‘If it didn’t work when memories were fresh, I can’t see it working two months later,’ said Frost, ‘but I’ll arrange it if you like. I could do an appeal to the public.’
‘Leave it all to me,’ cut in Mullett hastily. ‘You’ve got far too much to do.’ There was no way he was going to let Frost appear on TV, slouching in front of the cameras in that terrible suit, retrieving half-smoked cigarettes from behind his ear. He beamed at Frost. ‘See the parents, then go and get some sleep. And remember, we concentrate only on vital things. Nothing else matters.’
Frost had almost reached the door when Mullett called him back, waving the complicated inventory return from his in-tray. ‘You might fit this in when you have an odd moment, Inspector.’
Frost’s gave the return a dubious stare. ‘It doesn’t look vital to me.’
Mullett’s smile didn’t waver. ‘Shouldn’t take you long, now that I’ve lightened your work load. County want it back this week.’
County can bleeding want, thought Frost morosely as he walked back to his office. He buried the inventory return in his in-tray, screwed up the new duty roster and hurled it at the waste bin, then kicked shut the door and sank wearily into his chair. In two minutes he was fast asleep.
Tuesday afternoon shift
Frost, cold and stiff from an uncomfortable sleep, staggered into the Murder Incident Room where Gilmore and Burton, seated at adjacent desks behind mounds of green folders, barely gave him a glance. They were transferring details from the folders on to roneoed forms which were then collected by WPC Jill Knight who fed them into the computer for collation.
A large-scale map of Denton, well-studded with coloured pins, had been fixed to the wall alongside the computer and Frost wandered over to take a look at it. The pins marked the scenes of all the recent senior citizen burglaries. On the far wall hung the map compiled by Inspector Allen showing the route of Paula Bartlett’s last paper round. A newly added black thumb tack pin-pointed the crypt where the body was found. A beefy little blonde WPC brought in another armful of green folders and dumped them on the desk.
‘You seem to have things well organized,’ said Frost.
‘Someone had to do it,’ grunted Gilmore who was in a sour mood. A little over three hours’ sleep and then treated to a dose of Liz whining and moaning at being left on her own so much and then, when he reported for duty, he had found Frost sprawled asleep in his office without having done a damn thing about getting the Murder Incident Room set up.
‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Frost. Organization was not his strongest point. ‘Well, the good news is that according to Mr Mullett’s new roster, we’re all off duty until tonight.
The bad news is, we’re far too busy to sod about with his rubbish.’ He wandered across to Burton and Gilmore, both occupied with their green folders. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ He dropped a cigarette on each desk, then poured himself a mug of tea from Burton’s thermos.
Gilmore looked up from his folders. ‘I’m initiating a computer program. What it does…’
Frost’s hand shot up. If it was to do with computers, then he didn’t want to know. ‘Please don’t explain how it works, son, then I won’t have to pretend I understand what you’re talking about.’
But Gilmore explained anyway. ‘We’re feeding the computer with details from all the recent break-ins and burglaries and attacks involving senior citizens to see if we can build up some sort of pattern… why did the burglar pick on them, and so on.’
Frost peered over Jill Knight’s shoulder, watching the cursor fly across the monitor screen, leaving a complicated trail of facts and figures. ‘Any pattern emerging so far?’
‘A lot of the victims, seem to belong to senior citizens’ clubs,’ she told him.
‘Perhaps that’s the sort of club that senior citizens join,’ said Frost, unimpressed. He flicked through a file half-heartedly, then pushed it away and jabbed a finger at Burton. ‘You were going to check with the vicar about Mary Haynes.’
‘I left a report on your desk,’ protested Burton.
‘You know I don’t read reports. Tell me what it said.’
‘She’d been a member of the church senior citizens’club for nearly six years. No relatives as far as the vicar knows. She kept herself to herself, never invited anyone back to her place and didn’t have any close friends.’
‘That wouldn’t have been worth reading a report, for,’ commented Frost moodily.
‘There’s more,’ continued Burton. ‘She visited her husband’s grave at the cemetery on Sunday…’
Frost’s head shot up. The cemetery. That reminded him. ‘Get the car out — we’ve got to give her parents the good news that their daughter was raped.’
‘If I could finish,’ said Burton. ‘Her husband’s grave had been vandalized… swear words sprayed on with an aerosol. She had a row with the vicar about it. She was always having rows. I’ve started a list of people she quarrelled with, but it’s all trivial stuff.’
‘Follow it through anyway,’ said Frost. ‘Did anyone spot our famous blue van?’
‘No-one so far.’
A sudden thought. Something else he had forgotten. ‘Damn! We should have asked dry-cleaners to look out for bloodstained clothing.’
‘Already in hand,’ said Gilmore, smugly.
A messenger entered with a large envelope and a package for Frost. He ripped it open. The post-mortem reports from the pathologist, beautifully typed by his loyal secretary on expensive paper. Frost flipped open the first and skipped through it. It was for the suicide, the kid in the Mickey Mouse night-shirt, Susan Bicknell. Drysdale’s usual thorough job. He hadn’t missed the marks of the beating, but reported them without comment. His sole concern was the cause of death which was confirmed as barbiturate poisoning, probably self- inflicted. Signs of recent intercourse, but she was not pregnant.
He gave the file to Gilmore who studied it grimly. ‘She didn’t kill herself because she was up the spout, son.’
‘Then why did she?’
‘We’ll probably never know.’ Frost opened up the other folder. ‘I hope everyone’s had their lunch — because it’s stomach contents time.’ He quickly read the typed sheet. ‘Isn’t science wonderful? She’s been dead two months, yet they can tell us she died within half an hour of knocking back chicken and mushroom pie, chips and peas and — wait for it — a dollop of brown sauce.’
The plump blonde WPC pulled a face. ‘I had that for dinner yesterday.’
‘If you get raped and strangled, we’ll know there’s a connection.’ He studied the report again. ‘Paula must have had another meal. She’d never have eaten all that for breakfast.’
‘She was a growing girl,’ suggested Burton. ‘You’d be surprised what kids eat these days.’
‘She died within half an hour of eating,’ Frost reminded him. ‘The meal wasn’t fully digested. I saw it. I can show it to you if you don’t believe me.’ At Burton’s shuddering refusal, he continued. ‘If she had eaten it at home, she would have to be dead by half-past seven.’
‘We’ve got a witness who saw her at 8.15,’ said Burton.
‘Either the witness is lying, or mistaken, or Paula had another meal. A hot, cooked meal.’ He opened up the package. ‘I hope this isn’t the bloody stomach contents.’ They backed away as he plunged his hand inside but it was a polythene bag he pulled out. Inside were the shoes found on the body. He gave them to the blonde WPC and asked her to send them to Forensic. And that reminded him. ‘Bloody hell — I forgot to ask Forensic to send Drysdale the knife from last night’s stabbing.’