“He won’t still be in bed after I’ve kicked his door down,” replied Frost cheerfully. “Come on, son, hurry up. There’s lots to do.”
Even to Webster, punch-drunk through lack of sleep, Dove Cottage looked nothing like a cottage. The shape was all wrong. In the dark of early morning it looked just like a railway carriage, and as they neared it he could see that that was exactly what it was. A dilapidated Great Western Railway carriage of pre-war vintage, dumped on a piece of waste ground situated north of the woods. It stood on brick piers, allowing it to rise proud above islands of stinging nettles in a sea of coarse, waist-high grass. Tastefully dotted around to break the monotony of the landscape were mounds of crumbling oil drums, the rotting hulk of a Baby Austin car body, and odd rust-crusted relics of long-obsolete farm machinery.
Like explorers hacking their way through virgin jungle, they pushed through the wet grass, eventually arriving at the foot of a set of rickety wooden steps that led up to the carriage door with its brass turnkey handle.
“I think this is our train,” murmured Frost, risking the climb up the steps. He tried the handle, but the door seemed to be bolted on the inside, so he pounded at it with his open hand. The noise echoed like a drum, but there was no movement from within. He hammered again, much harder this time, making the whole structure shake on its brick foundations.
Inside a bottle toppled over and rolled. A crash of someone bumping into something, the shout of someone swearing, then a bleary voice demanded, “Who’s there?”
“Two lovely policemen,” called Frost. “Open up, Desmond.”
The door opened outward, almost sending Frost flying. Desmond Thorley, in his late fifties, very bald and softly plump, un gummed his eyes and squinted at his visitors. He wore a filthy dressing gown the front and sleeves stiff with dirt. Under the dressing gown, were a pair of grimy, food-stained pyjamas, the trousers held up by a rusty safety pin. He looked dirty. He smelled even dirtier.
“Meet Dirty Desmond,” said Frost to Webster.
Thorley clutched together his gaping dressing gown to cover his pyjamas. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Frost. I suppose you want to come in.”
“I don’t want to,” replied Frost, ‘but it’s one of the hazards of the job.”
They stepped into thick, greasy darkness that smelled of stale sweat, unwashed socks, and bad food. A match flared as Thorley lit an an old brass oil lamp which spluttered and spat out choking black smoke, but at least masked most of the other odours. He cranked up the wick, then replaced the glass chimney. They could now make out, dimly, the camp bed, some upholstered chairs rescued from a rubbish heap, and a card table on which were four food-encrusted plates and various half-finished tins of beans and pilchards. The floor was carpeted with dirty socks, unwashed underclothes, and empty spirit bottles.
“Be it ever so humble,” said Desmond, noting their disapproval.
“Humble?” snorted Frost. “It’s a bloody shithouse.”
“That,” sniffed Desmond, ‘is rude.” He fluttered a hand toward the chairs. “Sit down if you like, but be careful. The cat’s been sick somewhere and I’m still trying to find out where.” He flopped himself down, but they opted to stand.
“Did you have a visit from one of our police officers yesterday?” Frost asked him.
He flapped a vague, limp hand. “I might have done, Inspector, but my memory’s not at its best at this unearthly hour.” His tongue flicked along his lips. “You wouldn’t, by chance, have some alcoholic refreshment about your person?” He spoke like a failed actor, which is exactly what he was.
From his mac pocket, Frost produced a miniature bottle of Johnnie Walker, part of the spoils from the party. He held it by the neck and swung it from side to side. Desmond’s eyes locked on to it like heat-seeking missiles.
“Information first, drinkie-poos second,” promised the inspector. “You had a visit from a policeman yesterday?”
A happy smile lit Thorley’s face as he recalled the incident. “A lovely boy, my old darling. His name was Shelby so good-looking and so macho. He suggested it was I who phoned the constabulary the other night when that poor woman was so brutally used.”
“And was it you?” asked Webster, keeping close to the door, where a thin whisper of air was trickling through.
Thorley’s gaze was transferred from the bottle to the constable. “Oh yes. I confessed all to him. How could I lie to someone with such long eyelashes as he had.” He leaned forward to study Webster’s face. “But not so long as yours, dearie.”
Frost tugged at Webster’s sleeve to remind him who was supposed to be doing the questioning. “Do your courting later, son,” he whispered.
“I couldn’t help your constable very much,” admitted Thorley. “I found the girl. Like any law-abiding citizen, I phoned the police. That was all there was to it.”
“Did you see anyone that night?” Frost asked.
“Not a soul, my dear.”
Frost put the bottle back in his pocket.
“I saw one person only,” added the podgy man hurriedly. “But not in the woods. As I was hastening to the phone box, there was someone in front of me, walking very quickly.”
The bottle came out again. “Description?”
“I only saw him from the back. Medium height, dark clothes.”
“What were you doing in the woods at that time of night?” asked Webster.
“Just taking a stroll,” replied Desmond.
“It was a bit more than that,” said Frost. “You like sneaking around in the dark spying on courting couples, don’t you Desmond?”
The podgy man grinned sheepishly. “A harmless hobby. And that’s how I found the girl. I was taking a late-night stroll, ears ever alert for the sounds of casual copulation, when I came across the poor dear all still and naked. I really thought she was dead.”
“Did you see anyone jogging during your prowl around?” Frost asked.
Desmond pushed out his lips in thought. “No, Inspector, I didn’t. You often see knobbly-kneed men in running shorts, or joggers in track suits going round and round the paths, but I don’t recollect seeing any last night.”
It was clear he could tell them nothing more, so Frost handed the bottle over and they took their leave. Like a good host, Desmond saw them out.
“I like your friend,” he whispered to the inspector.
“He’s not used to the ways of men,” said Frost, steering the scowling Webster out into the clean, fresh-tasting air.
They hacked their way back to the car.
“What time is it?” asked Frost.
Webster brought up his watch. “Four fifty-six.”
“Drop me off at my place and then let’s get some sleep. I’ll see you back at the station at noon.”
“Yes,” yawned Webster.
The sky was lightening. Somewhere, way off in the distance, a rooster crowed, then a dog barked. Lights were starting to come on in some of the houses. Denton was waking up. Frost and Webster were going to bed.
Police Superintendent Mullett looked once again at his watch and angrily reached out for the ivory-coloured telephone.
“No, sir,” replied Sergeant Johnson. “Mr. Frost still isn’t in yet.”
Mullett replaced the phone and snatched up his copy of the Denton Echo.
It was open at an inside page where the headline read fleeing jewel
thief shoots policeman dead. Beneath it a recent photograph of David
Shelby smiled across four columns. But it wasn’t this story that was
causing Mullett’s annoyance. It was the story that had relegated it to
the second page. He refolded the paper to page one, where enormous
banner headlines screamed
17-YEAR OLD GIRL RAPED. HOODED TERROR CLAIMS
7TH victim. Alongside this story, in bold type, was an editorial which was headed “What is Wrong with the Denton Police?” The theme of the editorial was that, because of incompetence, after seven attacks Denton p
olice were still without a single clue to the identity of the rapist. It suggested that perhaps an experienced officer from another division should be brought in to take over where the Denton force had so clearly failed.
On first reading the editorial, Mullett had marched with it into Frost’s rubbish dump of an office, only to find that the inspector had not yet deigned to report for work. On Frost’s desk, unread, was a report from Forensic on the previous night’s rape, suggesting that a full-scale search of the area would be advantageous. When he checked with Sergeant Johnson, Mullett was appalled to learn that no search of the area had been made, or planned. And, to cap this catalogue of incompetence, Frost, the investigating officer, hadn’t even bothered to interview the rape victim!
He slumped down in Frost’s chair, shaking his head in dismay. And that was when he saw, in the middle of the desk, weighted down with an unwashed tea mug, the crime statistics that Frost had assured him had gone off the previous day.
Back to his office, where he scribbled down notes of all the matters he wished to take up with the inspector. That done, he buzzed Inspector Allen and asked him to come to the office.
Inspector Allen, immaculately dressed and coldly efficient, so different from the wretched Frost, drew up the offered chair and sat down.
“Have you seen this?” asked Mullett, pushing the newspaper across, jabbing the offending editorial with his finger.
Allen smiled thinly, thanking his lucky stars that he had dumped the case on Frost before the newspaper story broke. “Yes, I’ve seen it.”
“I want you back on the rape case as soon as possible.”
Allen reminded the Superintendent that he had to bring the murder inquiry to a satisfactory conclusion first.
“Yes, of course,” sighed Mullett. “That must be our number-one priority. What progress so far?”
Allen brought him up to date on the finding of the Vauxhall.
“Any fingerprints?”
“No, sir. No prints and, so far, no bloodstains.”
Mullett looked up from polishing his glasses. “No bloodstains? But Shelby’s wounds would have been simply pouring with blood.”
The inspector explained his theory about the waterproof sheeting taken from Shelby’s patrol car..
Mullett looked worried. “No blood, no fingerprints. But that makes it impossible to link Shelby’s body with the getaway car.”
Allen smiled. “We tie Shelby to the car by his notebook, sir. We found it on the other side of the hedge where the Vauxhall was abandoned.”
“Were Eustace’s prints on that?”
“No, sir. Like the car, it had been wiped clean. But that doesn’t matter. It’s solid evidence. All we’ve got to do now is catch Eustace, and that shouldn’t take long a day or two at the most. He won’t have much money. All he’s got are the cheap pieces of jewellery he stole from Glickman, and we’ve put tabs on all the local fences.
We’ve also put a twenty-four-hour surveillance on his house, and
I’ve arranged for his phone to be tapped. We’ll get him, sir, and soon, I promise you.”
Mullett leaned back in his chair and relaxed. He almost felt like purring. How marvelous to have some good news for a change. A speedy result on the murder inquiry would take much of the heat off the rape cases. Thank goodness he had one officer he could rely on. He thanked Allen and sent him out to speed up the hunt for Stan Eustace.
As Allen left the office, Mullett jabbed the button on his internal and again asked if Mr. Frost had arrived yet.
The minute hand of the clock in the lobby gave a convulsive twitch and clunked nearer to twelve noon. The tall, thin, angular woman in the green coat, clutching the handbag, shifted her position on the uncomfortable seat and focused hard black eyes on Sergeant Johnny Johnson, who was doing everything possible to avoid her piercing gaze. Come on, Jack Frost, he said to himself. The Super wants you, this old dear wants you, and we all want you, so where the hell are you? He must have murmured this aloud, because the woman was now staring at him suspiciously. He grinned sheepishly. “I don’t think he’ll be too long, madam.”
Her sharp chin thrust forward. “It just isn’t good enough. A woman is brutally assaulted and then completely ignored by the authorities.”
“If you’d like to leave details, I’ll pass them on to Mr. Frost the minute he arrives,” suggested Johnson.
“Leave details?” She pushed herself up from the bench, her voice rising with her. “Am I hearing you correctly, Sergeant? I demand to be allowed to talk to a senior policeman, and I insist that a woman police officer be present.”
Mullett, crossing the lobby on his way back to his office,
paused. This sounded like trouble. He walked over to the sergeant.
“Who is this lady?” he asked.
“A Miss Norah Gibson, sir. She claims she has been raped.” Johnson stressed the word ‘claims,” but Mullett failed to take the hint.
“Raped? And you’re making her sit out here and wait?” he gasped incredulously. “Good Lord, Sergeant, where’s your common sense? If the Demon Echo got hold of this .. .”
“Er, if I could have a quiet word, sir,” said Johnson, lowering his voice so the woman couldn’t hear. But Mullett was already on his way over.
“Good morning, madam. I am Police Superintendent Mullett, the Denton Divisional Commander. Do I understand you’ve been ...” He hesitated for a second before bringing himself to say the word ‘raped?”
Her knuckles tightened on the strap of her handbag. “That is correct, but it seems no-one wants to know.”
At that moment, Frost breezed in, saw the Superintendent, saw the woman, and quickly backed out. But not quickly enough ... “Inspector Frost!” bellowed Mullett.
“Sir?” said Frost, coming in again as if for the first time. He acted surprised to see the woman. “Hello, Norah. What are you doing here?”
Her eyes iced over. “Miss Gibson to you,” she spat.
“She’s been raped,” said Mullett.
“She should be so lucky!” said Frost.
Mullett’s face went red. He had to compress his fists to control himself. He inched his face very close to Frost’s and said through clenched teeth, biting off and spitting out each word, “Get a woman police officer and also someone capable of taking a statement, and join me immediately in the interview room.”
He turned to the woman. “If you would kindly accompany me, madam?” As he led her to the interview room she turned and beamed Frost a thin, tight smile of smug satisfaction.
Frost looked up at the ceiling for sympathy. “Why does that stupid, horn-rimmed bastard always want to interfere?” He lowered his head as Webster, engrossed in conversation with Detective Constable Susan Harvey, pushed through the swing doors.
“Hold it, you two,” he called. “We’re wanted in the interview room. A lady’s been raped.”
Mullett sat the woman down, phoned for a cup of tea to be brought in for her, stressing that he wanted a cup, not a chipped enamel mug, then looked at his wristwatch to time how long it took Frost to obey a direct order. He didn’t have to wait very long. The tea arrived, followed closely by Frost with that reject from Braybridge and the good-looking Susan Harvey. Frost had a blue folder tucked under his arm.
Susan drew up a chair next to the woman to give her moral support.
Frost leaned against the wall, a cigarette drooping from his mouth. Mullett wished he would smarten himself up a bit. And he wished the man wouldn’t slouch in that slovenly manner. He looked more like a street-corner layabout than a detective inspector.
When Frost was satisfied that Webster was ready with his shorthand notebook he dropped his cigarette end on the floor, then gave Miss Gibson a disarming smile. It failed to disarm her.
“If you’d like to tell us what happened, Miss Gibson?”
She looked down at the floor and blushed. “I was raped last night.”
“What, again?” asked Frost.
Her head snapped
up. “Yes, again! Some women are natural targets for filthy men, and, sadly, I seem to be such a woman.” She fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
“Tell me,” asked Frost, striking a match on the wall to light up yet another cigarette, chow many times have you been raped over the past three months?”
Her lips compressed. “It’s not the sort of thing one keeps count of, Inspector.”
“But we keep count of them, Miss Gibson. Every time your knickers are forcibly removed, the old computer clocks it up. Now let me see.” He opened the blue folder and flipped through its contents. “Here we are. At the last count it was seventeen times but each time the doctor examined you he found you were still a virgin. So who raped you, the archangel Gabriel?”
It began to dawn on Mullett that things were not as he had been led to understand. Why hadn’t somebody told him? He cleared his throat and studied his watch as if surprised at the time. “Dear me .. . You must excuse me .. .” And he scuttled out of the room.
“We’ll carry on without you then, sir?” called Frost after him. Mullett affected not to hear.
The woman sat straight-backed in the chair, tightly clutching the handbag resting on her lap. “I might have made mistakes in the past, Inspector, but last night was real.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “You’ve got to believe me.”
Frost sat down. “If you say you were raped, then of course I believe you, Miss Gibson. Tell us what happened.”
She reached out for Susan’s hand and clutched at it. “I was walking through Denton Woods last night, a little after eleven o’clock, when a naked man leaped out on me from the bushes. He knocked me to the ground and savagely raped me.” She stared pleadingly into his face. “That’s the truth, Inspector.”
Frost rubbed his scar. “I’m sure you wouldn’t tell us lies, Miss Gibson.” To Webster’s surprise, the inspector’s voice was strangely gentle. “Can you describe this man?”
She dropped the handkerchief back into her handbag. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t let it worry you,” said Frost, patting her hand. “None of his other victims could describe him either.”
A Touch of Frost Page 27