He nearly missed it. It caught the light as he was returning it to the envelope. A quarter of the way down the back page, running across the width of the paper. A roughened, corrugated tongue-shaped tear an eighth of an inch wide and barely a quarter of an inch long. He pulled out the school master’s Telegraph and scrutinized the back and front pages. Nothing on that, so back to the Sun. It was telling him something, but he didn’t know what. ‘What do you make of this, Burton?’
Burton made nothing of it.
‘Come and look at this, Gilmore,’ called Frost.
Making clear his resentment at being dragged away from more important work, Gilmore took the newspaper, gave it a cursory glance and handed it back. ‘A bit of damage in the handling,’ he said.
No, thought Frost. Not damage in the handling. It was more than that. A faint bell began to tinkle right at the back of his brain. The drunken fat woman earlier that day. Her paper was jammed tight in the letter-box. He’d had to pull it out and he’d torn it. A very similar tear to that on the back page of the undelivered Sun. Or was it undelivered? Hands trembling, he took up the newspaper and gave it a second, loose fold. The rough corrugated tongue ran exactly down the line of the new fold.
Frost felt his excitement rising. ‘Did Mr Allen notice this?’
‘I don’t know, sir. ‘Why, is it important?’
‘It could be bloody important, son. The papers are folded once so the girl can fit them in the canvas bag. But they have to be folded again so they can be poked through the letter- box.’ Frost pointed to the tear. ‘I’d stake my virginity that this paper has been pushed through a letter-box and then pulled out again.’
The DC took the paper and twisted it in the light to examine the abrasion. It was possible. Just about possible. ‘But we know it wasn’t delivered,’ he said.
'Who lives at Brook Cottage?’
Burton pulled the details from the folder and read them aloud. ‘Harold Edward Greenway, aged 47. Self-employed van driver. Lives on his own. His wife walked out on him a couple of years ago.’
This was getting better and better. Frost rubbed his hands with delight. ‘Has he got an alibi for the day the girl went missing?’
Burton turned a page. ‘According to his statement he had no jobs lined up, so he stayed in bed until gone eleven, then pottered about the cottage for the rest of the day. He never saw the girl and he didn’t get a paper.’
‘And we believed him?’
‘We had no reason to doubt him, especially when we found her bike and the papers in the ditch.’
Frost sat on the corner of the desk and shook out three cigarettes. ‘OK. Try this out for a scenario. Harry boy lives all on his own. Wife’s been gone for two years and his dick’s getting rusty through lack of use. One morning, what should come cycling up his path but a nice, fresh, unopened packet of 15-year-old nooky with his copy of the Sun. She rolls it up and pokes it through the door. The sexual symbolism of this act hits him smack in the groin. He invites her in, or drags her in, or whatever. She can scream if she wants to, there’s no-one for miles to hear. Afterwards, when all passion’s spent and she’s screaming rape, he panics, and strangles her.’
Burton, caught up with Frost’s enthusiasm, could see where the plot was leading. ‘Greenway puts the newspaper back in the bag, dumps it with the bike in a ditch and we all think she never made the delivery.’
Even Gilmore looked impressed. ‘It’s possible,’ he decided reluctantly, ‘but it still doesn’t explain the shoes.’
‘Sod the shoes,’ said Frost, hopping down from the desk. ‘Let’s get our killer first, then get explanations.’ He stuffed the papers back into the plastic envelope and handed it to Burton. ‘Tell you what you do, son. Send both newspapers over to Forensic. Tell them our brilliant theory and get them to drop everything and make tests.’
‘And then come back and get down to these bloody files,’ called Gilmore. ‘We’re never going to get through them at this rate.’
The stack of folders didn’t seem to be getting any lower. Gilmore ticked off the squares on the roneoed form and dropped it into the filing basket ready for the girl on the computer. Something sailed past his nose. It was a paper aeroplane which attempted to soar upwards before losing heart and nose-diving with a thud to the ground at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. The paper looked familiar. He unfolded it. One of the roneoed forms. He turned suspiciously to Frost who grinned back sheepishly.
‘Sorry, son.’
Frost was bored. He’d been staring at the same robbery folder for the past forty minutes. He was dying for an excuse to get out of the station, but the phone stubbornly remained quiet. ‘About time Forensic came back to us on those news papers.’
‘They’ve only had them five minutes,’ said Gilmore.
‘How long does it bloody take?’ asked Frost peevishly, pulling the phone towards him and dialling the lab.
‘Give us a chance, Inspector,’ replied Forensic testily. ‘We’ve got half our staff down with this flu virus thing. We’re still working on the clothing and other items collected from 44 Manningron Crescent. Negative so far.’
‘That old rubbish can wait,’ said Frost. ‘It’s not important. Get cracking on those newspapers.’
A scowling Gilmore looked up. ‘We’re supposed to be concentrating on the senior citizen murders and you’re telling Forensic it can wait?’
Frost was saved from answering by the phone. WPC Ridley from Intensive Care, Denton Hospital. Alice Ryder, the old lady with the fractured skull, had regained consciousness.
The moon, floating in a clear sky, kept pace with the car as they raced to the hospital. Frost, puffing away nervously in the passenger seat, was willing the old dear to stay alive until they could question her. A detailed description of her attacker would be worth a thousand of those lousy forms they had been filling in for the computer. A detailed description! He was kidding himself. She was eighty-one, concussed and dying. The bastard had attacked her in the dark. The poor cow would tell them sod all.
The dark sprawl of the hospital loomed up ahead. ‘Park there, son.’ He pointed to a ‘Hospital — No Waiting’ sign by the main entrance and was out of the car and charging up the corridor before Gilmore had a chance to switch off the ignition.
Gilmore pushed through the swing doors in time to see the maroon blur of Frost’s scarf as he darted down a side corridor. With a burst of speed, he caught up with him. ‘Straight ahead,’ panted Frost, indicating a small flickering green neon sign reading ‘Intensive Care’.
The night sister looked up angrily and glared them to silence. She nodded grimly at Frost’s warrant card. ‘Mrs Ryder is over there.’ A jerk of her head indicated a curtained-off corner.
‘How is she?’ asked Frost.
‘She’s dying, otherwise I wouldn’t let you near her.’ As they moved across, she added, ‘Not too many of you. Send the WPC out.’
They slipped through the curtains. A concerned WPC Ridley was bending over the bed talking quietly. She looked up with relief at Frost’s appearance. ‘Her eyes are open, sir, but I don’t think she’s really with us.’
‘Take a break, love,’ said Frost flopping down in the chair alongside the bed. Gilmore stood behind him. The old lady, a small frail figure, seemed unaware of their presence. She lay still, her head barely creasing the plumped hospital pillow, an irregular bubbling sob marking her shallow breathing. Her face was a dull grey against the starkness of the turban of bandages around her head. Taped to her cheek, a thin, transparent tube ran into her left nostril. Another tube descended from a half-filled plastic bag on an iron stand and dripped fluids through a hollow needle to a vein on her wrist. Her hand, a yellow claw, was trembling and making tiny scratching noises on the bed-cover.
Everything was clean and white and sterile and Frost felt gritty and dirty and out of place. He leant forward. ‘Mrs Ryder?’
Her red-rimmed eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. She gave no sign that she had heard hi
m. Her head was twitching slightly as if trying to shake off the tube fastened to her nose which was clearly uncomfortable and worrying her.
Why can’t they let the poor cow die in comfort, thought Frost. He brought his face close to hers. ‘Mrs Ryder, I’m a police officer. If I’m to get the bastard who did this to you, I need your help.’ No response.
‘A description, Mrs Ryder — anything. If you can’t talk, blink. A blink means yes. Do you understand?’
If she understood, she didn’t respond.
Undeterred, Frost plunged on. ‘The man who attacked you. Was he tall?’ He waited. No response. ‘Short? Fat? Thin?’
Her breath bubbled. Her fingers drummed. Her eyes, unblinking, were fixed on the ceiling.
Frost slumped back in his chair. Why was he hassling her? She wasn’t going to tell him anything, so why not let the poor cow die in peace. He dug his hands in his pocket and felt his cigarettes. No chance of a smoke in here. The night sister would have him out on his ear.
‘Let me try,’ said Gilmore, but before Frost could answer the old lady made a choking sound. ‘I’ll get the sister,’ said Gilmore, trying to open the curtains.
‘No!’ hissed Frost, grabbing his arm. ‘Wait!’
The old lady was attempting to raise her head, but the effort was too much. Her eyes fluttered wildly and her lips quivered. She was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Frost brought his ear right down to her mouth and felt the hot rasp of her faint breath on his face.
‘Try again, love. I’m listening.’
One word. Very faint. It sounded like ‘stab’ but he wasn’t sure if he heard it correctly. ‘I know what he did, love. Can you describe him? Did you get a good look at him?’ He kept his voice down. He didn’t want the sister running in to order him out.
She nodded.
‘Was he taller than me?’
Her lips moved, then her eyes widened and there was a choking noise at the back of her throat. And then she was still… dead still, the fingers no longer drumming.
The old girl was dead. Damn and sodding blast. She’d told him nothing, He dragged back the curtains. ‘Nurse!’
He signalled for WPC Ridley to take over and hustled Gilmore out of the ward.
In the corridor outside he fumbled in his inside pocket to make a note of what the old lady had said and found he had pulled out those damn car expenses, the ones he had promised Mullett he would hand in tomorrow morning. Well, he’d have to think of yet another excuse for the Divisional Commander to disbelieve. Something was scribbled on one of the phoney petrol receipts. The name ‘Wardley’. He racked his brains, but it meant nothing. ‘Who’s Wardley?’
Doesn’t the old fool remember anything, thought Gilmore. ‘He’s the old boy who attempted suicide after he got the poison pen letter.’
Frost grinned. Something else to delay their return to the cold, dreary station. ‘I promised the doc I’d have a word with him. Come on, son.’
Gilmore almost lost Frost in the labyrinth of corridors. Denton General Hospital was originally an old Victorian workhouse, but had been added to and rebuilt over the years. Frost darted up dark little passages, across storage areas and up clanking iron staircases to get to the ward where Wardley was lying. The staff nurse in her little cubicle with the shaded lamp greeted Frost as an old friend. She wasn’t too keen on the idea of waking Wardley up, but Frost assured her it was essential.
Wardley, a little man of around seventy-five, his thinning hair snow white, was sleeping uneasily, turning and twitching and muttering. Frost shook his shoulder gently. Wardley woke with a start, mouth agape. He looked concerned as Frost introduced himself.
‘Have you come to arrest me?’ he croaked in a quavering voice.
‘Attempted suicide isn’t a crime any more,’ said Frost, dragging chair over to the bed. ‘Besides, for all we know, it was an accident.’
Wardley frowned. ‘You know it was suicide. I left a note.’
‘Did you? We couldn’t find it.’
The old man pulled himself up. ‘It was on the bedside cabinet. My note… and that letter. How could you miss them?’
Frost scratched his head. ‘They might have fallen under the bed. We’ll look again later. Suppose you tell me what the letter said?’
The old man shook his head and his hands gripped and released the bedclothes. ‘Terrible things. I’m too ashamed.’
‘Blimey,’ said Frost, ‘I hope I can do things I’m ashamed of at your age.’
‘It happened a long time ago, Inspector.’
‘Then it doesn’t bloody matter,’ said Frost. ‘Tell me what it said.’
A long pause. Someone further down the ward moaned in his sleep. A trolley rumbled by outside.
‘All right,’ said Wardley at last. ‘It goes back thirty years — before I came to Denton. I lived in a little village. It was miles away from here, but I’m not telling you its name. I ran one of the classes in the Sunday school.’ He paused.
‘Not much sex and violence, so far,’ murmured Frost. ‘I hope it warms up.’
Wardley pushed out a polite, insincere smile and immediately switched it off. ‘There were these two boys in my class. One was twelve, the other thirteen. After the class they would come back with me to my house. We would chat, watch television. All innocent stuff.’ His voice rose. ‘As God is my witness, Inspector, that’s all it was.’
‘What else would it be?’ soothed Frost, thinking to him self, You dirty old bastard!
‘One of the boys told lies about me. Filthy lies. I was called up before the Sunday school superintendent. I swore my innocence on the Bible, but he didn’t believe me. I was forced to resign.’ He stopped and studied the inspector’s face, trying to read signs that he was being believed now.
‘Go on,’ murmured Frost.
‘I couldn’t stay in the village. People whispered and pointed. I had to move. So I came to Denton. After thirty years I thought it was all over and done with. And then I received that awful letter.’
'What did it say, Mr Wardley?’
‘Something like “What will the church say when I tell them what you did to those boys?” I’m a churchwarden, Inspector. It’s my life. I couldn’t face it happening all over again. If it gets out, I won’t fail next time.’
Gilmore asked, ‘Is there anyone in Denton, or locally, who could have known about your past?’ Wardley shook his head.
‘These two boys you messed about with,’ Frost began, stopping abruptly as Wardley, quivering with rage, thrust his face forward and almost shouted.
‘I never touched them. It was all lies. I swore on the Bible.’ So loud did he protest that the staff nurse hurried anxiously towards the bed, only turning back when Frost gave her a reassuring wave.
He rephrased his question. ‘The boys who lied, Mr Wardley. I want their names. And the name of the Sunday school superintendent, and all the people from your old village who would have known about this. We’ve got to check and see if any of them have moved to Denton.’
He left Gilmore to take down the details and went down to the car where he could smoke and think. Why on earth was he wasting time on this poison pen thing when he was way out of his depth with more important cases?
The car lurched to one side as Gilmore climbed in. ‘Where to?’ he asked, trying to get comfortable in the sagging driving seat.
His reply should have been ‘Back to the station,’ but he couldn’t face going back to that cold Incident Room and wading through those endless, monotonous robbery files. ‘Wardley’s cottage. Let’s have another look for that letter.’
‘We shouldn’t be wasting time on this,’ moaned Gilmore. ‘And how are we going to get in?’
‘Dr Maltby will have a key,’ said Frost, hoping this was true.
Frost was in luck. Maltby did have the key. He sat them in his surgery while he went upstairs to fetch it. ‘Watch the door,’ hissed Frost, darting for the doctor’s desk.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Gi
lmore, horrified, watching the inspector methodically opening and closing drawers.
‘Looking for something,’ grunted Frost, busily opening a locked drawer with one of his own keys.
A creak of a floorboard above, then footsteps on the stairs.
‘He’s coming,’ croaked Gilmore, wishing he could run and leave Frost to face the music.
‘Got it,’ crowed Frost, waving a blue envelope. He glanced at it and stuffed it back, quickly locked the drawer, then slid back into his seat just as the door opened and Maltby came in with the key to Wardley’s cottage.
‘What the hell was that about?’ asked Gilmore when they were outside.
‘The poison pen letter the doc gave us yesterday. He wouldn’t tell us who it was sent to, so I sneaked a look at the envelope. Sorry to involve you, son, but you’ve got to grab your chances when they come.’
‘So who was it addressed to… anyone we know?’ Frost grinned. ‘Mark Compton. Mr Rigid Nipples.’ Gilmore’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What?’
‘Doesn’t it make you hate the swine even more… married to that cracking wife and having it off every Wednesday with a female contortionist in Denton?’ He halted outside the door of a small, dark cottage, pushed the key in the lock and they went in.
They started in the bedroom, with its iron-framed single bed, and worked downwards. Everything inside the bedside cabinet was taken out. Frost showed mild interest in some loose tablets he found in the drawer, then seemed to lose interest. The cabinet was pulled away from the wall in case the note and the letter had fallen behind it. The bed likewise was moved, exposing a rectangular patch of fluffy dust. Even the bedclothes were stripped and shaken.
Gilmore, watched by Frost from the doorway, crawled all over the room on his hands and knees, looking in corners, behind curtains. He even stood on a chair and looked on top of the wardrobe. ‘Nothing here,’ he said, brushing dust from his jacket.
A quick poke around in the bathroom and then downstairs. Again Frost didn’t seem inclined to join in the search, but let Gilmore do it while he sat on the arm of a chair, smoking and flipping through some bird-watching magazines he’d found in the magazine rack then looking all the way across the room at some nail holes in the wallpaper through a pair of high-powered binoculars he’d taken from a shelf.
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