Frost pinned up the photograph of dead Helen Stokes alongside the line of murdered prostitutes on the board in the murder incident room, then took his usual seat on the corner of the desk. 'Spot the odd one out. We've assumed our killer only went for toms, but this one wasn't a tom. In fact she was almost too good to be true. No vices, no boyfriends, went to church on Sundays, got out of the bath to do a wee and manned the phones at the Samaritans. But she was tortured and killed like the others, so why did he pick on her?'
'One consistent thing about our killer,' said Arthur Hanlon. 'He picks his victims up late at night, very late. All the dead toms were seen working while others had jagged it in.'
'Go on,' said Frost.
'What I'm saying is that our killer goes out late, looking for women on their own. Now usually that means a tom. Did Helen Stokes go out late at night?'
'I shouldn't think so,' said Frost. 'She looks the sort who would be tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa at half-past nine.' He snapped his fingers. 'Wait a minute. The Samaritans! They operate twenty-four hours a day. Give them a ring, Arthur, find out what time she left them Friday night.'
His cigarettes went the rounds as he waited for Hanlon to make the call. 'Well?'
'She usually only stayed a couple of hours, but they were busy Friday with two of their helpers off sick. Just as she was leaving some nutter phoned threatening to do himself in and she was talking to him until well past midnight.'
Frost heaved himself off the desk. 'That's late enough for me! Let's talk to the Samaritans.'
The Samaritans were housed in two rooms over an empty shop that had once sold groceries before the big supermarkets opened up in the town. Its small team of men and women were devastated to learn about Helen Stokes. At a corner desk a plumpish lady was sobbing uncontrollably, comforted by one of the male helpers. Only Mervyn Adams, the leader of the team, a twitching, worried-looking man in a grey cardigan, looking as if he could do with some counselling himself? was of any help to Frost, being the only person in the room who was actually on duty the night Helen was killed. He kept jerking his head nervously every time a phone rang, not relaxing until one of his team took the call. He removed his glasses and dabbed his eyes. 'Such a loving person. I just can't believe it.' He shook his head sadly. 'Who could have done such a thing?'
Frost nodded sympathetically. 'That's what we're trying to find out, Mr Adams. What time did she leave here on Friday?'
'Gone one o'clock, so it was Saturday morning, actually. We were short-staffed and very busy, phones ringing constantly, so she stayed on to help us out. She was all ready to go home when she got this long, distressing call. You can't cut people short, so it was quarter past one or thereabouts, before she was able to leave.'
'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 . . .'
'Never saw a thing,' lied Frost. 'A couple of questions I should have asked earlier. Where were you Friday night from the time Miss Stokes left the surgery?'
'I locked up and went straight home. I was dead tired. Then a meal, some television, and early bed.'
'Could this be confirmed, sir? Just routine, of course.'
'My wife will confirm it.'
Frost couldn't be sure, but he thought the dentist was looking a little uneasy. 'And where were you last night, from around midnight onwards?'
The dentist frowned. 'Last night?'
'That was when the body was dumped. As I say, just routine.'
'We had some friends in for dinner. They stayed quite late.'
'How late, sir?'
'It was gone midnight by the time they left. I then went to bed.'
'Your friends' names sir?' Frost scribbled details on the back of his cigarette packet. If the alibis checked he could wipe the dentist off his list of suspects. His list! That was a joke. The dentist was the only name on it. Please, he silently pleaded, please don't let his alibi check out otherwise I'm right up the creek. 'That's all for the moment, sir,' he nodded. I'll leave you to enjoy what's left of your lunch before it gets too cold.'
'Having it away in the dentist's chair?' croaked Morgan, spooning up his soup. 'Flaming heck!' They were in the canteen for a late lunch.
'He not only does extractions, he does insertions as well,' said Frost.
'I've done it in some strange places,' said Morgan in wonderment, 'but never in a dentist's chair.' He wrinkled his nose. 'A bit off-putting though, guv. All those pliers and drills and the spit suction machine gurgling away. Not very romantic.'
'Those spit pumps frighten the life out of me,' said Frost with a shudder. 'I'm terrified they're suddenly going to go in reverse and pump the last hundred patients' spit back into me.' He took another bite at his ham sandwich. 'Which reminds me, did I ever tell you the joke about the bloke who drunk the spittoon for a bet?'
Morgan's face went the colour of the spoonful of pea soup he was about to sip. He pushed the plate hurriedly away. 'Yes, you did, guv.' He had been warned to tell Frost he had heard it if ever he was asked, but curiosity had got the better of him and both he, and his stomach, had regretted it ever since.
'Right,' said Frost, disappointed. 'Go and see the dentist's wife and his friends, check his alibis, and run his name through the computer in case he's got form for murdering his receptionists.' As he washed down the ham sandwich with tea, the tannoy called him to the phone. The Scenes of Crime Officer, Ron Rawlings, was anxious to show Frost what he had learnt from Helen Stokes's car. Frost beckoned for Arthur Hanlon to join him and they both went downstairs to the car-park.
The grey Mini, doors wide open, was in the covered area to the side of the station car-park. Rawlings beaming all over his face, came forward to greet them. 'Found a few things that might interest you, Inspector.'
'Dirty postcards?' asked Frost hopefully.
Rawlings grinned. 'Not as interesting as that. We checked it for prints. She must have cleaned and polished it every day. The only dabs on it were hers.'
Frost yawned. 'I hope it gets better?'
With a 'wait and see' smile, Rawlings continued. 'The car was locked and the alarm was set.'
'Wow!' said Frost. 'You'd have thought she would have left the doors open and the engine running in case anyone wanted to pinch it.'
Rawlings gave a patronizing smirk as he produced his trump card. 'We found this in the dash compartment.' He handed Frost a sheet of duplicated typescript which he had enclosed in a polythene cover. It was Helen Stokes's next week's duty rota for the Samaritans. Frost stared at it. 'This was locked inside the car?' he asked incredulously.
Rawlings nodded.
'But she wasn't given this until just before she left the place Friday night.'
'Precisely,' said Rawlings.
Arthur Hanlon, looking from one to the other, was puzzled. 'I don't see the significance, Jack.'
'We've been assuming she was waylaid before she reached her car, Arthur,' explained Frost. 'But we were wrong. She goes to her car, unlocks it, puts the rota inside, then locks it and sets the alarm. So why the hell didn't she just get in and drive off?' He noticed that Rawlings was grinning all over his face. 'You've got something up your sleeve, you smug bastard, haven't you?'
Still grinning, Rawlings nodded. 'I checked the engine, inspector. The fan belt had snapped. The battery was as flat as arse-holes.'
'And you can't get much flatter than that,' said Frost. He shivered. It was cold out in the open and he only had his jacket on. He thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and walked round the car, kicking the tyres from time to time for inspiration. 'Half-past one in the morning. Freezing cold, the bloody car won't start, no buses. So what do you do?'
'You go back to the Samaritans to see if anyone knows anything about cars and can fix it, or can give you a lift back home?' offered Hanlon.
'That's what I would have done, Arthur, but she never reached there. So either some bastard forces her into his car, or she gets in willingly. You'd have to know someone bloody well to accept a lift from them at half-past one in the morning, especially if you were a nervous cow like poor Helen Stokes. So let's say she was forced into her killer's car. Why her? What was he doing there at that godforsaken hour? Those roads lead nowhere, so he'd have to be l
urking for a specific purpose. Was he waiting for anyone, or just for her?'
'If he was waiting for her,' asked Hanlon, 'why did he let her get to her car in the first place? How was he to know her battery would be flat?'
'Don't start getting logical with me, Arthur,' snapped Frost. 'You're sodding up my theories.' He scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'We're back to our dentist. He phones the Samaritans boasting about how he killed those toms . . . Helen Stokes takes the call and he is terrified she could have recognized his voice, so drives round pronto and waits for her to come out.'
'Possible,' said Hanlon doubtfully.
'Come up with something better, Arthur, and I'll give you a jelly baby.' Back to Rawlings. 'Anything else you haven't told us about, like a set of false choppers that could have fallen from the dentist's pocket?'
'That's the lot,' Rawlings told him.
'You're bleeding useless,' said Frost. He jerked his head to Hanlon. 'Come on, Arthur, back to the office. Let's see what Morgan's found out about our prime suspect's alibi.'
They didn't have to wait long. 'Wow,' exclaimed Morgan, bounding in and warming his hands on the radiator. 'You should see his wife, a real cracker boobs like melons . . .'
'I hope she didn't waggle it under your nose,' said Frost.
'No such luck, guv.' Morgan sat himself at his desk and went into a reverie of recollection.
'Well, now we know about his wife's bra size, perhaps you'd tell us if she confirms his alibi - assuming you tore your eyes away from her dugs long enough to ask?'
Morgan leant back in his chair. 'I think you're going to like this, guv. He never went out Friday night -they watched telly and went up to bed. Last night they had friends round, like he said, and they stayed until gone midnight, then up to bed.'
'I'm not liking it much up to now, said Frost.
Morgan wagged a finger. 'Because I haven't told you the good bit. Some nights he can't get off to sleep, so he gets out of bed and goes out for a drive to make himself tired.'
'If his wife's the cracker you say, surely there were other ways of making him tired?'
Frost 5 - Winter Frost Page 29