‘You could get over my garden fence if you liked,’ offered the man, ‘but she always keeps her back door locked.’
Frost moved the man out of the way so he could have a look through the letter-box.
‘You won’t see anything. Her morning paper’s stuck in there.’
Frost tugged at the paper, but it was wedged fast.
‘You won’t shift it, I’ve tried.’
Frost gave a savage yank and the newspaper came free.
‘You’ve torn it,’ reproved the man pointing to a thin corrugated tongue of paper that had caught on the side of the letter-box.
‘If she’s dead, she won’t mind,’ said Frost, peering through the flap. All he could see was solid dark. He sent Burton for the torch.
‘I’ve got a torch,’ said the neighbour, ‘but it doesn’t work.’
Burton returned from the car with the flashlight. Frost shone it through the letter-box. He caught his breath. The beam had picked out a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. A woman. And there seemed to be blood. Lots of blood.
‘Kick the door in, son… quick!’
At the second kick there was a pistol shot of splintering wood and the door crashed inwards. Frost found the light switch as they charged in. She was lying face down, her head in a pool of blood. He touched her neck. There was a pulse. She was still alive. Burton dashed back to the car to radio for an ambulance. Gilmore helped Frost turn her on her back, while the neighbour brought a blanket from the upstairs bedroom to cover her.
Her eyes fluttered, then opened. She seemed unable to focus. Frost knelt beside her. ‘What happened, love? Who did it?’ He turned his head away as the stale gin fumes hit him.
‘I fell down the bleeding stairs,’ she said.
Tuesday night shift (1)
Liz was in bed asleep when Gilmore arrived home late in the afternoon and was still asleep at eight o’clock when he staggered out of bed, tired and irritable, ready for the evening shift of Mullett’s revised rota. He was clattering about in the kitchen, frying himself an egg and. Liz came eagerly down stairs. She thought he had just come home and was furious to learn he’d been working when he should have been off duty and was now starting on another night shift.
‘You said it would all be different when they made you a sergeant. You said you’d be able to spend more time with me. It’s Cressford all over again.’
‘It won’t always be like this,’ said Gilmore, wearily, cursing as the yolk broke and spread itself all over the frying pan.
‘How many times have I heard that before? It’s never been any damn different.’ She moved out of the way so he could reach a plate, not helping him by passing one over.
Gilmore buttered a slice of bread. ‘Could you give it a rest? I’ve had a lousy day.’
‘And what sort of a day do you think I’ve had? Stuck in this stinking little room.’
‘You can always go out.’
She gave a mocking laugh. ‘Where to? What is there to do in this one-eyed morgue of a town?’
‘You could mix… make friends.’
‘Who with?’
‘Well — some of the other police wives…’
‘Like his wife… that old tramp — the one who’s supposed to be an inspector?’
‘His wife is dead.’
‘What did she die of — boredom?’
Gilmore rubbed a weary hand over his face. ‘That old tramp, as you call him, has got the George Cross.’
‘So he should. You deserve strings of bloody medals for living in this dump!’
He opened his mouth to reply, but the door slammed and she was back in the bedroom. He pushed the egg to one side, he couldn’t eat it. He was pouring his tea when a horn sounded outside. Frost had arrived to pick him up.
Outside the rain had stopped and a diamond-hard moon shone down from a clear sky. Frost shivered as Gilmore opened the car door to enter. ‘It’s going to- be a cold night tonight, soil.’ He turned the heater up full blast and checked that all the windows were tightly closed.
‘Yes,’ agreed Gilmore. ‘A bloody cold night.’
Bill Wells tugged another tissue from the Kleenex box and blew his sore, streaming nose. His throat was raw and he kept having shivering and sweating fits. And the damn doctor had the gall to say it was just a cold and he hadn’t got the flu virus. A couple of aspirins and a hot drink and he’d be as right as rain in a day or so. His pen crawled over the page as he logged the last trivial phone call which was from a woman who had nothing better to do than to report two strange cats in her garden.
The log book page fluttered as the main door opened. ‘Without raising his eyes, Wells finished the entry, blotted it, then forced a polite expression to greet the caller. Then his jaw dropped. ‘Bleeding hell!’ he croaked.
A small, bespectacled man wearing a plastic raincoat stood in the centre of the lobby. ‘When he had Wells’ attention, he parted the raincoat. He was wearing nothing underneath it.
‘Oh, push off,’ groaned Wells, slamming his pen down. ‘We’re too bloody busy.’
Defiantly, the man stood his ground, holding the mac open even wider. Another groan from Wells ‘Collier,’ he yelled. ‘Come and arrest this gentleman.’
The lobby door swung open again as Frost bounded in, a disgruntled-looking Gilmore at his heels. He glanced casually at the man, did a double take and stared hard. ‘No thanks, I’ve got one,’ he said.
‘When you want a flasher,’ moaned Wells, ‘you can’t find one. When you don’t want one, they come and stick it under your nose.’
There were extra staff in the Murder Incident Room where the phones were constantly ringing.
Frost looked around in surprise. ‘What’s going on?’
Burton, a phone to his ear, noted down a few details, murmured his thanks and hung up. ‘It’s the response to the Paula Bartlett video. It went out on television again tonight. We’re flooded out with calls from people who reckon they saw her.’
‘After two months they reckon they saw her,’ grunted Frost. ‘When the video went out the day she went missing, no-one could remember a damn thing.’ He picked up one of the phone messages from a filing basket. A woman reporting seeing Paula in the town two days ago. Frost flicked it back in the basket. ‘A waste of bloody time.’
‘Excellent response to the video,’ boomed Mullett, sailing in and beaming at all the activity.
‘Just what I was saying, Super,’ lied Frost. ‘How did the press conference go?’
‘Very well,’ smirked Mullett. ‘I recorded an interview for BBC radio. They hope to repeat it in Pick of the Week.’
‘Are you sure they said “pick”?’ Frost enquired innocently.
There was the sound of stifled laughter and people in the room seemed desperate to avoid Mullett’s eye. One of the WPCs had a lit of the giggles and was stuffing a handkerchief in her mouth. Mullett frowned, uneasily aware he was missing out on something, and not sure what. He didn’t see the joke, but he smiled anyway. He remembered the messages he had to deliver. ‘Who’s been telexing the Metropolitan Police about someone called Bradbury?’
‘Simon Bradbury?’ asked Gilmore eagerly. ‘That was me.’
‘Who’s Simon Bradbury?’ Frost asked.
‘The computer salesman. The bloke who picked the fight with Mark Compton. I thought he might be the one who’s been sending the death threats.’
‘You could be on to something, Sergeant,’ said Mullett, handing Gilmore the telex. ‘The Metropolitan Police know Bradbury. He’s a nasty piece of work and he’s got form.’
Bradbury had been involved in drunken brawls, had served two prison sentences for assault and had been fined and disqualified for drunken driving. There was an arrest warrant out on him for beating up a barman who refused to serve him. He had defaulted on police bail and was no longer at his last known address. Full details and a photograph were following.
Gilmore rubbed his hands. ‘Sounds like our man, Super. I could have a result on this case very soon.’
‘Excellent,’ beamed Mullett. ‘Results are something we are very short of at the moment.’ He glared significantly at Frost then looked around the room where the phones were still ringing non-stop. ‘Anything interesting on the Paula Bartlett video?’