'What was the call about?' asked Frost.
Adams was about to leap forward to answer a phone that had been ringing for some time when the wet-eyed, plump lady beat him to it. He smiled his thanks and turned back to Frost. 'Everything we are told here is strictly confidential.'
'I'm not asking for names at this stage, Mr Adams. I'm trying to find out who murdered this sweet, loving woman you seem so concerned about.' He retrieved the photograph from his mac pocket. 'Would you like to see what the bastard did to her?'
Adams turned his head away quickly. 'No thank you, Inspector. We see too much of the nasty side of life in here.'
'You and me both,' said Frost, stuffing the photograph back. 'So what was the call about?'
A man in the depths of despair. He'd lost his job, the mortgage company wanted to reclaim his house and his wife had walked out on him. He was near suicidal.'
'I'd be near suicidal if I had to listen to that sort of thing all the time,' sympathized Frost. 'I suppose you| don't get many laughs?'
'No,' agreed Adams sadly, 'not many laughs, but, sometimes, when we have been able to help some poor devil, it all seems worthwhile.'
'My job will seem worthwhile if we can catch the: bastard,' said Frost. 'Did she talk him out of suicide?
'I don't know. He suddenly hung up.'
'And then what?'
'She collected next week's duty roster, put on her coat and was ready to leave when her phone ran again. She answered it. At first she seemed frightens then annoyed. She hung up abruptly — unusual for her — and left.'
'And what was that call about?'
'I don't know. I was meaning to ask when she cam in again, but…'
'Could it have been a personal call?'
'I shouldn't think so. Helen didn't seem to get personal calls. Probably some crank.'
'Do you get many cranks?'
Adams gave a sad smile and nodded. 'We get more than our fair share. They are quite shocking to listen to at times, describing in graphic detail some obscene practice or some terrible crime they claim to have committed. Sick people who get their kicks from upsetting others.'
Frost stiffened. 'You get people confessing to crimes?'
'Yes. Mostly imaginary, of course.'
Frost's mind raced. What if the serial killer had phoned to boast about what he had done to those toms? What if he suddenly realized he had given too much away, something that could identify him? That would have made the person who took the call a potential danger. 'If you think people are confessing to a genuine crime, do you notify the police?'
'We have a strict code of confidentiality, Inspector. If it were learnt that someone had been arrested as a result of a call to the Samaritans-'
'But what if the call was from someone who had killed before and would kill again?'
Adams hesitated. 'I don't know. Fortunately the circumstance you describe has not yet arisen. If I was sure the call was genuine and the danger was real, then I might make an anonymous phone call to the police, but I just don't know.'
'Do you ever meet any of the people who phone you?'
'No.'
Frost worried away at his scar. 'Supposing, just supposing, that last call Helen took was from someone confessing to a crime. She urges him to give himself up. The caller says, "I'm outside, come and talk to me." Would she have gone?'
'At one o'clock in the morning, you do not meet complete strangers outside without telling someone. Helen was a very cautious lady. She would never have taken the risk.'
Frost scrubbed his face with his hands. He wasn't getting anywhere, but felt he was close, very close, to something. 'Thanks for your help, Mr Adams. I might want to talk to you again.'
As he made his way to the door, the plump lady beckoned him over. Her eyes were still puffy and red. 'I'm sorry I made a fool of myself, Inspector.'
'That's all right, love.'
'It was just the shock. I saw Helen's car outside and thought she was here, and when they told me-'
Frost stopped in his tracks. 'You mean her car is still here?'
'Yes, it's parked in the street outside.'
'Show me,' said Frost.
It was tucked' away in the back street by a lamp post, a light grey six-year-old Mini. The doors when Frost tried them were locked. He bent to look inside. Absolutely clean, ashtrays empty and gleaming, only the driver's seat showed signs of wear, the rest almost as good as new. A lonely woman who probably had few passengers. He straightened up. 'She always came here by car?'
'When she was on nights, she did. There's no public transport in the early hours.'
"Thanks. You've been a great help.' He turned his attention back to the Mini. No buses, so why didn't! she use the car? Was she waylaid before she could get to it? If so, she couldn't have been a random: victim of the serial killer. This area was all one-way streets and cul-de-sacs. You would have to come here deliberately. He looked around. An area mainly of shops, not many with living accommodation above, there would be few people about to see or hear anything at that hour of the morning. But just in; case, he radioed Bill Wells for men to go house-to-house in the immediate area. He also arranged for the Mini to be towed back to the station for Forensic to find their usual sod all, and waited in his car to keep an eye on it until the tow truck arrived. Just his luck for some joy-rider to pinch it before they could examine it.
He sucked smoke, half listening to the dribble of messages over the radio as he turned over events in his mind. His theory that the killer had phoned Helen and given too much away was getting stronger and stronger. But how did he pick her up? The toms would willingly climb in a strange car, but nervous, cautious Helen Stokes, at 1.30 in the morning? She would have to be forcibly dragged with a knife to the throat. Make a sound and you're dead. But wait a minute. If the killer had only heard her voice over the phone, how could he recognize her when she came out?
The tow truck pulled up and he watched them remove the Mini. If she was recognized, the killer must have known her, perhaps from where she worked? He hadn't asked the dentist to account for his movements the night his receptionist was killed. Sod it! Why did he always forget the important things? He reversed out of the street and back to the dental surgery.
The surgery didn't seem to be open. The brass plate by the entrance confirmed it was closed for lunch between 1.00 and 2.30 p.m. He checked his watch. 1.45. Damn! He gave a half-hearted push and, to his delight, the entrance door swung back. The reception area was empty. From force of habit he went to the desk and had a nose through the papers. All boring dental stuff, letters, appointments, forms, but what the hell did he expect to find — a signed confession?
He was about to leave when he heard a sound, a, faint sound, someone moaning. A woman, and it wasn't a moan of pain. The sound came from behind the closed doors of the surgery.
Tiptoeing over, he gently turned the door handle and peeped inside. The dental chair was in a reclining position, above it, a pair of pink buttocks pumped up and down and the long legs of the red-headed receptionist, whose bust Morgan had so recently admired, were wrapped tightly round a bare back.
He watched for a while, then cleared his throat. Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but could I have a word?'
A, gasp, a squeal and the buttocks quivered to an abrupt halt.
'Who the hell is that?' The dentist was in no position to turn round and see.
Frost retreated to the reception area and waited. From the surgery came the sound of angry recriminations. 'I thought I told you to lock the door.' 'I thought I had locked it.' 'Well, you bloody well didn't, did you?'
After a few minutes a red-faced dentist emerged shrugging on a white dental gown, followed by an even redder-faced receptionist who, eyes averted, clattered past Frost to the ladies' toilet. 'I must apologize, Inspector,' began Ashby. 'Most embarrassing…'