‘And what did the West Indian do to arouse suspicion?’ asked Gilmore.
‘He just walked by, Sarge, minding his own business. I don’t think the lady I spoke to liked West Indians.’
Frost sipped his tea. It was lukewarm. ‘It’ll be a waste of time, but check them out anyway. Have we traced any relatives, or anyone who might be able to tell us if anything’s been pinched apart from her purse money?’
‘Not yet,’ answered Gilmore. ‘I’ll check with that senior citizens’ club she belonged to. They might be able to help.’
‘Good. What sort of woman was she? Did she get on well with the neighbours?’
Burton shook his head. ‘A cantankerous old biddy by all accounts, always finding something to complain about. No-one liked her much.’
‘We’ll have to find out what she’s been complaining about recently. Perhaps someone resented it enough to kill her.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the moggie?’
‘The RSPCA bloke has taken it away,’ Gilmore told him.
‘I expect the little bleeder will have to be put down,’ gloomed Frost, swilling down the dregs of tea and pulling a face as if it were bitter medicine. ‘Tell me something to cheer me up.’
‘Forensic found a few alien prints dotted about,’ offered Gilmore. ‘One looked very hopeful.’
‘It’ll be from the sanitary inspector or her family planning adviser, anyone but the killer.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘I’m too tired to think straight.’ He glanced across to Gilmore who was grey with fatigue. ‘Let’s call it a day. We’ll have a couple of hours’ kip, then back to the station at noon.’
Noon! The detective sergeant sneaked a look at his watch. That would give him about three hours’ sleep if he was lucky. He hoped Liz wouldn’t be awake, waiting up for him, spoiling for a row.
He sat tense in the car as Frost drove him back after dropping off Burton, expecting every radio message to be the one sending them out on yet another case. But none of its messages were for them, although one call rang a familiar bell. ‘Neighbours complaining of strange smells coming from 76 Jubilee Terrace.’
‘Must have been your aftershave,’ muttered Frost as the tires scraped the kerb outside 42 Merchant Street. He had to shake Gilmore awake.
The house was quiet when Gilmore got in. A plate of cold, congealed food stood accusingly on the dining room table. His supper. He scraped the food into the waste bin and dropped the plate in the sink.
Upstairs, Liz was sleeping. Even in repose her face was angry. He undressed and crawled into bed beside her, moving carefully for fear he would wake her and the row would start. Almost immediately he plunged into an uneasy sleep, full of dreams of bodies bleeding from knife wounds and all looking like Liz.
Frost slammed the car into gear and headed for home and bed. He nearly made it.
‘Control to Mr Frost. Come in, please!’
The plumber. The suspect in the Paula Bartlett case. Able Baker had picked him up. They were holding him, at the station.
‘On my way,’ said Frost, spinning the wheel for an illegal U-turn, deaf to the shouts from a minicab driver who had to brake violently to avoid a collision.
Tuesday morning shift (2)
Superintendent Mullett strode briskly into the station, pausing only to remove and shake the rain from his tailored raincoat. At 9.30 in the morning the lobby had a tired, slept-in look, which reminded him that he wanted to have a few words with Frost to ascertain his progress with the Paula Bartlett case.
‘Mr Frost in yet, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Wells, barely managing to camouflage a yawn. ‘He’s out on another fatal stabbing — an old lady in Mannington Crescent.’
Mullett’s forehead creased in anguish. ‘Oh no!’
‘Nasty one by all accounts,’ continued Wells. ‘Stomach ripped and throat cut.’
‘Send the inspector to me the minute he comes in, Sergeant. Do you know if he left a report for me on the Paula Bartlett case? I’ve got a press conference at two.’
‘I haven’t seen one, sir.’
Mullett sighed his annoyance. ‘How can I answer press questions if I’m not kept informed? It just isn’t good enough.’
‘We’re all overworked, sir,’ said Wells.
‘Excuses, excuses… all I hear are excuses.’ His eyes flicked from side to side, doing a brisk inspection of the lobby. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Wells, swaying slightly from side to side, trying to give his impression of a loyal, dedicated policeman almost dead on his feet from overwork ‘The thing is, with this flu epidemic..’
‘We mustn’t use that as an excuse to lower standards, Sergeant. This lobby is our shop window. The first thing the public see when they come in. A clean lobby is an efficient lobby… it inspires confidence.’ He paused and stared hard at the Sergeant. ‘You haven’t shaved this morning. A fine example to set the men.’
In vain Wells tried to explain about the double shift and that his relief sergeant was down with the virus, but Mullett wasn’t prepared to become involved in the trivial details of station house-keeping. ‘Excuses are easy to make, Sergeant. Those of us fortunate enough to escape the flu virus must work all the harder. Standards must be maintained.’
Waiting until the door closed behind his Divisional Commander, Wells permitted himself the luxury of an impotent, two-fingered gesture.
‘I saw that, Sergeant!’ rasped the unmistakable voice of the Chief Constable.
Wells spun round, horrified, then flopped into his chair, almost sweating with relief. Grinning at him from the lobby doorway was Jack Frost who had been hovering in the background, waiting for Mullett to leave.
‘You frightened the flaming life out of me, Jack.’
‘The man of a thousand voices but only one dick. So what’s been happening?’
‘Well, I’ve been working all bleeding night…’
‘Excuses, excuses, Sergeant… give me the facts, man.’ He pushed a cigarette across and lit it for Wells.
‘Rickman’s given us a statement.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The porno video merchant. Says he bought them from a man in a pub… didn’t know his name. We’ve released him on police bail.’
‘What about my plumber?’
‘Interview Room number two.’
‘Thanks,’ said Frost, making for the swing doors. He paused. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘I’ll get you a broom,’ grinned Wells. The internal phone rang. Bloody Mullett again. Wells’ expression changed. ‘The canteen’s closed, sir. I haven’t got anyone who can make your tea.’ He jiggled the receiver, then slammed the phone down. Not interested in excuses, Mullett had hung up.
Outside the interview room an excited Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon ran forward to meet Frost. ‘We could be on to something here, Jack.’ He opened the door a crack so the inspector could see inside. A fat, balding man with shifty eyes in his mid-forties was slouched in a chair. He wore dark blue overalls over a beer belly.
‘He’s guilty,’ said Frost. ‘Never mind a trial, just hang him.’
Carefully closing the door, Hanlon continued. ‘Bernard Hickman, forty-four years old, married, no children. The day Paula went missing, Hickman was supposed to be working in the cemetery, installing that new stand-pipe by the side of the crypt. His time sheet says he started work at eight, but the vicar is positive he didn’t arrive until gone nine.’ He opened a folder to show Frost the time sheet.
‘Where does he live?’
‘63 Vicarage Terrace, Denton.’
Frost chewed this over. The area where Paula went missing was north of Denton Woods. Vicarage Terrace was some four or five miles to the south. ‘Has he got a motor?’
‘Yes. It’s in the car-park.’
Then Hickman could have driven and forced the girl into his car, raped and killed her and got to the cemetery by nine. But what was he doing north of the woods in the first place? The cemetery was in the opposite direction.