Frost 3 - Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Carefully, Frost replaced the leaves in his pocket then gave her one of his disarming smiles. "It shouldn’t be too hard to believe, Mrs. Compton. It wouldn’t have worked if you weren’t in it with him."

  She jerked back, her face white. "How dare you!"

  Ignoring her, Frost continued. "You were his alibi, he was yours. When he was away, you vandalized the garden. You each claimed to have received the phone calls in the other’s presence . . . and when the wreath was chucked through the window, you both claimed to have seen someone running away. Which was impossible, because your husband planted the wreath. Even a dim sod like me can see that you were in the fiddle with him."

  Her mouth opened and shut, then she thought for a while and finally took a deep breath. "I was hoping this would never have to come out, Inspector. Everything you say is true. It was Mark’s idea. I didn’t want to go along with him, but he said things were desperate and this was the only way out. He was my husband and I loved him. I did what he asked. Any wife would have done the same."

  Frost nodded. "But that still makes you an accessory, Mrs. Compton."

  She gave the secret smile of a poker player holding a royal flush. "An accessory to what, Inspector? I have no intention of making a claim on the insurance policy, and if I don’t claim, then there is no conspiricy to defraud."

  Frost looked deflated. "Law isn’t my strong point, Mrs. Compton. I suppose there’s no law that says you can’t destroy your own property. So who burnt it down—you or your husband?"

  "Mark. I tried to stop him, but he did it."

  A match flared. Frost sucked at his cigarette. "That only leaves one problem." He flicked the match in the fire and slowly expelled a lungful of smoke. "Who killed him?"

  She frowned.

  "I may be a bit slow on the uptake, Mrs. Compton, but there was no mysterious nutter with a grudge . . . you and your husband invented him, so you couldn’t have heard him breaking in last night. You must have gone downstairs with your husband . . . you wouldn’t lie in bed while he was splashing petrol about. Only two people in the house and one of them is murdered. So who did it, Mrs. Compton?"

  Gilmore was watching the woman. God knows how Frost had stumbled on to the truth, but her expression was as good as a signed and sealed confession.

  "Why did you do it, love?" asked Frost, his voice softening. "Did you find out about him and the Bradbury woman?" Her reaction was barely perceptible, but he saw it.

  She stared at him unblinking. "I had no motive to kill my husband. I never knew about Mark and her."

  Frost pushed himself out of his chair. "I think you did love. You probably got a poison pen letter telling you all about it, but we can check on that." He jerked his sleeve back to consult his wrist-watch. "But here am I rambling away and it isn’t even my case." He gave an apologetic grin to Gilmore as he shuffled out. "Sorry, son. I’ll leave you to get on with it."

  Gilmore stood up and opened the bedroom door. "Would you please get dressed, Mrs. Compton. I’d like you to come to the station with me." While he waited he was irritated to hear Ada’s startled shriek from the kitchen, followed by the raucous roar of Frost’s laughter and his cry of "How’s that for centre, Ada?" Stupid childish bloody fool, he thought.

  Outside, Frost pulled the handful of leaves from his pocket and hurled them into the wind. There were plenty more on Ada’s privet hedge where he had plucked them on his way in.

  Thursday afternoon shift (2)

  The Incident Room was buzzing with activity when Frost entered carrying a mug of tea and a corned beef sandwich from the canteen. Burton, eyes gleaming with excitement, hurried over to him.

  "You look happy," said Frost. "Has Mr. Mullett died?"

  Burton grinned. "It’s better than that, sir."

  Frost sat on the edge of a desk and sank his teeth into his sandwich. "Nothing could be better than that."

  "First of all," Burton told him, "we’ve checked all the local security firms. A couple of them send salesmen around cold calling to sell complete burglar alarm systems, but they leave chains and padlocks to the hardware stores."

  Frost washed down a mouthful of sandwich with a swig of tea. "That doesn’t send my pulse racing, son. What else?"

  "We’ve knocked on as many doors as we can asking if any one-man-band outfits have been touting for custom in fitting security chains and locks. A complete blank."

  Frost chewed gloomily. "Wake me up when you get to the good bit."

  "I called on Mrs. Proctor as you asked . . ."

  Burton paused for maximum effect. "A couple of days ago Mrs. Watson told her that one of the bingo coach drivers had offered to fit a stronger security chain on the cheap."

  Frost punched the air and whooped. "Geronimo! Did she say which driver?"

  "No, sir."

  "No matter, we can probably pin-point him. Now I want you to check all the coach companies . . ."

  "Already done," cut in Burton. "The main bingo run con tract is with Superswift Coaches, but they sub-contract the work out to other firms on a day-to-day basis. I’ve got details of the other firms." He offered the typed list to Frost who warded it away with his sandwich. "Each firm has a rota of drivers for its various runs, so you wouldn’t necessarily get the same driver each time additionally most drivers are self-employed so the same driver could do work for different firms."

  Frost gave a weary shake of the head. "All these details give me a headache. Skip the foreplay—go straight to the big bang!"

  "Right, sir. Sally fed all the names and duty rotas through the computer so we could eliminate those who definitely weren’t anywhere near Denton when the killings took place. We’ve come down to four possibles." From a folder he pulled four typed A4 sheets with photographs clipped on them. "We pulled the photographs from the firms’ personnel files."

  Frost wiped his buttery fingers on his jacket and took the first page. The photograph showed a man in his late thirties, a podgy face, receding dark hair.

  "David Allen Hardwicke," recited Burton. "Works for the Denton Creamline Coach Company. He’s done a lot of bingo runs, but he’s mainly used for coach parties from the clubs for West End shows and pantomimes. During-the summer he does the outings to the seaside resorts."

  Frost stared down at Hardwicke’s. details. The man was thirty-eight, married with two children aged nine and ten. Frost poked at the typescript with the crust of his corned beef sandwich. "He was away from Denton for two of the killings."

  Burton retrieved the sheet and shook off the breadcrumbs. "Yes, but sometimes drivers swap turns with each other and don’t let their firms know. That’s one of the complications you didn’t want to hear about. We’re checking it out."

  Frost took one last bite, then hurled the remains of his sandwich in the general direction of the waste bin. It missed by a foot. He ambled over and tried to boot it in, but missed again. He picked it up and dropped it in. "Who’s next?"

  The next was Thomas Riley, the photograph showing a thin, sharp-featured man, light hair plastered well back and well-spaced teeth. "Riley runs a one-man business—Riley’s Coaches," said Burton. "Forty-one years old, married, no children. Does the odd bingo and theatre run, but nowhere as many as Hardwicke."

  Frost drained his tea. He couldn’t work up any enthusiasm about Riley.

  "And he’s got form," announced Burton, waiting for the reaction.

  "Form?" Frost snatched Riley’s details and studied them again.

  Burton’s finger painted out the information. "Receiving stolen goods. Video recorders, TV sets, electronic gear."

  "Hmm." Frost dumped his mug on a stack of computer print-outs and fished out his cigarettes.

  Burton took one. "And he beat up a night-watchman once."

  "Hardly beat him up," corrected Frost, scraping a match down the side of the computer casing. "Knocked the old boy over when he tried to stop him." He turned to the continuation page. "Anyway, Riley was out on a job last night. Didn’t get back in until after the time
of the murder."

  "He dropped his last passenger off at 9.15," said Burton, leaning forward to share Frost’s match, "but didn’t garage the coach until 9.45. Mrs. Watson was killed around 9.35. He could just have done it."

  Frost snorted smoke. "He’d have had to rush, and I can’t see our Ripper rushing things. He likes to take his time." He handed back the details. "Next."

  Burton passed across another page and waited expectantly. If he had to put money on it, this was his nap selection. Robert Jefferson, thirty-three, married, one teenaged daughter. A thickset man with close-cropped black hair, he stared morosely from his photograph like a criminal having his mug-shot taken. Jefferson drove for Superswift Coaches, mainly long-distance and Continental work, but had done a couple of bingo runs from time to time. His off-duty schedule put him in Denton for every one of the Ripper killings. A man of violent temper, he had broken his wife’s jaw and she was instigating divorce proceedings because of his cruelty.

  Frost unimpressed. "I don’t think so, son. I can’t see Old Mother Watson inviting that thug into her fiat. Bung him at the bottom of the pile."

  "You’d better like this one," said Burton. "He’s the last. Ronald William Gauld, twenty-five, single, lives with his widowed mother. Does casual work as a relief driver for Clarke’s Coaches—mainly bingo and old people’s outings. He’s supposed to be a ball of fun on the coach trips. All the old dears love him."

  "I’m beginning to hate him already," said Frost, extending his hand for the details.

  "He’s only employed as a casual by Clarke’s, so he could well work for other firms we haven’t checked on yet but Clarke’s time-sheets have him off-duty on all the times and days of the Ripper killings."

  Frost glanced at the colour photo clipped to the sheet. Gauld, grinning with well-spaced teeth into the camera, looked more a boy than a man. His expression was frank and open, his brown eyes twinkled and his thick, light brown hair hung boyishly over his forehead. Excitement like static electricity crackled through Frost. Instinct. Gut reaction. He knew. He just knew. "Bingo!" he yelled.

  Everyone in the room looked up.

  Frost waggled the photograph, then held it aloft. "This is him. This is the Granny Ripper!"

  Burton could only look puzzled. "Why, sir?"

  "Gut reaction, son. I’m very rarely, right, but I am this time. Forget the rest . . . We go nap on Laughing Boy Gauld," He slid down from the desk, rubbing his hands together and pacing backwards and forwards to discharge his nervous excitement. "Put every available man on him. I want him watched twenty-four hours a day."

  Burton urged caution. "Don’t you think we should hedge our bets, sir?"

  "No," said Frost firmly. "We go for broke."

  "He’s only a possible suspect. We’ve got nothing on him."

  "So we find something on him. Show copies of his photograph to the victims’ neighbours. Do they remember seeing this roguish little bastard hanging around? Find out if he’s been offering to fit new security chains for any of the old dears who find him such a scream. Go back to Old Mother Proctor and ask her if Gauld was the name of the man who offered to fit Mrs. Watson’s chain. Check with Gauld’s neighbours. Has he come home at night dripping with blood with a knife sticking out of his back pocket? Get everyone on it even the girl on the computer."

  "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."<
br />
  "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."