Thursday afternoon shift (2)
The Incident Room was buzzing with activity when Frost entered carrying a mug of tea and a corned beef sandwich from the canteen. Burton, eyes gleaming with excitement, hurried over to him.
‘You look happy,’ said Frost. ‘Has Mr Mullett died?’
Burton grinned. ‘It’s better than that, sir.’
Frost sat on the edge of a desk and sank his teeth into his sandwich. ‘Nothing could be better than that.’
‘First of all,’ Burton told him, ‘we’ve checked all the local security firms. A couple of them send salesmen around cold calling to sell complete burglar alarm systems, but they leave chains and padlocks to the hardware stores.’
Frost washed down a mouthful of sandwich with a swig of tea. ‘That doesn’t send my pulse racing, son. What else?’
‘We’ve knocked on as many doors as we can asking if any one-man-band outfits have been touting for custom in fitting security chains and locks. A complete blank.’
Frost chewed gloomily. ‘Wake me up when you get to the good bit.’
‘I called on Mrs Proctor as you asked…’
Burton paused for maximum effect. ‘A couple of days ago Mrs Watson told her that one of the bingo coach drivers had offered to fit a stronger security chain on the cheap.’
Frost punched the air and whooped. ‘Geronimo! Did she say which driver?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No matter, we can probably pin-point him. Now I want you to check all the coach companies…’
‘Already done,’ cut in Burton. ‘The main bingo run con tract is with Superswift Coaches, but they sub-contract the work out to other firms on a day-to-day basis. I’ve got details of the other firms.’ He offered the typed list to Frost who warded it away with his sandwich. ‘Each firm has a rota of drivers for its various runs, so you wouldn’t necessarily get the same driver each time additionally most drivers are self-employed so the same driver could do work for different firms.’
Frost gave a weary shake of the head. ‘All these details give me a headache. Skip the foreplay — go straight to the big bang!’
‘Right, sir. Sally fed all the names and duty rotas through the computer so we could eliminate those who definitely weren’t anywhere near Denton when the killings took place. We’ve come down to four possibles.’ From a folder he pulled four typed A4 sheets with photographs clipped on them. ‘We pulled the photographs from the firms’ personnel files.’
Frost wiped his buttery fingers on his jacket and took the first page. The photograph showed a man in his late thirties, a podgy face, receding dark hair.
‘David Allen Hardwicke,’ recited Burton. ‘Works for the Denton Creamline Coach Company. He’s done a lot of bingo runs, but he’s mainly used for coach parties from the clubs for West End shows and pantomimes. During-the summer he does the outings to the seaside resorts
Frost stared down at Hardwicke’s. details. The man was thirty-eight, married with two children aged nine and ten. Frost poked at the typescript with the crust of his corned beef sandwich. ‘He was away from Denton for two of the killings.’
Burton retrieved the sheet and shook off the breadcrumbs. ‘Yes, but sometimes drivers swap turns with each other and don’t let their firms know. That’s one of the complications you didn’t want to hear about. We’re checking it out.’
Frost took one last bite, then hurled the remains of his sandwich in the general direction of the waste bin. It missed by a foot. He ambled over and tried to boot it in, but missed again. He picked it up and dropped it in. ‘Who’s next?’
The next was Thomas Riley, the photograph showing a thin, sharp-featured man, light hair plastered well back and well-spaced teeth. ‘Riley runs a one-man business — Riley’s Coaches,’ said Burton. ‘Forty-one years old, married, no children. Does the odd bingo and theatre run, but nowhere as many as Hardwicke.’
Frost drained his tea. He couldn’t work up any enthusiasm about Riley.
‘And he’s got form,’ announced Burton, waiting for the reaction.
‘Form?’ Frost snatched Riley’s details and studied them again.
Burton’s finger painted out the information. ‘Receiving stolen goods. Video recorders, TV sets, electronic gear.’
‘Hmm.’ Frost dumped his mug on a stack of computer print-outs and fished out his cigarettes.
Burton took one. ‘And he beat up a night-watchman once.’
‘Hardly beat him up,’ corrected Frost, scraping a match down the side of the computer casing. ‘Knocked the old boy over when he tried to stop him.’ He turned to the continuation page. ‘Anyway, Riley was out on a job last night. Didn’t get back in until after the time of the murder.’
‘He dropped his last passenger off at 9.15,’ said Burton, leaning forward to share Frost’s match, ‘but didn’t garage the coach until 9.45. Mrs Watson was killed around 9.35. He could just have done it.’
Frost snorted smoke. ‘He’d have had to rush, and I can’t see our Ripper rushing things. He likes to take his time.’ He handed back the details. ‘Next.’
Burton passed across another page and waited expectantly. If he had to put money on it, this was his nap selection. Robert Jefferson, thirty-three, married, one teenaged daughter. A thickset man with close-cropped black hair, he stared morosely from his photograph like a criminal having his mug-shot taken. Jefferson drove for Superswift Coaches, mainly long-distance and Continental work, but had done a couple of bingo runs from time to time. His off-duty schedule put him in Denton for every one of the Ripper killings. A man of violent temper, he had broken his wife’s jaw and she was instigating divorce proceedings because of his cruelty.
Frost unimpressed. ‘I don’t think so, son. I can’t see Old Mother Watson inviting that thug into her fiat. Bung him at the bottom of the pile.’
‘You’d better like this one,’ said Burton. ‘He’s the last.
Ronald William Gauld, twenty-five, single, lives with his widowed mother. Does casual work as a relief driver for Clarke’s Coaches — mainly bingo and old people’s outings. He’s supposed to be a ball of fun on the coach trips. All the old dears love him.’
‘I’m beginning to hate him already,’ said Frost, extending his hand for the details.
‘He’s only employed as a casual by Clarke’s, so he could well work for other firms we haven’t checked on yet but Clarke’s time-sheets have him off-duty on all the times and days of the Ripper killings.’
Frost glanced at the colour photo clipped to the sheet. Gauld, grinning with well-spaced teeth into the camera, looked more a boy than a man. His expression was frank and open, his brown eyes twinkled and his thick, light brown hair hung boyishly over his forehead. Excitement like static electricity crackled through Frost. Instinct. Gut reaction. He knew. He just knew. ‘Bingo!’ he yelled.
Everyone in the room looked up.
Frost waggled the photograph, then held it aloft. ‘This is him. This is the Granny Ripper!’
Burton could only look puzzled. ‘Why, sir?’
‘Gut reaction, son. I’m very rarely, right, but I am this time. Forget the rest… We go nap on Laughing Boy Gauld,’ He slid down from the desk, rubbing his hands together and pacing backwards and forwards to discharge his nervous excitement. ‘Put every available man on him. I want him watched twenty-four hours a day.’
Burton urged caution. ‘Don’t you think we should hedge our bets, sir?’
‘No,’ said Frost firmly. ‘We go for broke.’
‘He’s only a possible suspect. We’ve got nothing on him.’
‘So we find something on him. Show copies of his photograph to the victims’ neighbours. Do they remember seeing this roguish little bastard hanging around? Find out if he’s been offering to fit new security chains for any of the old dears who find him such a scream. Go back to Old Mother Proctor and ask her if Gauld was the name of the man who offered to fit Mrs Watson’s chain. ‘Check with Gauld’s neighbours. Has he come home at night dripping with blood with a knife sticking out of his back pocket? Get everyone on it even the girl on the computer.’