
"Let him go?" echoed Morgan.

   
"We've got nothing to hold him on. When his solicitor turns up he'll tear our case to shreds."