‘Yes, I’m here,’ replied Frost. ‘Sorry if I’m out of breath. I’m in a lady’s bed at the moment.’
‘Got a treat for you, Jack. Another body.’
‘Shit!’ said Frost. The only body he was interested in just now was Mrs Compton’s. ‘What’s the address?’ He snapped his fingers for Gilmore to take it down.
‘The body’s out in the open. It was dumped in a lane at the rear of the corporation rubbish tip.’
‘Ah,’ said Frost. ‘Sounds like a job for Mr Mullett. I’ll give you his home phone number.’
‘Don’t mess about, Jack. Jordan and Collier are waiting there for you. Could be foul play, but I’ve got my doubts.’
‘Collier? You’re pushing that poor little sod in at the deep end?’
‘I had no-one else to send. Both area cars are ferrying the wounded down to Denton Casualty after the pub punch-up. There’s blood and teeth all over the floor down here.’
‘Excuses, excuses,’ said Frost, hanging up quickly. ‘Why do I always get the shitty locations? Rubbish tips, public urinals . . . I never get knocking shops and harems.’ Well, he was in no hurry for this one. He stretched himself out on the bed and inhaled Jill Compton’s perfume. ‘Nip down and tell the lady of the house I’m ready for her now,’ he murmured to Gilmore. ‘And ask her to wash her behind. I don’t fancy it with her husband’s sticky finger-marks all over it.’
‘Don’t you think we should hurry?’ asked Gilmore.
‘I can’t work up much enthusiasm about a body in a rubbish dump.’ Reluctantly, he hauled himself up from the soft, still warm bed and had a quick nose around. Other people’s bedrooms fascinated him. His own was cold, cheerless and strictly functional, a place for crawling into bed, dead tired, in the small hours, and out again in the morning to face a new day’s horrors. But here was a bedroom for padding about, half-undressed, on the soft wool carpeting, and for making love on the wide divan bed with its beige velvet headboard. By the side of the bed, a twin-mirrored, low-level dressing table where pouting-breasted Jill Compton would splash perfume over her red-hot, naked body, before sprawling on the bed, her hair tumbled across the pillow, awaiting the entrance of her rampant, adulterous sod of a husband.
He shook his head to erase the fantasy and walked across to the wide window to look out, across the moonlit garden. The wind had dropped and everything was quiet and still. ‘Any chance the bloke we saw could have been the husband?’
‘The husband?’ Gilmore’s eyebrows shot up. What was the idiot on about now? ‘Smashing his own window? Scaring the hell out of his own wife?’
‘I just get the feeling there’s something phoney about this.’
‘I don’t share your opinion,’ sniffed Gilmore. ‘And in any case, there was no way it could have been the husband. He was with his wife when the window was smashed.’
‘Then I’m wrong again,’ shrugged Frost.
Downstairs, husband and wife were in close embrace, the shortie nightdress had ridden up to pouting breast level and hands were crawling everywhere.
Frost scooped up the wreath and passed it over to Gilmore. ‘We’ll see ourselves out,’ he called.
They didn’t hear him.
Police Constable Ken Jordan, his greatcoat collar turned up against the damp chill, was waiting for them at the lane at the rear of the sprawling rubbish dump. The lane was little more than a footpath with rain-heavy, waist-high grass flourishing on each side. In the background the night sky glowed a misty orange.
‘Blimey, Jordan, what’s that pong?’ sniffed Frost, inhaling the sour breath of the town’s decaying rubbish. ‘It’s not you, I hope?’
Jordan grinned. He liked working with Frost. ‘Pretty nasty one this time, sir. The body’s a bit of a mess.’
‘I only get the nasty ones,’ said Frost. ‘Let’s take a look at him.’
They followed Jordan, stumbling in the dark, as he led them down the narrow path, the wet grass on each side slapping at their legs. ‘The old lady died, sir – at the hospital. I suppose you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘I know.’
The lane curved. Ahead of them sodium lamps gleamed and flickering flames of something burning bloodied the haze. The tip was perimetered by 9-foot high chain link fencing, giving it the appearance of a wartime German prisoner of war camp.
Behind the wire fence, towering proud through streamers of mist, rose mountains of black plastic rubbish sacks and chugging between them, pushing, scooping and rearranging the landscape, a yellow-painted corporation bulldozer splashed through slime-coated pools of filthy water. As it demolished heaps of rubbish, rats scampered and scurried, their paws making loud scratching sounds on the plastic sacking. The smell was stale and sickly sweet like unwashed, rotting bodies.
Frost wound his scarf around his mouth and nose as he nodded towards the bulldozer. ‘I didn’t know they worked nights.’
‘It’s this flu virus,’ explained Jordan. ‘Half of the work-force are off sick and the rest have to do overtime to keep ahead. It was the bulldozer driver who spotted the body.’
‘Then sod him for a start,’ said Frost.
‘This way, sir.’ Jordan led them off the path, trampling a trail through the lush, sodden grass to where a pasty-faced PC Collier stood uneasily on guard over rusting tin cans and a tarpaulin-covered huddle.
Frost lit up a cigarette and passed around the packet. Everyone took one, even Collier who didn’t usually smoke. Frost looked down at the tarpaulin and prodded it with his foot. ‘I can’t delay the treat any more.’ He nodded to Collier. ‘Let’s have a look at him.’
Collier hesitated and didn’t seem to want to comply.
‘You heard the inspector,’ snapped Gilmore. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Keeping his head turned well away, Collier fumbled for the tarpaulin and pulled it back.
Even Frost had to gasp when he saw the face. The cigarette dropped from his lips on to the chest of the corpse. He bent hurriedly to retrieve it, trying not to look too closely at the face as he did so.
Jordan, who had seen it before, stared straight ahead. Gilmore’s stomach was churning and churning. He bit his lip until it hurt and tried to think of anything but that face. He wasn’t going to show himself up in front of the others.
The body was of an old man in his late seventies. There were no eyes and parts of the face were eaten away with bloodied chunks torn from the cheeks and the lips.
‘The rats have had a go at him,’ said Jordan.
‘I didn’t think they were love bites,’ said Frost. He straightened up. ‘Still, we’re lucky the weather’s cold. Did I ever tell you about that decomposing tramp in the heat-wave?’
‘Yes,’ said Jordan hurriedly. Frost was fond of trotting out that ghastly anecdote.
‘Did I tell you, son?’ said Frost, turning to Gilmore. ‘The hottest bloody summer on record. I can still taste the smell of him.’
‘Yes, you told me,’ lied Gilmore.
The dead man, the exposed flesh yellow in the over-spill of the sodium lamps, lay on his back, lipless mouth agape, staring eyeless into the night sky. He wore an unbuttoned black overcoat, heavy with rain, which flapped open to reveal a blue-striped, flannelette pyjama jacket which bore the bloodied paw marks of the feeding rats. The pyjama jacket was tucked inside dark grey trousers which were fastened by a leather belt.
‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’ Collier came forward. ‘It’s that old boy whose daughter-in-law reported him missing from home last week. He was always walking out and sleeping rough.’
‘I bet the poor sod has never slept as rough as this,’ observed Frost. ‘Sergeant Wells said you think it’s foul play?’
‘His face looked battered, sir,’ said Collier, pointing, but not looking where he was pointing.
Frost haunched down, slipped a hand beneath the head of the corpse and lifted it slightly. He dribbled smoke as he stared long and hard at the mutilated face, then stood
up, wiping his palm down the front of his mac. ‘That’s just where the rats have been tucking in, son. There’s no other marks . . . see for yourself.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, sir, if you don’t mind,’ said Collier.
Jordan’s personal radio squawked. He pulled it from his pocket. Sergeant Wells wanted to speak to Inspector Frost urgently.
Frost took the radio. ‘Everything’s bloody urgent,’ he moaned.
‘Fifteen Roman Road, Denton,’ said Wells tersely. ‘Mrs Betty Winters, an old lady living on her own. A neighbour’s phoned. He reckons he saw a man breaking in through the front door. The intruder is still in the house. Sorry about this, but I’ve got no-one else to send.’
‘On our way,’ said Frost, stuffing the radio back in Jordan’s pocket. ‘Jordan, come with us. Collier, stay here and wait for the police surgeon.’ At the young PC’s look of dismay at being left alone with the body, he added, ‘You can handle it, son. If death isn’t due to natural causes, let me know right away.’
With Jordan driving they made it to Roman Road in three minutes, coasting past number 15 and stopping outside the public telephone box where a middle-aged man emerged and hurried over to them. ‘It was me who phoned,’ he announced. ‘I knew he was up to no good the minute I saw him. I thought he was going to pee in the porch. They do that, you know – dirty sods. You put your empty milk bottles out . . .’
‘What did he look like?’ cut in Frost as the man drew a breath.
‘A big, ugly-looking sod. I couldn’t get to that phone quick enough. Stinks of urine in that phone box. When they’re not peeing in your porch or your milk bottles they’re peeing in the phone box . . .’
‘Are you sure he’s still inside?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Positive.’
‘Is there a back way out?’
‘Through the gardens and over the rear wall. But I don’t think he’s got out that way. You’d hear next-door’s bloody dog barking . . . bark, bark, bark, all bleeding night.’
‘Go with the gentleman, Jordan,’ said Frost, anxious to get rid of the verbose neighbour. ‘Get into the garden over his fence and block the escape route.’
As soon as Jordan radioed through that he was in position, Frost did his letter-box squinting act. Utter blackness. A quick examination of the front door. No sign of a forced entry, so if there was an intruder, how did he get in? Hopefully he looked under the porch mat for a spare key. Nothing.
‘Shall I smash the glass panel?’ offered Gilmore.
‘No,’ grunted Frost, poking his hand through the letter-box and scrabbling about until his fingers touched something. A length of string looped at the end. He gave the string a tug. There was a click as the door knob was pulled back. Cautiously he pushed open the door, grabbing it as a sudden gust of wind threatened to send it crashing against the wall of the hall.
They tiptoed inside and Frost flicked the beam of his torch to show Gilmore how the string ran through staples and was tied round the door catch. ‘The burglar’s friend, son.’ If the tenant forgot his key, he just had to pull the string. But so could anyone else who wanted to gain entry.
They held their breaths and listened. The house stretched and creaked and breathed and sighed. Then an alien sound from upstairs made Frost grab at Gilmore’s sleeve, willing him to silence. A small click like a door closing. Signalling for the sergeant to stay by the front door, blocking that escape route, Frost padded along the passage and began creeping up the stairs.
Every stair seemed to creak no matter how carefully he placed his feet. At the top his torch picked out a small landing and two doors side by side. He clicked off the torch and slowly turned the handle of the nearest door.
Pitch black and a feeling of cold and damp. A hollow plop. Water slowly dripping from a tap. And a smell of sweat. Of fear. His thumb was on the button of the torch when he caught the metallic glint of a knife just as something hit him, sending his head smashing against the wall.
The torch dropped from his grasp as arms locked round him and dragged him down to the ground. Someone was on top of him, punching. There was hardly any room to move. His arm was trapped between his body and the wall, but he strained and wriggled frantically until he managed to free it. He reached up. Cloth. Flesh. Then a clawing hand clutched his face. He grabbed it, trying to tear it away while his other hand scrabbled in the blackness over cold, wet lino. Where was the damned torch?
He started to yell ‘Gilmore!’ when a fist crashed down on his face. He jerked up a knee, blindly. A scream of pain as his assailant fell back. His groping hand touched something metallic. The torch. Thankfully he grabbed it and swung it upwards like a club. A sharp crack and a groan as his attacker collapsed on top of him. Frost pushed and wriggled and managed to get on top.
‘Thudding footsteps up the stairs. ‘Are you all right, Inspector?’
‘No, I am bloody not!’ panted Frost. ‘I’m fighting for my bleeding life in here.’
Gilmore pushed in and fumbled for the light switch. They were in a small white-tiled bathroom. Frost, astride the intruder, was wedged between the wall and the bath. His tongue took a trip round his mouth, prodding at teeth, tasting salt.
He stood up to get a better look at the unconscious man on the floor. His attacker was around twenty, fresh complexion, his hair black and cut short, dressed in grey slacks, a grey polo-neck sweater and a windcheater. Gilmore searched his pockets. No wallet, no identification. No sign of a weapon but over the sweater a heavy silver crucifix on a chain glinted like the blade of a knife.
The man on the floor groaned and stirred slightly.
‘Hadn’t we better get him to a doctor?’ asked Gilmore.
Frost shook his head. ‘He’s only stunned.’ Then he remembered the old lady who should have heard all the noise and be screaming blue murder. ‘Let’s find the old girl.’
She was in the bedroom. In the bed, eyes staring upwards, mouth wide open and dribbling red. The bedclothes had been dragged back, exposing a nightdress drenched in blood from the multiple stab wounds in her stomach. On the pillow, by her head, was a browning smear where her killer had wiped the blade clean before leaving.
While the little house swarmed with more people than it had held in its lifetime, Frost and Gilmore closeted themselves in the bathroom with their prisoner, now securely handcuffed. He lay still, apparently unconscious. A dig from Frost’s foot resulted only in a slight moan. On the bath rack was an enormous sponge which Frost held under the cold tap until it was sodden and dripping, then he held it high over the man’s face and squeezed.
The head jerked, and twisted, the eyes fluttered, then opened wide. He blinked and tried to focus on the piece of white plastic bearing a coloured photograph.
‘Police,’ announced Frost.
A sigh of relief as the man struggled up to a sitting position. ‘In the bedroom – she’s dead . . .’ He winced and tried to touch his head and then saw the handcuffs. ‘What’s this? What’s going on?’
‘Suppose you tell us,’ snapped Frost. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Purley. Frederick Purley.’
‘Address?’
‘The Rectory, All Saints Church.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ snarled Gilmore.
Purley raised his dripping face to the sergeant. ‘I’m the curate at All Saints Church. Please remove these handcuffs.’ He tried to rise to his feet, but Gilmore pushed him down.
‘Since when do curates break into people’s houses in the middle of the night?’ asked Frost.
‘I only wanted to see if Mrs Winters was all right. I never dreamed . . .’ His head drooped.
‘Why did you think she wasn’t all right?’ asked Frost, dropping his cigarette end into the toilet pan and flushing it away.
‘I’d been sitting with one of my parishioners – an old man, terminally ill – giving his daughter a break from looking after him. As I walked back I saw Mrs Winters’ milk was still on the step. After that dreadful business wit
h poor Mrs Haynes, I had to make sure she was all right.’
Gilmore’s head jerked up. ‘You knew Mrs Haynes?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. I was with her on Sunday. Her husband’s grave was vandalized. She was so upset.’
‘It wasn’t the poor cow’s day,’ said Frost. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘There was no milk on the step when we arrived.’
‘I brought it in with me. I put it in her fridge.’
Frost yelled down the stairs for the SOC man to check there was an unopened bottle of milk in the fridge and if so, to go over it for prints. Back to Purley. ‘How did you get in?’
‘There’s a string connected to the front door catch. I’ve used it before . . . Mrs Winters is a cripple – she’s under the hospital, chronic arthritis. She can’t always get to the door.’
‘Right,’ nodded Frost. ‘So what did you do next?’
‘The hall was in darkness. I couldn’t find the light switch, but I made my way upstairs. I tapped on her bedroom door. No answer. I went in and switched on the light and . . .’ He shuddered and covered his face with his hands, ‘and I saw her. And then I heard the door click downstairs. I thought it was the killer coming back. I switched off the light and hid in the bathroom. You know the rest.’
A brisk tap at the door. The SOC man came in holding a full pint bottle of red-top milk, shrouded in a polythene bag. ‘This was in the fridge, Inspector. Two different dabs on the neck – neither of them the dead woman’s.’
Frost squinted at the bottle. ‘One should be the milkman, the other ought to be the padre here. Take his dabs and see if they match.’ He ordered Gilmore to remove the cuffs.
Another tap at the door. ‘The pathologist has finished,’ yelled Forensic.
‘Coming,’ called Frost.
It was cold in the tiny ice-box of a bedroom with its unfriendly brown lino and the windows rattling where the wind found all the gaps. Drysdale buttoned his overcoat and rubbed his hands briskly. ‘I estimate the time of death as approximately eleven o’clock last night, give or take half an hour or so either way.’ He pointed to bruising on each side of the dead woman’s mouth. ‘He clamped his hand over her face so she couldn’t utter a sound, then he jerked back the bedclothes and stabbed her repeatedly – three times in the stomach and lastly in the heart. The wounds are quite deep. To inflict them he would have raised the knife above his head and brought it down with considerable force.’ Drysdale gave a demonstration with his clenched fist. ‘As he raised his hand, some of the blood on the knife splashed on to the wall.’ He indicated red splatters staining the pale cream wallpaper.
Night Frost Page 18