Frost 3 - Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  "The old dear in the next flat—Mrs. Proctor," Burton told him.

  "OK. Burton and Jordan—knock on doors. Find out if anyone saw or heard anything. Gilmore, come with me. We’ll chat up Old Mother Proctor."

  Mrs. Proctor, her untidy grey hair in need of combing, squinted and blinked watery eyes at the warrant card held out for her inspection. "I’ll have to take you on trust," she finally decided. "My eyes aren’t too good this time of the morning." And to prove it, she bumped into the hall table as she unsteadily led them through to her untidy lounge. "The old dear’s pissed!" hissed Frost to Gilmore.

  "Sit down," she mumbled, breathing gin fumes all over them. Frost sat on something hard. An empty gin bottle. He carefully stood it on the floor. She flopped down in the chair opposite and tried unsuccessfully to stop her body swaying from side to side.

  A messy room with dirty underwear draped over chairs and unwashed glasses in abundance. The gas-fire was going full blast and the room was hot and close.

  She hiccuped gin fumes and fanned them away. "Can I get you something to drink?" Thinking she meant tea, Frost nodded, but she slopped gin into two dirty cups and handed one each to the detectives. "Get that down you!" Frost eyed the tea-coloured gin swilling about in the cup with tea-leaves floating on its surface. It was a bit early in the morning, but what the hell. He downed it in one gulp.

  Mrs. Proctor nodded her approval and topped up her own cup from the bottle. "I don’t usually indulge this time of the morning, but after seeing her, in that chair and all that blood . . ." The recollection required a quick swallow and a second helping.

  Frost nodded sympathetically. He noticed a line of birthday cards on the mantelpiece. "Someone’s birthday?"

  She suddenly burst into tears. "Mine—and not a very happy one. A bloody fine present, finding your next-door neighbour butchered." She dabbed her eyes. "I’m sorry." Tottering over to the mantelpiece she took down one of the cards with a picture of a basketful of kittens. "This is her card. The very last card she ever sent me."

  "Very nice," said Frost, unenthusiastically.

  She sniffed derisively. "I hate cats—they stink the bloody place out. Still, I expect she only bought it because it was cheap." She leant forward confidentially. "I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but she really was a tight-fisted old cow."

  "You don’t say!" said Frost.

  "I do say. Her purse always looked as if it was pregnant it was packed with notes, but you never saw her put her hand in her pocket to buy you a drink."

  Frost gave a disapproving shake of the head. Mrs. Proctor started to say something else then burst into tears. "Here am I running the poor woman down and she’s lying dead in her chair." She raised a tear-streaked face. "It was awful when I went in there and saw all that blood . . ."

  "I know it’s upsetting," soothed Frost, "so I’ll get this over as soon as I can. You borrowed the Daily Mirror from her?"

  "I borrowed it at eight o’clock. I went to return it at ten, but she wouldn’t answer the door."

  "Was that unusual?" asked Gilmore, distastefully eyeing the gin slurping about in his sugar-encrusted cup.

  "Bloody unusual. She was such a mean old bitch, she wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I hadn’t returned her paper . . . afraid I might run off with it. I banged at the door. No reply. So I went to bed."

  "Then what?"

  "This morning I expected her to send Interpol round to arrest me for hanging on to her lousy paper, so I tried her door again. Still no reply. I thought she might be ill with that flu virus thing, so I let myself in."

  "How did you get into her flat?"

  She fumbled in her apron pocket and produced a key. "I’ve got the spare key to her flat and she’s got the one to mine."

  Frost nodded. The maverick key explained.

  "I didn’t think I’d be able to get in with the key as she always put on the bolts and the chain. But it opened, and I went in and . . ." Her body shook at the recollection.

  He leant across and patted her hand. "I know it’s difficult, love. Just take your time." At last, after several false starts, she managed to stem the flow and bravely nodded her willingness to continue. "When you saw her last night to borrow the newspaper, did she say she was expecting anyone?"

  "No. She just gave me the paper like she always did bloody begrudgingly."

  "After that, did you hear anything?"

  She blinked at him. "Like what?"

  Like a bloody woman being disembowelled, you stupid cow, thought Frost. "Anything at all that might help us?" he asked sweetly.

  "No—I had the telly on. I like to read the paper with the telly on—it gives me something to occupy my mind." She shivered. "Poor Doris was terrified of something like this happening ever since she heard about this Granny Ripper maniac. She was going to get a stronger chain put on her door, but she left it too late."

  "The chain wouldn’t have helped her," said Frost. "She let this bloke in like an old friend. Did she have many friends?"

  "Hardly any. She was such a tight-fisted cow, no-one liked her and she hardly ever went out—except to bingo and the club. The senior citizens’ club—it’s run by the church."

  "Did you go to her club?"

  "No, but she used to get me to go to bingo with her—she was nervous of being out on her own—but I gave it up a year ago. I don’t approve of gambling. Besides, I never bloody won anything."

  Frost shook his head both in sympathy and to keep him self awake. The gas-fire, aided by the gin, was strongly soporific. "She only went to the daytime bingo sessions, I suppose?"

  "Yes. She didn’t even like coming back in the dark late afternoon, but that nice driver used to bring her right to her door—leave his coach and escort her right up to the flat."

  Frost’s drooping head suddenly snapped up. "What driver?"

  "Of the coach. They lay on this free coach for the bingo picks you up in the town and brings you back."

  "Only back to the town centre, surely?" asked Frost.

  "That’s all they’re supposed to do, but if you’ve got a nice driver and he passes your door, he’ll drop you off. It’s almost as good as getting a taxi."

  "And this nice driver . . . would he go with you to your door, wait until you got safely inside, help you get the key out from under the mat, or pull the string through the letter-box, or something?"

  "Some of them do. Some just drop you off at the corner."

  "Hmm." Frost spat out a tea-leaf. "Mrs. Watson was nervous, even of coming home late afternoons, and yet she let someone into her flat at night. Any ideas on who that might be?"

  "The only person I can think of is her poncey son. He lives in Denton somewhere. He often came to see her."

  "What is he like?"

  "A nasty piece of work. Do you know what he had the nerve to say to me? He said, 'Why don’t you buy your own Daily Mirror instead of scrounging one from my poor mother?' "

  "Sounds a real right bastard," Frost confided, rising from his chair. "Thanks for your help. An officer will be along soon to take a written statement. If you think of anything else—anything—that might help, let the officer know."

  Gilmore pushed his untasted cup of gin to one side and followed him out.

  In the murder flat they had to flatten themselves against the wall as the body was manhandled out on a stretcher by two ambulance men who had difficulty getting it round the tight bend to the front door, the corner of the stretcher ripping a section of the floral wallpaper in the process. Immediately following the stretcher came the pathologist, looking like an undertaker in his long black overcoat. "I’ve given preliminary details to your detective constable. I’ll phone your office with a time for the autopsy."

  In the lounge the Forensic team were packing up. The chair and the bloodstained carpet had been removed and the blood which had soaked through to the exposed floorboards had been ringed in yellow chalk. The warm, sticky slaughter house smell still tainted the air. Moodily, Frost tore off th
e dangling strip of wallpaper. The poor cow. She’d have a fit if she saw the state of her little flat now.

  From the bathroom door came grunting and a metallic clanging. He looked inside. Harding from Forensic was on his knees, swearing softly to himself as he tried to manoeuvre a long-handled spanner underneath the tiny wash-basin in an effort to remove the waste trap. "Blimey," Frost exclaimed, "isn’t there anything you won’t pinch?"

  Harding grinned. "There’s traces of blood in the sink waste, Inspector."

  Frost showed surprise. "You mean he had a good wash afterwards?"

  "The way he sliced her he’d have been splattered with blood. He couldn’t go out like that."

  "What about his clothes?"

  Sucking barked knuckles, Harding gave the spanner one final push and sighed his relief as he felt something give. He looked up at the inspector.

  "I reckon his clothes are smothered in blood—unless he took them off before he butchered her."

  "Oh," sniffed Frost. "And what is she doing while he strips off? Staring hypnotized at his John Thomas?"

  Harding grinned. "Just a theory, Inspector." He dropped the spanner and found he could now turn the large nut by hand.

  Frost stuck his head out of the bathroom. "Don’t forget to check all dry-cleaners."

  "Already done!" replied Burton. A waste of time. This killer was too smart.

  Back to the bathroom where Harding was easing off the waste trap. "So, if he washed himself, the blood you’re going to find in the waste trap will be the old girl’s blood—right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do we need any more? We’re nearly swimming in the bleeding stuff out there as it is."

  Harding shrugged. "We’ve got to be thorough, sir."

  "Smile when you say that," said Frost wandering out to the empty-looking lounge. "I might think you’re getting at me." Gilmore watched him meander about aimlessly, picking up pieces of bric-a-brac and putting them down again. The old fool had no idea what to do next.

  PC Jordan and another uniformed officer returned from their door-to-door enquiries to report no joy. As usual, every one was shocked at what had happened, but no-one had heard or seen anything.

  "This bloke’s too bloody lucky." Frost dropped his cigarette end on the floor and ground it underfoot. He felt tired, useless and inadequate. Mrs. Proctor’s gin was sloshing about in his stomach, he was beginning to feel sick and his head was starting to throb. He flopped into an armchair.

  "What do you want us to do now?" asked Gilmore.

  Just leave me alone, he wanted to answer, then sat up frowning at a burst of voices from outside. He groaned out loud as Mullett, bright and morning fresh, bounced into the room. He could have done without Hornrim Harry at this particular moment.

  Mullett’s lips tightened. Typical. A serious murder enquiry. Forensic busy and conscientious as always in the next room and here was Frost, sprawled In an armchair, and—Mullett’s nose quivered to confirm his suspicion—reeking of drink. "Another body, Inspector?" he said testily, his tone implying it was all Frost’s fault.

  "Where?" said Frost, jumping up and pretending to look around the room. "I can’t see it, Super."

  Teeth gritted, Mullett raised his eyes to the artex ceiling and sighed loudly. Frost never knew when it was the wrong time to act the fool. "What progress have you made?"

  "So far, sod all. This bloke’s bloody lucky. No-one sees him, no-one hears him and he leaves no prints. Unless Forensic can come up with something spectacular we might have to wait for him to make a mistake. His bleeding luck’s bound to run out sometime."

  A derisive snort. "Wait? You mean until he kills again? No way! I want these killings stopped!"

  "Oh?" muttered Frost. "And how do we achieve that, Super?"

  "By finding the killer and arresting him."

  "Oh! Make a note of that, Gilmore," said Frost, the gin making him reckless. "Any other bright ideas, sir—I’m always ready to learn."

  Mullett glared angrily, his jaw twitching. The man’s insouciance always infuriated him. He jerked his head at Burton and Jordan. "Wait outside, would you, please." He waited until they had gone. "You made a damn fool of me last night, Inspector."

  "Did I?" asked Frost, sounding very interested. "How did I do that?" His tone implied he would mark it down for future reference.

  "That Ripper suspect. You led me to believe you had a water-tight case against him, and I now understand that your big due, the knife, belonged to the victim all the time."

  "I’m afraid so, Super," agreed Frost, ruefully.

  "And you left me dangling. You didn’t even come in and tell me what had happened. I was waiting for your report and the Chief Constable was waiting for my report."

  "Sorry about that," mumbled Frost. "I forgot all about you."

  Mullett’s mouth opened and closed. He was almost speechless. "Forgot?" he spluttered. "Forgot to inform your Divisional Commander about a suspect in a major murder investigation?"

  "I have got a lot on my plate," snapped Frost. "We’re going flat out, we’re working double shifts and we get lots of stupid interruptions." He hoped Mullett might take this subtle hint and go, but the superintendent hadn’t finished yet.

  "Detective Sergeant Hanlon works under the same conditions as you, Frost, but he managed to get results. He’s obtained a murder confession from Manson and confessions on at least thirty burglaries. Excellent work that will put us right at the top of the league for crime rate figures this month. It’s results that count, Inspector, not excuses. It seems to me," and here his glare of displeasure clearly included Gilmore, "that you may not be up to the task, in which case I will have no hesitation in replacing you." With that he spun on his heel and marched out, oblivious to the near-audible raspberry that followed him out.

  Now it was Gilmore’s turn to be angry. If he were to share in Frost’s failures, he wanted to share in his few triumphs. "Why didn’t you tell him about Hanlon? He was the one who sodded up the knife and Manson was our collar, not his."

  "We’re supposed to be a team, son," said Frost, "not all fighting for Brownie points."

  Gilmore’s reply was stifled by the return of DC Burton and PC Jordan. But all right, he muttered to himself, if it takes Brownie points to get on, I’ll give the bastard Brownie points.

  Desmond Watson scooped up the post from the mat and closed the front door behind him. He dumped his brief-case by the hall stand and checked through the letters on his way through to the living-room. Two bills, a bank statement and a commission cheque from his firm. Watson was the Northern Area Sales Representative for a double-glazing company. In the living-room the little green light on his telephone answering machine told him there were messages waiting. He fast-forwarded on cue and review, his ear able to recognize from the high-pitched gabble the girl from his firm passing on sales leads which he would note down later, and then the familiar sound of his mother’s voice. He released the button and listened as he opened up the envelope to check that his firm hadn’t yet again made a mistake with his commission payment.

  Hello, son. It’s mother. You needn’t worry any more about . . . Just a moment, there’s someone at the door . . . A pause. A long pause. And then the automatic cut-off operated.

  He raised his head from his checking of the commission payment and waited for the next message which should have been his mother phoning back. But it was a strange voice. A man’s voice. It asked him to ring the Denton Police Station. The commission cheque fluttered from his fingers. His stomach churning with foreboding, he reached for the phone.

  Thursday afternoon shift (1)

  Gilmore spooned sugar into a cup of hot, strong tea and placed it in front of Watson who was still in a state of shock after formally identifying his mother’s body. The cup clattered on the saucer as his shaking hand raised it to his mouth. He tried to concentrate on what the scruffy inspector was saying.

  "I know it’s been an awful shock, sir, but if you could answer one or two questions.
"

  The cup was rattling against his teeth. He lowered it back to the saucer, the tea untasted, and pushed it away. "Yes . . . anything."

  "We’ve been listening to a tape from your answering machine, your mother’s last message. You said she made the call at 9.35 p.m. If you weren’t at home, how do you know that?"

  "My answering machine logs the time and date of all calls."

  "I see, sir. And where were you at 9.35 last night?"

  "Me?" His head jerked up. "You suspect me?"

  "I’d be happy if I had anyone to suspect, sir," said Frost, wearily. "I just want to eliminate. Your mother was a nervous woman. She kept her front door chained and bolted and yet someone calls at 9.35 at night and she cheerfully lets them in. It had to be someone she knew and trusted . . . some one like you, sir. So where were you?"

  "I was in Birmingham. The Queensway Hotel." He pulled a receipt from his inside pocket and handed it across. "You’ll want to check, of course."

  Frost glanced at it and passed it to Gilmore who went out to phone.

  "I’d like it back," said Watson. "I need it for my expenses claim."

  Frost nodded. He knew all about expenses claims. "On the tape, sir, your mother starts by saying, 'You needn’t worry any more about . . .' Any idea what she meant by that?"

  "I think she was referring to a new security chain. The one on her front door was inadequate. After hearing about those burglaries and then those two women killed, I’d been on to her to get a stronger one."

  "Can you think of anyone your mother would be happy to admit into her flat at 9.35 at night?"

  "No-one. She was a very nervous woman." He looked up as Gilmore returned with the receipt and murmured some thing in the inspector’s ear.

  "The hotel confirm your visit, sir." Frost handed the receipt back and stood up. "Thank you for your help. We’ll let you know how our enquiries progress . . . and, of course, you have our deepest sympathy." As the door closed behind Watson, Frost’s solemn expression changed to a grin. "So he had a double room and a woman and he asked the hotel for a single room receipt?"