Burton, caught up with Frost’s enthusiasm, could see where the plot was leading. ‘Greenway puts the newspaper back in the bag, dumps it with the bike in a ditch and we all think she never made the delivery.’
Even Gilmore looked impressed. ‘It’s possible,’ he decided reluctantly, ‘but it still doesn’t explain the shoes.’
‘Sod the shoes,’ said Frost, hopping down from the desk. ‘Let’s get our killer first, then get explanations.’ He stuffed the papers back into the plastic envelope and handed it to Burton. ‘Tell you what you do, son. Send both newspapers over to Forensic. Tell them our brilliant theory and get them to drop everything and make tests.’
‘And then come back and get down to these bloody files,’ called Gilmore. ‘We’re never going to get through them at this rate.’
The stack of folders didn’t seem to be getting any lower. Gilmore ticked off the squares on the roneoed form and dropped it into the filing basket ready for the girl on the computer. Something sailed past his nose. It was a paper aeroplane which attempted to soar upwards before losing heart and nose-diving with a thud to the ground at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. The paper looked familiar. He unfolded it. One of the roneoed forms. He turned suspiciously to Frost who grinned back sheepishly.
‘Sorry, son.’
Frost was bored. He’d been staring at the same robbery folder for the past forty minutes. He was dying for an excuse to get out of the station, but the phone stubbornly remained quiet. ‘About time Forensic came back to us on those news papers.’
‘They’ve only had them five minutes,’ said Gilmore.
‘How long does it bloody take?’ asked Frost peevishly, pulling the phone towards him and dialling the lab.
‘Give us a chance, Inspector,’ replied Forensic testily. ‘We’ve got half our staff down with this flu virus thing. We’re still working on the clothing and other items collected from 44 Manningron Crescent. Negative so far.’
‘That old rubbish can wait,’ said Frost. ‘It’s not important. Get cracking on those newspapers.’
A scowling Gilmore looked up. ‘We’re supposed to be concentrating on the senior citizen murders and you’re telling Forensic it can wait?’
Frost was saved from answering by the phone. WPC Ridley from Intensive Care, Denton Hospital. Alice Ryder, the old lady with the fractured skull, had regained consciousness.
The moon, floating in a clear sky, kept pace with the car as they raced to the hospital. Frost, puffing away nervously in the passenger seat, was willing the old dear to stay alive until they could question her. A detailed description of her attacker would be worth a thousand of those lousy forms they had been filling in for the computer. A detailed description! He was kidding himself. She was eighty-one, concussed and dying. The bastard had attacked her in the dark. The poor cow would tell them sod all.
The dark sprawl of the hospital loomed up ahead. ‘Park there, son.’ He pointed to a ‘Hospital — No Waiting’ sign by the main entrance and was out of the car and charging up the corridor before Gilmore had a chance to switch off the ignition.
Gilmore pushed through the swing doors in time to see the maroon blur of Frost’s scarf as he darted down a side corridor. With a burst of speed, he caught up with him. ‘Straight ahead,’ panted Frost, indicating a small flickering green neon sign reading ‘Intensive Care’.
The night sister looked up angrily and glared them to silence. She nodded grimly at Frost’s warrant card. ‘Mrs Ryder is over there.’ A jerk of her head indicated a curtained-off corner.
‘How is she?’ asked Frost.
‘She’s dying, otherwise I wouldn’t let you near her.’ As they moved across, she added, ‘Not too many of you. Send the WPC out.’
They slipped through the curtains. A concerned WPC Ridley was bending over the bed talking quietly. She looked up with relief at Frost’s appearance. ‘Her eyes are open, sir, but I don’t think she’s really with us.’
‘Take a break, love,’ said Frost flopping down in the chair alongside the bed. Gilmore stood behind him. The old lady, a small frail figure, seemed unaware of their presence. She lay still, her head barely creasing the plumped hospital pillow, an irregular bubbling sob marking her shallow breathing. Her face was a dull grey against the starkness of the turban of bandages around her head. Taped to her cheek, a thin, transparent tube ran into her left nostril. Another tube descended from a half-filled plastic bag on an iron stand and dripped fluids through a hollow needle to a vein on her wrist. Her hand, a yellow claw, was trembling and making tiny scratching noises on the bed-cover.
Everything was clean and white and sterile and Frost felt gritty and dirty and out of place. He leant forward. ‘Mrs Ryder?’
Her red-rimmed eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. She gave no sign that she had heard him. Her head was twitching slightly as if trying to shake off the tube fastened to her nose which was clearly uncomfortable and worrying her.
Why can’t they let the poor cow die in comfort, thought Frost. He brought his face close to hers. ‘Mrs Ryder, I’m a police officer. If I’m to get the bastard who did this to you, I need your help.’ No response.
‘A description, Mrs Ryder — anything. If you can’t talk, blink. A blink means yes. Do you understand?’
If she understood, she didn’t respond.
Undeterred, Frost plunged on. ‘The man who attacked you. Was he tall?’ He waited. No response. ‘Short? Fat? Thin?’
Her breath bubbled. Her fingers drummed. Her eyes, unblinking, were fixed on the ceiling.
Frost slumped back in his chair. Why was he hassling her? She wasn’t going to tell him anything, so why not let the poor cow die in peace. He dug his hands in his pocket and felt his cigarettes. No chance of a smoke in here. The night sister would have him out on his ear.
‘Let me try,’ said Gilmore, but before Frost could answer the old lady made a choking sound. ‘I’ll get the sister,’ said Gilmore, trying to open the curtains.
‘No!’ hissed Frost, grabbing his arm. ‘Wait!’
The old lady was attempting to raise her head, but the effort was too much. Her eyes fluttered wildly and her lips quivered. She was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Frost brought his ear right down to her mouth and felt the hot rasp of her faint breath on his face.
‘Try again, love. I’m listening.’
One word. Very faint. It sounded like ‘stab’ but he wasn’t sure if he heard it correctly. ‘I know what he did, love. Can you describe him? Did you get a good look at him?’ He kept his voice down. He didn’t want the sister running in to order him out.
She nodded.
‘Was he taller than me?’
Her lips moved, then her eyes widened and there was a choking noise at the back of her throat. And then she was still… dead still, the fingers no longer drumming.
The old girl was dead. Damn and sodding blast. She’d told him nothing, He dragged back the curtains. ‘Nurse!’
He signalled for WPC Ridley to take over and hustled Gilmore out of the ward.
In the corridor outside he fumbled in his inside pocket to make a note of what the old lady had said and found he had pulled out those damn car expenses, the ones he had promised Mullett he would hand in tomorrow morning. Well, he’d have to think of yet another excuse for the Divisional Commander to disbelieve. Something was scribbled on one of the phoney petrol receipts. The name ‘Wardley’. He racked his brains, but it meant nothing. ‘Who’s Wardley?’
Doesn’t the old fool remember anything, thought Gilmore. ‘He’s the old boy who attempted suicide after he got the poison pen letter.’