‘Does it need explaining?’ said the curate bitterly. ‘You’re supposed to be protecting us against vandals. I passed the crypt and saw the door was open. I came in to investigate and found this.’ He shook his head. ‘Such pointless desecration. One tries to be forgiving, Sergeant, but this is sick.’
Gilmore snapped shut his notebook. ‘All right, Mr Purley. That’s all, for now.’ He emphasized the ‘for now’.
They followed him out and watched as he tried to make the door secure. ‘You’ll need a new door frame,’ said Frost.
‘Yes, Inspector. More expense.’ Another sigh. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow and try and fix it. I’ll tidy up inside as well.’ Round to the side of the building where they squeezed through the gap in the railing.
They watched him picking his way between the graves before veering off towards the vicarage.
‘I don’t trust him,’ growled Gilmore. ‘He’s always out too late at night for my liking. If there’s been another Ripper murder…’ Frost was pinning his hopes on the coach driver, but Gilmore had serious doubts. ‘Let’s go. This place is giving me the creeps.’
‘It must have given Paula Bartlett’s killer the creeps, coming here at dead of night with a body in his arms.’ Frost poked away at his scar and stared at the ranks of white headstones crowding in on the crypt. ‘He knew how to find the crypt, son, and he knew he could get in.’ He pushed his hands deep into his mac pockets and wandered along the railings, booting at pebbles in his path. ‘So how did he know?’
‘Perhaps he was someone who often used the graveyard as a short cut,’ offered Gilmore, pointedly rubbing the back of his head.
Frost chewed his knuckles in thought, then took out his cigarette packet and shook it. One left. He poked it in his mouth and flung the empty packet into the long grass. A blast of cold wind cut across the cemetery, shaking the trees and making him shiver. ‘Let’s go.’
They walked on to the path where the first of the new graves encroached. Frost struck his match on a convenient headstone. The match flared. He saw the wording, but at first didn’t take it in. Then he stared, open-mouthed, until the match burnt his fingers. ‘Where the bloody hell did this come from?’
He struck another match so Gilmore could read the inscription.
In Loving Memory Of Rosemary Fleur Bell
April 3 1962 — September 10 1990
Adored Wife Of Edward Bell MA.
R.I.P.
‘The schoolmaster’s wife! Her grave right on the bloody doorstep of the crypt and we haven’t spotted it. We must be bleeding blind as well as stupid!’
‘It’s probably only just been put up,’ said Gilmore, wondering what all the fuss was about. ‘You have to wait ages for the grave to settle before you can erect a headstone.’
‘That wispy-bearded bastard. I knew it was him all the time.’ He turned and stared at the crypt.
‘I don’t follow you,’ said Gilmore.
‘You could spit on the flaming crypt from here,’ said Frost. ‘At the funeral Bell would have had a grandstand view of that fat-gutted plumber forcing open the door to get inside out of the rain. Later he needed somewhere to hide the kid’s body. A crypt. Who’d look for a body in a Victorian crypt?’
‘You’re saying he killed her the very day of his wife’s funeral?’
‘Yes,’ said Frost.
‘But he was in the house all the time she was doing her paper round.’
‘I don’t know how he did it, I just know he did it.’
Gilmore swivelled his head towards the vault door with its solid brass lock hanging impotently. ‘Even if you are right, how are you going to prove it?’
‘Proof!’ barked Frost. He took a long drag at his last cigarette and dashed it to the ground half-smoked. ‘Everyone’s obsessed with bloody proof.’ Then his shoulders slumped. Gilmore was right. Without proof, the bastard was going to get away with it.
Thursday night shift (2)
The minute hand on the lobby clock was quivering as gathered its strength to claw up to two o’clock. The damn phones had been ringing non-stop and Wells was finding it hard to keep his voice sounding polite I’m sorry, madam,’ he told a caller who had phoned previously to complain that her neighbours were having a noisy row and were keeping her awake. ‘We’re short-staffed and we had to divert the car to a more important incident. We’ll get someone there just as soon as we can.’ Hardly had he replaced the phone and logged the call when there was an angry commotion outside, then a scowling, red-faced bull-frog of a man in an expensive black overcoat and a white silk scarf exploded into the lobby, closely followed by an anxious-looking PC Collier.
‘Who’s in charge?’ the man bellowed, dumping a bulky brief-case on the floor. He reeked of whisky.
Wells put his pen down and sighed. He could do without this. ‘I am, sir.’
The man looked disdainfully at Wells’ sergeant’s stripes and screwed his face into a sneer. ‘I want someone in authority, not you. Not a bloody sergeant.’
‘What’s this all about?’ asked Collier.
The man barged between the two officers. ‘Don’t you damn well ignore me. I’m talking to you, Sergeant. You ask me, not him. Now get me someone in authority.’ He fumbled in his pocket for a cigar.
‘Would an inspector satisfy you, sir?’ asked Wells, struggling to hold his temper in check.
‘If that’s all you’ve got, then he’ll have to do,’ snapped the man, clicking a gold Dunhill lighter and drawing on the cigar. Wells felt like pointing to the ‘No Smoking’ sign but wasn’t in the mood for any more aggravation and the odds were that Frost would come slommocking out with a cigarette in his mouth. He used the internal phone and whilst the man glowered and puffed cigar smoke and whisky fumes all over him, asked Inspector Frost to come into the lobby.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Frost. ‘What’s up?’
Frost, in his crumpled suit, greasy knotted tie and unpolished shoes, didn’t look at all impressive and he certainly didn’t impress the complainant who pulled the cigar from his mouth and stared contemptuously. ‘Isn’t there anyone else in charge?’
‘No,’ said Frost. ‘So if you’ve anything to say, spit it out, I’m busy.’
‘Not too busy to attend to me,’ snarled the man. ‘I’m making a complaint against that police officer.’ His finger jabbed at Collier. ‘He drove his car into me while I was stationary, then accused me of drunken driving.’
Frost wrinkled his nose and turned his head away from the whisky fumes. To Collier he said, ‘Has he been breathalyzed?’
‘No, Inspector. He refused.’
‘Right, said Frost to Wells. ‘Get a police surgeon… one with warm hands. We’ll have a urine sample.’ Back to Collier. ‘So what happened, Constable?’
‘I’ve just told you what happened,’ shouted the man, his face getting redder.
Frost pushed him away. ‘Shut up. You’re giving me a bleedin’ headache.’ Back to Collier.
‘I was on patrol in the Bath Road when I saw this Bentley crawling along, swinging from one side of the road to the other. I signalled for the driver to stop. He pulled into the kerb. I drew up behind him. As I was getting out, he started up the engine. I think he was trying to get away, but he put it into reverse by mistake and rammed into me. He was obviously drunk — speech slurred, eyes glazed. He flatly refused to use the breathalyzer, and knocked it out of my hand, so I brought him in.’
‘Well done,’ nodded Frost. ‘Book him.’ As he turned to go, the man grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him round.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he demanded, pushing his sweating face close to the inspector’s.
‘I know what you are,’ replied Frost, shaking himself free. ‘You’re a drunken, boring prick. Take your sweaty paw off my suit.’
No-one heard the lobby door swing open. ‘What’s going on here?’
Frost groaned. Bloody Mullett had to choose this particular moment to do his rallying call act on the troops. A little touch of Mullett in the night. ‘I’m handling it, sir,’ he said firmly.