‘Hold it, Inspector!’ Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon, eyes watering, nose streaming, looking like death warmed up, had been standing by the door. ‘You’d better hear what I’ve found out first.’
‘If it’s bad news, I don’t want to know,’ said Frost.
‘You might have to look for another suspect, Jack. You asked me to check on the three murder victims. I did. The only one who went to bingo was Mrs Watson.’
‘Rubbish, Arthur. The second old girl — Betty Winters. We found a Reef Bingo membership card in her purse.’
‘She hadn’t used it for five years. She was crippled with arthritis — never left the house except to go to hospital for treatment.’
‘And the first one — Mrs Thingummy?’
‘Mrs Haynes. Very prim and proper. Didn’t believe in gambling. Wouldn’t even play bingo down at the church club for packets of tea.’
Frost’s shoulders slumped. ‘Sod you, Arthur. Why must you be so flaming thorough?’ He glanced down at the photograph of Gauld which seemed to be smirking smugly back at him. ‘It’s got to be Gauld. There’s got to be some common factor that links him to all three.’ He became aware that everyone in the Murder Incident Room was waiting for him to give them orders, to tell them what to do. And he didn’t know. His one and only lead had gone down the pan. He stared through the window out at the miserable, depressing, rain-swept car-park, drawing deeply on his cigarette, punishing his lungs for his own inadequacy. As he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, a thought buzzed and screamed. ‘You said Mrs Winters never left the house except to go to hospital for treatment. How did she get there — the poor cow couldn’t walk?’
‘She certainly didn’t go by bingo coach,’ said Hanlon.
‘Very funny, Arthur — remind me to pee myself when I’ve got more time.’ Frost’s finger stabbed at Burton. ‘Phone the hospital transport officer and find out.’
Burton reached for the phone, but he thought it was a waste of time. ‘She’d have gone by ambulance, Inspector.’
‘Not necessarily, son. Just phone and ask.’ He paced the room, impatiently as Burton held on, waiting for someone to fetch the transport officer from the canteen. And then he remembered something else. Mrs Mary Haynes. The first victim. Her purse. There was a hospital appointment card in her purse. ‘And ask about Mrs Mary Haynes,’ he shouted.
Burton nodded, then held up a hand for silence. The transport officer was on the line. Burton put his questions and waited… and waited… There seemed to be a long delay with Frost hovering anxiously before the answers came through. ‘Ambulances? I see. Do you have the drivers’ names? I see. Thank you very much, you’ve been a great help.’ He replaced the receiver and tried to look noncommittal as Frost hurried over. But he couldn’t keep up the pretence.
‘You bastard!’ yelled Frost. ‘We’ve hit the jackpot, haven’t we?’
Burton grinned broadly. ‘They have a pool of volunteer drivers who help out with their own cars when the ambulances are too busy to collect patients for treatment.’
‘I know,’ said Frost. ‘A volunteer driver used to pick up my wife.’
Burton smiled sympathetically before adding, ‘One of those volunteers is a Mr R.W. Gauld.’
Frost crashed down on a chair. ‘Then we’ve got the bastard!’
‘Not quite, Inspector. The hospital doesn’t keep records of individual pick-ups — they handle hundreds of patients every day. All they can say is that Gauld was among the volunteer drivers on duty on the last two occasions when Mrs Winters and Mrs Haynes attended for treatment. He didn’t collect them, but it’s possible he took them back home afterwards.’
‘And that’s when he found out about the spare key under the mat and the string inside the letter-box,’ said Frost, excitedly. ‘Let’s bring the bastard in.’
Hanlon was more cautious. ‘We could blow it by acting too soon. Jack. We need some solid evidence.’
‘All right. Go to the hospital, see if you can find anyone who saw Gauld take the old dears back home. Check with the neighbours in the hope someone saw Gauld deliver them back. Get details of his car — did anyone see it in the vicinity on the nights of the murders? You know the form — whatever I’ve forgotten, do it. Lastly, I want Gauld tailed. I want to know everything he does every minute of the day and night, and when he goes out on his next killing job, we grab him, and if he’s got his bloody knife on him, that’s all the proof I need.’
In the corridor, he collided with Detective Sergeant Gilmore who looked as happy as his inspector.
‘We’ve got a full statement from Mrs Compton, Inspector.’
‘Thank God for that, son. I was afraid I might have to perjure myself at her trial.’
‘She admits everything, but says the husband’s death was an accident.’
‘How? Did she accidentally welt him round the head with one of her rigid nipples?’
A broad grin from Gilmore. Anything Frost said was funny today. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he added sincerely.
‘All I did was tell a few lies,’ demurred the inspector. ‘Any self-respecting policeman would do the same.’
‘And after your stunt with the leaves,’ added Gilmore, ‘I got Forensic to go over the boot of Mark Compton’s car. We actually found a couple of leaves from the wreath.’
‘That’s what’s known as nature imitating art,’ said Frost. ‘When you get a minute, see me in the office. I’ll update you on the Ripper case. We’re nearly ready to nail the bastard.’
In the office, weighed down in the centre of his desk by a stapling machine, was the memo from County beefing about the balls-up with his car expenses. He screwed it into a tight ball, tossed it in the air and headed it towards the open goal of the waste bin. It dropped dead centre with a satisfying plonk. He beamed happily. Things were starting to go right.
Later, when everything blew up in his face, he would remember this brief moment of euphoria.
Thursday night shift (1)
The downstairs light went out. A pause, then the upstairs light came on and the silhouette of a man passed the window. Gilmore ducked down behind the steering wheel until the curtains were closed and the bedroom light went out. He shook Frost awake. ‘He’s gone to bed.’
Yawning heavily, Frost consulted his watch. A few minutes to midnight. They had been parked down the side turning for nearly two hours, since taking over from Burton. Gauld had collected a party of senior citizens from the Silver Star Bingo Club at nine o’clock, and had delivered them all safely back to their homes by 9.56. He had then driven his grey Vauxhall Astra back to his terraced house in Nelson Street and was indoors by 10.15.
Frost fidgeted and tried to get comfortable. He was tired and hungry and there was no chance of a relief until six His fault. He had forgotten to ask Mullett to authorize more overtime and Wells was playing it by the book. He smeared a gap in the misted windscreen with his cuff and peered out at the still, dark street. ‘It’s too late for him to murder anyone now,’ he decided. ‘Let’s get ourselves something to eat. I know a place that’s open all night.’
The ‘place’ Frost knew was a converted van selling hot dogs and hamburgers on a windswept stretch of waste ground near the cemetery. The stale greasy smell of frying onions slapped them round the face as they got out of the car. On the side of the van a drop-down flap provided a serving counter and a canvas awning sheltered the clientele from the worst of the weather. Behind the counter a tall, thin man with a melancholy face and a red, running nose sucked at a cigarette as he pushed some onion slices around the fat with a fork.
‘Lord Lucan and party,’ announced Frost. ‘We did book.’
‘Very funny,’ said the man, pulling the cigarette from his mouth so he could cough all over the food. He banged two cups on the counter, dropped a tea-bag in each and filled them with hot water from a steam-belching urn.