The door knocker thudded. ‘The doctor’s here,’ called Gilmore, pushing Maltby up the stairs.
‘Bit of fresher meat for you this time, doc,’ said Frost as a bleary-eyed Maltby, his face flushed, squeezed between the Forensic men into the tiny bedroom.
‘I might have guessed it would be you again,’ growled Maltby, who seemed to be in a sour mood.
‘Three bodies in one shift,’ agreed Frost. ‘I’m beginning to suspect I’m on Candid Camera.’
The doctor grunted and bent over the body. His examination was brief.
‘She’s dead.’
‘I worked that out myself,’ said Frost. I offered her a fag and she wouldn’t reply. When did she die?’
Maltby took a pad from his bag and scribbled something down. ‘You’ve sent for the pathologist, I understand?’
‘That’s right, doc.’
‘Then let him answer your questions. He gets paid a lot more than I do. Found out who’s been sending those poison pen letters yet?’
‘Blimey, doc,’ moaned Frost. ‘It was only six hours ago when you last asked me. I haven’t even had a pee since then.’
Maltby blinked at the inspector. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing properly. ‘Hours ago? Is that all?’ He felt for a chair and sat down heavily.
‘Are you all right, doc?’ asked Frost with concern.
‘Yes, yes, of course I’m all right.’ He grabbed the inspector’s arm and pulled him down, dropping his voice and engulfing Frost in Johnnie Walker fumes. ‘Did you know Drysdale’s put in a complaint about me, just because I examined that body in the crypt before he did? He phoned me especially to tell me.’
‘The man’s a bastard, doc,’ soothed Frost. He nodded towards the bed. ‘How long has she been dead?’
Maltby lurched over to the corpse and prodded the flesh. ‘Rigor mortis has come and just about gone. Some time Sunday evening, say. Anything else you want to know, ask Drysdale.’ With a sharp snap he closed his bag and bustled off. ‘God’s here,’ he bellowed from half-way down the stairs. A burble of exchanged frigid conversation and the pathologist swept into the bedroom accompanied by his secretary. He stared pointedly at the Forensic men who took the hint and retired downstairs.
‘Was that Dr Maltby who just brushed past me?’ he sniffed.
Frost nodded.
‘And he’s been mauling the body about, I suppose?’
‘He never touched it,’ said Frost. ‘He didn’t want to spoil your pleasure. If you could speed it up, doc.’
Drysdale gritted his teeth at the ‘doc’, but his eyes gleamed when he saw the body. He took off his long, black, expensive overcoat and handed it to his secretary. She, in turn, passed the coat over to Frost who screwed it into a ball, dumped it on a chair and sat on it. He shook a cigarette from his packet.
‘Please don’t smoke,’ snapped Drysdale, glad to have the chance of putting this oaf in his place. Methodically he examined every inch of the body, murmuring the results of his findings to the secretary whose pen translated the great man’s words into the loops and whirls of Pitman’s shorthand.
After fifteen long minutes, ignoring Frost’s repeated and over-loud signs of impatience, he straightened up to deliver his verdict. ‘She’s been dead approximately thirty-six hours.’
‘That’s what Dr Maltby said,’ grunted Frost. The pathologist smiled thinly. ‘Delighted to have my opinion confirmed by such an expert. The pattern of the bloodstains indicates she was standing upright when she was attacked. The killer would have come at her from behind…’
Frost wriggled in the chair. The overcoat buttons were biting into him. ‘He was waiting for her behind that door, doc. There’s a couple of lovely blood puddles there if you want to have a paddle.’
Drysdale allowed himself a brief look, then carried on. ‘The killer would have clamped his hand over her mouth — you can see the thumb pressure mark on the, left cheek?’ He moved away to allow Frost to inspect this if he wished, but Frost declined with a flick of his hand. He didn’t need a pathologist to point out something he had noticed as soon as he entered the bedroom.
The pathologist shrugged. ‘The killer then stabbed her three times in the abdomen with a knife. The blade would be single-edged, non-flexible, about 6 inches long — and — and razor sharp.’
‘Something like a kitchen knife, doctor?’ asked Gilmore who had returned after giving instructions to the door-knocking team.
‘Could very well be,’ accepted Drysdale.
‘There was a similar attack last night… an old lady in Clarendon Street. He left a knife behind.’
‘Clarendon Street?’ barked Drysdale. ‘Why wasn’t I called?’
‘You can have first crack at her as soon as she dies,’ replied Frost, ‘but at the moment she’s still alive.’ He related the details.
‘If you let me examine the knife,’ said Drysdale, ‘I’ll do some tests to confirm whether it could be the same weapon used to inflict these wounds.’
Frost scribbled a reminder about the knife on his discredited car expenses. ‘I’ll get it sent over. Carry on, doc. I’m sure you and your secretary want to get back to your bed… er, beds.’
Not noticing Frost’s lewd wink to Gilmore, Drysdale continued. ‘The killer jerked back her head, pushed the tip of the blade into her throat just there.’ His thumb pointed to the left-hand side of the gaping wound. ‘He twisted the knife so the blade was horizontal — that’s why the wound is much wider at that point, then slashed open her throat from left to right.’
Frost yawned openly. The pathologist was making a damn meal of this. She was stabbed from behind and dumped on the bed. He’d deduced that himself within seconds. ‘Would he have got blood on his clothes?’
‘Yes. Possibly on his upper left arm, but almost certainly a considerable amount of blood from the throat would have gushed on to his right hand — the knife hand — and the sleeve of his coat or whatever he was wearing. He also stepped into the pool of blood when he carried the body across to the bed. You can see the imprints on the carpet.’
‘You mean the ones Forensic have ringed round in chalk? Yes, we did spot them, doc.’
‘How did blood get there?’ asked Gilmore, pointing to a patch of discoloration on the left-hand sleeve of the black dress. ‘That doesn’t fit in with any of the wounds.’
Annoyed that he had missed it, the pathologist studied the mark. ‘That’s where he wiped the blade clean of blood.’ He straightened up. ‘That’s all I can tell you for now, Inspector. You’ll have a full report when have completed the post-mortem.’ He looked around the room. ‘Has anyone seen my overcoat?’
The body had been carefully placed in a cheap coffin and man-handled down the narrow staircase for transport to the mortuary. The Forensic team had departed with their spoils and Frost, alone in the empty bedroom, sat moodily dragging at a cigarette and staring down at bare floor- boards. All the bedding had been stripped from the bed and the carpet and underfelt removed for examination. He stubbed out his cigarette in one of the little glass dishes on the dressing table. The young bride in the photograph, her face wreathed in smiles, beamed down happily through the shower of confetti to the stripped, bleak room where she died, alone and terrified.
He wandered downstairs, his feet clattering on the bare wood where the stair carpet had been taken away for examination. Gilmore and Burton and two of the uniformed men were in the kitchen drinking tea. ‘Any joy with the neighbours?’
‘No reply from most of the houses,’ said handing him a mug. ‘Probably gone to work. We’ll have to try again tonight. Three people saw someone suspicious hanging around yesterday afternoon.’
Frost’s head came up hopefully. ‘Did you get a description?’
‘I got three descriptions,’ Burton ruefully admitted ‘All different. One medium build, darkish hair who may or may not have a beard aged between thirty and fifty. He was walking up and down the street just after two, staring at windows. The next was a skinhead on a motor bike who kept going round and round the block and the third was a West Indian in a dark suit.’