Frost stood up and pocketed his cigarettes and matches. “That was Forensic, son,” he said casually, ‘with the results of their tests. The man who raped Wendy has blood group O, and young Terry here is blood group A.” He gave Webster a sweet smile. “I’ll see you back in the office.”
And he went out, leaving the constable to make his apologies to the suspect.
When Webster returned to the office he was fuming. He had been made to look a proper fool in front of a suspect, forced to offer grovelling apologies to a sneering young bastard.
Frost was at his desk shuffling through papers. Webster was all ready to give him a mouthful when Susan Harvey came in.
“Hello, Sue,” said Frost. “You still here?”
She looked inquiringly at Webster. “I said I’d drive her home,” he told Frost.
“Home?” said Frost in surprise. “It’s not time to go home yet, is it?”
“It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning, Inspector. I’ve been on duty for more than sixteen hours on the trot. I’d fill in an overtime claim if I thought it stood the remotest chance of getting to County accounts.” Immediately he said it he wished he could have bitten his tongue because Frost’s head moved to the Overtime Return file still in the centre of Webster’s desk.
“Thanks for reminding me, son. I promised Bill Wells they’d go off today.” He scratched his chin. “Tell you what. We won’t bother adding them up. They’ve got dirty great computers at County that can do that for us. We’ll just scribble down the figures and send them off like that.”
“But it will still take hours,” protested Webster wearily.
“Not if we split it three ways,” said Frost. “You’ll help, won’t you, Sue?” And he dealt out three heaps of returns from the file as if dealing hands of cards.
So they pulled up their chairs and filled in page after page of figures copied from the men’s claim forms, allocating them to various categories of crime. Frost did a lot of groaning and smoking and seemed to be tearing up more forms than he filled in. Time hobbled along. Webster was finding that the figures had a tendency to blur into indistinctness. He staggered out and made some instant coffee, which helped a little. Then he realized he had been staring at the same column of figures for five minutes. He reached for another claim form. There were none. He had finished. Within another couple of minutes Susan, too, had finished her stint.
“Marvellous,” beamed Frost, dealing them out some more from his own pile. But in ten minutes the return, folded in its official envelope marked “Overtime Figures Urgent,” was all ready for transmission to County for inclusion in the next batch of salary cheques.
“We all deserve a pat on the back for that,” said Frost, looking at the envelope as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Yes,” grunted Webster, slipping on his overcoat, all ready for the off before Frost remembered the crime statistics.
Frost clicked his fingers. “Flaming hell, son… we forgot something!”
“What’s that?” grunted the constable, taking Susan by the arm and steering her to the door.
“The anonymous telephone caller who phoned about the girl in the woods last night. Dave Shelby said he knew who he was.”
Freedom only half a turn of the door handle away, Webster said, “But Shelby’s dead.”
“My memory’s not that flaming bad,” retorted the inspector. “Shelby said he’d seen the bloke. In which case he would have made an entry about it in his notebook.” He moved Webster’s hand, opened the door, and yelled, “Sergeant Wells!”
Wells approached and gave a mocking bow. “You rang, my lord?”
“Don’t ponce about when addressed by a senior officer,” rebuked Frost sternly. “Where’s Dave Shelby’s notebook?”
“I thought you knew,” said Wells. “It’s missing.”
Thank God for that, thought Webster. Now we can all go home.
Frost frowned. “Missing?”
“It wasn’t on the body, Jack, and it wasn’t in the car. Mr. Allen’s made a search, but no trace of it. He reckons it might have fallen from Shelby’s pocket when he was in the getaway car.”
“So what news on the getaway car? Someone should have spotted the Vauxhall by now.”
“Stan Eustace was always good at finding places to dump his stolen motors, Jack.”
“About the only thing he is good at.” He took the brown envelope from his desk and handed it to Wells. “I’m off home. Here’s your lousy overtime returns. Stick them in the post bag.”
Wells looked at the envelope, his eyebrows arched. “It’s gone three o’clock in the morning, Jack. The County collection was ages ago. If this doesn’t reach them first thing today it’ll miss the salary cheques and we’ll have a bloody mutiny on our hands.”
Frost waved an airy hand. “Don’t get excited. Webster can drop them in the County letter box.”
Webster’s beard bristled. “I can do what? It’s an hour’s drive each way.”
Another airy wave from Frost. “Fifty minutes at the outside a lot less if you’re not too fussy about obeying traffic lights. Use my car. You can take Sue with you and drop her off on the way back.”
As he crawled into the car, Webster realized that he wasn3t going to be able to do it. He was too tired. He’d fall asleep at the wheel. Susan got out and moved around to the driving seat. “Slide over,” she said. “I’ll drive. You’d better spend what’s left of the night at my place you’re in no fit state to drive back.”
Webster did a mental inventory of Susan’s tiny flat — no sofa and only one bed. He felt his tiredness slipping away but didn’t make it obvious. He stuffed the envelope into the dash compartment. “I didn’t bring my pyjamas,” he said.
“And I haven’t got a nightdress,” murmured Sue, turning the ignition. Webster leaned back in his seat and purred. The night wasn’t going to be a total disaster after all.
On the way back from County Headquarters he could fight sleep no longer. When he opened his eyes the sky was dawn-streaked. “Where are we?” he asked.
“Nearly there,” she told him. “I’m taking a shortcut.”
The shortcut was a narrow lane joining two side roads. A short, bumpy ride.
“Look out!” cried Webster. Something loomed up in front of them.
The headlights had picked out a car. A car parked bang in the middle of the lane, no lights showing. They could have run straight into it.
Carefully, Sue manoeuvred the Cortina to squeeze past. Webster twisted his head to look back. The lunatic who parked it so dangerously deserved to be booked. Then his heart sank.
The car was a red Vauxhall Cavalier.
The registration number was CBZ2303.
“Oh no!” croaked Webster in disbelief.
“What’s up?” asked Sue.
“Every bloody thing is up,” he said despairingly as he reached for the handset. He called Denton Control to report he had found Stan Eustace’s getaway car.
Thursday day shift
Webster sat in the car with Sue and waited. Within twenty-five minutes Detective Inspector Allen had arrived on the scene. He must have been asleep in bed when the call came through, but in those twenty-five minutes he had managed to shower, shave, and put on a freshly pressed suit. He looked immaculate. By contrast, Detective Sergeant Ingram, sour and crumpled at his side, looked as if he hadn’t slept properly for a week, which tended to underline the whispered rumours of his marital troubles. He looked even more sour when Allen doled out a few begrudging crumbs of praise to Webster.
“Well done, Constable. Good piece of observation.”
The obligatory acknowledgement over, Allen and Ingram approached the Vauxhall and sniffed gingerly around, looking but not touching. Webster had hoped he and Sue would now be allowed to drive off and get to bed but Allen didn’t seem ready to dismiss them yet.
Allen was standing on tiptoe to see over the hedge that bordered the lane. Behind it was a field of tall grass, heavy with early-morning dew. He dragged back his cuff to consult his watch. If he could do it in twenty-five minutes, what was holding up the forensic team?