Night Frost

Thursday morning shift

A quarter to six in the morning and Mullett, freshly shaven, highly polished, and immaculately dressed in his best tailored uniform, emerged from his office, mentally rehearsing the speech he would make to the press and the television cameras after they had charged Manson with the ‘Granny Ripper’ killings. He waylaid the dishevelled Frost and Gilmore, both looking tired and edgy, on their way to the Interview Room. ‘No doubts about the right man this time, Inspector. Hanlon has definitely identified an item of jewellery from Manson’s van as belonging to one of the murder victims and there’s a positive forensic report on those jeans.’

‘Great!’ muttered Frost, trying to share his commander’s enthusiasm. He always got worried when things appeared to be going too well.

They looked in on the exhibits store where Arthur Hanlon, his nose red and sore from repeated blowing, was hovering over a collection of cardboard boxes, the spoils from Wally Manson’s van. ‘Mr Mullett tells me it’s all cut and dried,’ said Frost. ‘Wally’s confessed and hanged himself to spare the state the cost of a trial.’

‘Not quite, Jack,’ giggled Hanlon, blowing his nose with a sodden handkerchief. ‘He’s denying everything at the moment — you know what a slimy little sod he is.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘I sometimes think he’s Mr Mullett’s illegitimate son. Anyway, what have we got?’

Hanlon pushed one of the boxes over and raised the flaps. ‘This was a surprise, Jack.’ The box was packed tight with pornographic videos. ‘Forty-nine in all,’ reported Hanlon. ‘The same titles as we got from the newsagent’s.’ Frost grunted and pulled the next box towards him. This one held assorted house-breaking tools — screwdrivers, jemmies, hammers, glass cutters. The last box, the smallest of the lot, contained various small plastic supermarket bags. Selecting one at random, Frost looked inside, then handed it over to Gilmore. Jewellery. Gold rings, chains, lockets, crucifixes. Another bag held necklaces and ear-rings. Yet another, old- fashioned cameo brooches, and heavy dress jewellery.

‘We’ve only positively identified this, so far,’ Hanlon told them, fishing out a pearl-studded crucifix on a silver chain. ‘But it’s the one that matters. This belonged to Mrs Alice Ryder.’

Frost held the crucifix in his open hand. It looked like silver, but it wasn’t and the pearls were false. It was worth a few pounds at the most and the old lady who fought to stop it being stolen had had her skull smashed in and had died in Demon Hospital. ‘Mullett was yapping about positive forensic evidence?’

‘The stains are definitely blood, the same group as the old lady, and there were small fragments of china which matched up to that vase he smashed getting through the window.’

‘What have you told Manson?’

‘I haven’t told him anything. I’ve only questioned him about being in possession of stolen property.’

‘You haven’t mentioned the killings?’

‘Good. Let’s keep the sod guessing. Bring him to Interview Room Number 1.’ Frost patted his pockets and realized he was out of cigarettes. He sent Gilmore back to the office to fetch a packet from his desk drawer.

Gritty, tired and irritated at being treated as a messenger boy, Gilmore yanked the drawer open. Underneath the camouflage of two ancient files were a couple of packs, each containing 200 Benson and Hedges export only cigarettes. He paused. A way to get back into his Divisional Commander’s good books. This was exactly the sort of thing Mullett had asked him to look out for. Evidence of Frost’s dubious practices. A quiet word in Mullett’s ear. ‘I don’t know if I ought to be saying this, sir, against a fellow officer, but…’ He could already see the Cheshire cat grin spreading over the Divisional Commander’s face. He stuffed a spare packet in his pocket as evidence. Then be noticed something protruding beneath one of the packs in the drawer. A battered, blue material-covered case. Something else Frost had helped himself to? He clicked it open. Snug on red plush a silver cross on a dark blue ribbon, the inscription in the centre reading For Gallantry. Frost’s famous medal. The George Gross. The civilian equivalent to the VC. Gilmore stared at it, then quickly clicked the case shut and replaced it at the bottom of the drawer together with the spare pack from his pocket. Frost would never know it, but yet again his medal had got him out of possible trouble.

‘Gentleman to see you, Inspector,’ announced Hanlon, pushing Wally Manson into the Interview Room.

Manson blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright light after the shaded bulb of his cell. Through a haze of blue smoke he could see the unwelcome sight of Detective Inspector Jack Frost sprawled untidily in a chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. On the table in front of him were a couple of the boxes taken from his van.

‘Nice of you to drop in, Wally,’ said Frost, waving a hand at the other chair by the table. ‘Sit down.’ Behind the inspector, leaning against the wall under the tiny window, was a younger man he didn’t recognize, in a smart suit. The younger man looked tired and frazzled and nasty.

Gilmore contemplated Manson with disgust. The man was a slob with his weasel-like face, lank greasy hair and eyes that kept shifting from side to side; a cornered rat looking for an escape route.

‘I don’t know what this is all about, Mr Frost,’ Manson said, shrinking down into the offered chair. ‘Like I told the other gentleman, I found those boxes dumped in a lay-by. I was on the way to the police station to hand them in when those two coppers picked me up.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Wally,’ said Frost, shaking ash all over the floor, ‘I was hoping you were guilty, because we’re going to frame you anyway.’

Wally grinned at the inspector’s joke, but Frost didn’t seem to be joking. He dipped into one of the cardboard boxes and pulled out a pearl crucifix which he swung by the chain under Wally’s nose.

‘She identified you, Wally.’

Manson jerked his head away. ‘Like I told the other officer, Mr Frost, I found these boxes in a lay-by…’

‘They’ll find you in a bleedin’ lay-by if you don’t stop sodding me about, Wally. You’ve been identified, we know you did it and we’re going to get a confession and a conviction by fair means or foul. So tell us about it.’

‘If only I knew what you’re talking about, Mr Frost,’ said Manson, giving his unconvincing impression of puzzled innocence, then nearly jumping out of his chair as the young thug behind him suddenly bellowed in his ear, ‘We’re talking about the woman whose skull you fractured, you scum-bag.’

‘There’s no need to raise your voice, Sergeant,’ reproved Frost mildly. ‘He’s going to give us everything we want with out bullying, aren’t you, Wally?’

‘I’ll help you if I can,’ said Manson, rubbing his ear.

Frost beamed a friendly smile that made the prisoner’s blood run cold. ‘Good. Then help me with Mrs Alice Ryder, the old lady from Clarendon Street who you put in hospital.’ At this stage he wasn’t going to let Manson know that she was dead.

Manson looked hurt. ‘Not me, Mr Frost. That’s not my style.’

Frost snorted a cloud of Benson and Hedges smoke. ‘Style! You haven’t got any bleeding style. If you’re going to sod me about, I can sod you about. Notebook, Sergeant.’ Gilmore took out his notebook and flipped it open.

‘Stand up,’ snapped Frost to Manson.

Manson hestiated so Gilmore yanked him to his feet.

‘Walter Richard Manson,’ droned Frost, ‘alias the Granny Ripper …’

‘Granny Ripper?’ croaked Manson, his astonishment sounding genuine this time.

‘Shut up!’ barked Gilmore.

‘Alias the Granny Ripper,’ continued Frost, ‘I am arresting you on three counts of murder…’ To Gilmore he said, ‘Fill in the details — I forget the names and dates.’ Gilmore nodded, his pencil scribbling furiously. ‘You are not obliged to say anything — etc. etc., but anything you do say, blah, blah, blah. Take it as read, Wally — you know the words better than I do.’

‘I am totally innocent of these preposterous charges,’ said Manson smugly, twisting his head to make sure Gilmore was writing it all down.

Frost put his hand on Gilmore’s notebook to stop him writing. ‘Hold on, Sergeant. I’m sure we can do better than that.’ He scratched his scar thoughtfully. ‘Put… “The prisoner replied I didn’t mean to kill them. I’m terribly sorry for what I did. I deserve to be punished.” ’

The man’s jaw dropped. ‘I never said that.’

Frost lit up another export only. ‘What you actually said doesn’t matter, Wally. It’s what he puts down in his book that gets read out in court.’

Manson shrunk back in his chair. ‘I shall deny saying it. I shall say it’s all lies.’

‘Of course you will, Wally. And it will be the word of a cheap slimy little crook with a record against a detective inspector with a medal. Courts seem to think that people with George Crosses are incapable of telling lies.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Manson, almost in tears.

‘Life’s not fair when some bastard breaks into your house and smashes your skull in,’ snapped Frost.

Wally’s tongue flicked snake-like across dried lips. ‘You wouldn’t perjure yourself, Mr Frost?’ he pleaded, but the expression on the inspector’s face said, ‘Yes, I bloody well would.’

Frost leant his head back and treated the ceiling to a squirt of smoke. ‘Not perjury, Wally — it’s called oiling the wheels of justice. Take him away, Sergeant, and charge him. We’ll have him in court first thing tomorrow.’

Hanlon stepped forward and took the man’s arm, but Wally shook him off. ‘What do I get if I co-operate?’

‘My undying gratitude, Wally — and perhaps a whisper to the judge about how helpful you were.’

Manson hesitated. ‘This old lady in Clarendon Street. You say she identified me?’

‘She described you perfectly, Wally. She said her attacker was an ugly little bastard with bad breath and dandruff. We showed her some photographs and she picked you out right away.’

Manson gnawed at his lower lip. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt her, Mr Frost. She came at me like a bloody tiger.’

‘An eighty-one-year-old tiger,’ said Frost. ‘What did she attack you with — her pension book?’

‘A knife, Mr Frost… a flaming great knife.’ He tugged the shirt from his trousers and lifted it to expose his stomach. ‘Look what she did to me!’ A thick pad of dirty red-mottled cotton wool, blood still weeping from the edges, was strapped to his stomach by strips of sticking plaster. ‘She’d have killed me. I had to hit her to defend myself.’ He fumbled at the dressing. ‘Do you want to see what it’s like underneath?’

Frost waved the offer away. ‘No, thanks, Wally. It’s a bit too near your dick and I haven’t had my breakfast yet. I’ll get the doctor to have a look at it.’ He slid from his chair and went to the door, making a small jerk of his head to signal Hanlon to follow.

Outside in the passage, Frost closed the door firmly and lowered his voice. ‘Here’s a turn-up for the bleedin’ book, Arthur. Did you check that knife to see if it matched up with any of the old girl’s cutlery?’

‘No, Jack. There were no prints on it and the damn thing had been honed razor sharp. I just assumed it came from her attacker.’

‘She was terrified of burglars. She probably kept a sharpened knife to protect herself. Check it out now — and find out what blood group Wally is. It should be on his prison file.’ He followed the worried-looking Hanlon down the corridor and asked Sergeant Wells to call the duty police surgeon.

The police surgeon dropped unused bandages into his bag and clicked it shut. ‘I don’t think there’s any danger, but just to be on the safe side, the hospital should check him over.’ He gave Frost his ‘Payment Request’ form to sign and checked it carefully before nodding his goodbye.

An agitated Arthur Hanlon was waiting outside the Interview Room. His shamefaced expression told Frost all.

‘The knife came from her cutlery drawer,’ Hanlon admitted. ‘She’s got a carving fork and a sharpening steel all in the same pattern to match. I’m sorry, Jack, I should have checked.’

‘Never mind, Arthur,’ said Frost. ‘It makes me feel better to know I’m not the only twat in the force.’

‘And Wally’s blood group is 0, the same as the dead woman’s, so the blood on the knife could well have come from him.’

‘Damn. The knife was the only thing that tied him to the other two killings and we haven’t got that now. Never mind, let’s do our best with what little we’ve got — as the bishop said to the actress.’

In the Interview Room, which now reeked of antiseptic, their prisoner was noisily drinking a cup of tea, watched by a sour-faced Gilmore. Frost dropped wearily into his chair. ‘Right, Wally. The doctor says you’re not going to die, but I’ve got over my disappointment. Tell me about the old dear at Clarendon Street — right from the beginning.’ He pushed a cigarette across the table and lit it for the man. ‘And cover up your stomach — it’s wobbling like a bloody blancmange.’

Manson sucked gratefully at the cigarette. ‘Thanks, Mr Frost.’ He tucked his shirt back in and readjusted his belt. ‘This was last Monday night — one of those nights when everything went wrong.’

Frost nodded in sympathy. He had many nights like that.

‘The first house I tried I thought was going to be easy. Up on the dustbin and through the back window. I could hear the old boy talking to his wife downstairs, so I thought the coast was clear. Straight in the bedroom and there’s this weird niff… I flashes my torch around and, bloody hell — there’s a decomposing corpse grinning at me. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I had to nip in the pub for some Dutch courage and who comes walking through the door but you and that bloke there with the fancy aftershave. This just ain’t my bloody night, I thought. But I phoned you. I told you about the body.’

‘I know, Wally,’ nodded Frost. ‘I recognized your voice.’

‘I should have packed it in, but I needed some readies — I owed the bookie a couple of hundred and he was screaming for it. I’d already marked out this house in Clarendon Street. It looked easy and they said this old lady had cash all over the place. It must have been well bloody hidden — I never found it. The bedroom was empty. She was in the other room watching the telly, then, just my flaming luck, I knocks this vase over and the next thing I know she’s charging in with the knife, stashing away. I lashed out in self-defence and she went out like a light.’ He took another drag at his cigarette. ‘It was all her fault, Mr Frost. I could have sued her for what she did to me. You know the law — you’re only supposed to use reasonable force in ejecting a burglar, and gouging chunks out of his gut with a carving knife ain’t reasonable force.’

‘Neither is smashing someone’s skull in,’ barked Gilmore from behind him.

‘A tap, Mr Frost, that’s all I gave her. A tap with me jemmy, just to discourage her. The bloody knife was stuck in my stomach and I had to pull it out. I’d tore my rubber gloves in the struggle, so I wiped the handle clean in case my prints were on it, then grabbed up a few bits of jewellery and got the hell out of there. When I read in the paper next day she was in Intensive Care, it frightened the shit out of me — if you’ll pardon the expression. I never did another job from that night to this. That’s the honest, gospel truth.’

Frost shook another cigarette out of the packet and tapped it on the table. ‘Tell me the honest gospel truth about the other poor cows, Wally. Did they all come at you with knives I and then commit hara-kiri?’ He watched the prisoner closely, but unless Manson was a brilliant actor, he didn’t seem to know what Frost was talking about.

‘Others? What are you trying to pin on me?’

Frost opened the file and spread out colour photographs of the two dead women showing their wounds in vivid close up, his eyes still locked on Manson’s face.

Wally shuddered and turned his head. ‘Bloody hell, Mr Frost. That’s horrible.’ He fumbled for a grubby handkerchief to mop his brow. ‘You ain’t suggesting they’re down to me? I’ve never killed anyone in my life.’

‘Yes, you have, Wally,’ said Frost, grimly. ‘The old girl you discouraged by caving in her skull died in hospital.’

‘Come off it, Inspector,’ said Wally, grinning to show that he had seen through Frost’s bluff. ‘There’s no way a little tap would.. ’ And then he saw Frost’s expression and knew he was serious. ‘Oh my God!’ The grin froze solid and his face drained of colour. ‘Dead?’

Frost nodded.

‘Bloody hell, Mr Frost. She came at me — with a knife. I had no choice — it was self-defence.’

‘Were these self-defence?’ asked Frost, smacking his hand on the photographs.

‘You’re not pinning them on me, Mr Frost. I’ll cough to the old girl, but that’s all.’

Frost gave him a disarming smile. ‘Fair enough, Wally. Tell you what — as we’re mates — cough to the others and I’ll give you self-defence on the first one.’

‘I never bleedin’ did the others. How can I make you believe me?’

‘I’d consider an alibi, Wally. Where were you Tuesday night?’

Manson looked appalled. ‘I can’t give you an alibi without incriminating myself. I was doing another job.’

‘Don’t be a twat, Wally. We’re talking murder and you’re talking petty burglary.’

Manson gave a hopeless shrug. ‘I can’t bloody win, can I? All right, on Tuesday night I did some cars over at Forest View — I got a CD player from one and a couple of cassette players from the others.’

‘What about Sunday?’

‘I did a house in Appleford Court. Got away with around?80. Then I tried a car round the back but the flaming alarm went off.’

Frost nodded. He knew about the Appleford Court burglary and he’d check on the cars. But this was Sunday night. Mary Haynes was killed in the afternoon. ‘What about Sunday afternoon?’

‘I stayed in. I had it away with Belle.’

‘Let’s say that took a minute — half a minute if you kept your boots on. What did you do with the rest of the time?’

‘I stayed in until six — Belle will vouch for me.’

Frost gave a snort. ‘She’s as big a liar as you are. You’ve got no alibi for the time of the killing, and we’ve found a pair of your jeans soaked in blood.

‘That was my blood, Mr Frost…’ Wally was almost in tears. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’

‘The court has got to believe you, Wally, not me.’ Frost scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Feel like doing a deal?’

Manson regarded Frost warily. ‘What sort of a deal?’

‘A bloody good one, Wally. We’ve got a whole stack of outstanding burglaries and car thefts on file. I want you to cough to every single one that’s down to you…’

‘Now hold on, Mr Frost,’ Manson protested.

‘Do yourself a favour and listen, Wally. Whatever sentences you get will run concurrently: one burglary or a hundred, you won’t even feel it. In return, I’m prepared to tell the court how helpful you’ve been and to recommend to the DPP that we accept your plea of manslaughter in the case of Alice Ryder. To help you make up your mind, if you say no, we’re going for murder.’

Manson chewed at his finger while he thought this over. ‘What about them two?’ He pointed to the photographs on the table.

‘Call me a sentimental old sod, Wally, but providing nothing happens to make me change my mind, I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt over them two.’

Wally sighed. ‘All right, Mr Frost. You win.’

‘Good boy,’ smiled Frost, scooping the photographs back into the file and standing.

Behind the prisoner, Gilmore’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. The inspector had given almost nothing away — the DPP would probably have settled for manslaughter anyway — and in return a whole stack of out-standings would be cleared in one go and Denton’s ‘Crime Return’ would start looking healthy again. Anxious to share the undoubted credit this would accrue, he dropped into Frost’s vacated chair, ready to start taking Manson’s statements. His scowl deepened when Frost informed him that the little fat slob, Hanlon, would be taking over from now and it was with the greatest reluctance he vacated the chair.

At the door, Frost stopped and smote his forehead with his palm. He had almost forgotten the videos. ‘Where did you get them?’

Wally hung his head. ‘I nicked them from a car. Wouldn’t have touched them had I known what they were like. Blimey, I like a bit of the old sex and violence as much as the next man, but I draw the line at dogs… they may be man’s best friend, but that one was being too bloody friendly.’

‘Details, Wally.’

‘I’m driving in the van the Saturday night before last, about ten o’clock, and I spots this big flash motor parked round the back of the Market Square.’

‘What sort of car?’ Gilmore asked. ‘What make?’

‘I don’t know. An expensive motor, all gleaming. Black, I think … the seats looked like real leather. Anyway, I wasn’t there to admire it. I jemmied open the boot, grabbed this box and I’m back in my van before anyone spots me.’

Frost prodded Manson for more details, but there was nothing else he could tell them, only that it was an expensive set of wheels.

Outside in the corridor, Gilmore’s anger boiled over. ‘You’re letting Hanlon take his statement? We get a confession on the Ryder murder and Manson is going to cough on all his other jobs. We do all the work and you’re going to let Hanlon take all the credit!’

‘I can’t be sodded about with all that paperwork,’ said Frost. ‘We’ve got enough on our plates without having to take yards and yards of statement down.’ He yawned. ‘I don’t know about you, son, but I’m going home for some kip.’

Gilmore, still angry, watched the old cretin shuffle off down the corridor. Just his lousy luck to be stuck with that apology for a policeman. He was being associated with Frost’s many failures, but wasn’t getting the chance to be involved with his all too few successes. Just because the fool had killed all his own promotion prospects, there was no need to deny them to everyone else. Damn and blast the stupid burk. He stormed off to the car-park.

As he was settling down in bed, Frost remembered he hadn’t reported back to Mullett about Wally Manson. Ah well, he’d worry about that in the morning.

The jangling of a bell woke Gilmore up. He fumbled for the alarm, but the bell rang on. The bedside clock tried to tell him it was ten o’clock but he felt as if he had only been asleep a couple of minutes. The ringing went on and some one was banging at the front door. He pulled on his dressing gown and staggered downstairs.

A motor-cycle policeman holding a crash helmet asked him if he was Detective Sergeant Gilmore and told him to pick up Inspector Frost immediately.

There had been another Ripper killing.

‘Why knock me up?’ growled Gilmore. ‘Haven’t you heard of the telephone?’

‘Haven’t you heard of putting it back on the hook?’ called the policeman, kick-starting his bike and roaring off.

Yes, the damn handset was off. Mentally cursing Liz, Gilmore replaced it and dashed into the bathroom for a quick cold shower which he hoped would jar him into consciousness. He had finished dressing when the front door slammed and Liz returned from shopping, the bottles clinking in her carrier bag.

‘You’re going out again?’ she shrilled. ‘Out all night and now you’re going out again?’

He patted on aftershave, then knotted his tie and adjusted it in the bathroom mirror. ‘I’ve got to. There’s been another murder.’ His head was aching from not enough sleep and he could have done without any more aggro.

She pushed past him, her face ugly, not saying a word.

He slipped on his camel-hair overcoat and made sure he had his car keys. ‘I’ll get back as soon as I can — I promise.’

‘Don’t bloody bother,’ she snapped, slamming down the shopping. ‘Don’t bloody bother.’

Frost, looking as gritty and crumpled as he had done the night before, was waiting outside his house and he grunted thankfully as he slumped into the front passenger seat. ‘Another old girl slashed,’ he told Gilmore. ‘Haven’t got the full details yet.’

The address was Kitchener Mansions, a block of old people’s flats. The lift, its wet floor smelling of pine disinfectant, juddered them up to the third floor. DC Burton, waiting for them outside flat number 311, looked shattered. ‘It’s a messy one, Inspector.’

‘Tell me something new,’ muttered Frost gloomily, following Burton into the flat.

They walked into a tiny passage, squeezing past a small table holding a telephone and a plastic piano-key index, then on to a small living-room which seemed to be full of people, all keeping well back from the object in the centre of the floor. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit,’ said Frost, barging through.

The old lady, fully dressed, sat in an armchair, her head back, empty eyes staring at the ceiling. Her neck grinned with the blood-gummed lips of a cut throat. Her stomach had been slashed open so that her intestines bulged out on to her lap. At her feet the grey-carpeted floor was sodden with the blood pumped out by her panic-stricken heart as the knife ripped and tore. The tiny room had the smell of an abattoir.

‘Flaming hell!’ muttered Frost. He backed away. He had seen enough.

Even Ted Roberts, the SOC officer, no stranger to violent death, was shaken and had difficulty in keeping his hands steady as he adjusted his camera lens for close-ups of the neck wound.

Gilmore pulled his eyes away from the corpse, and looked around the room. He recognized the uniformed constable, PC Simms, who had arrested Manson the night before. He also recognized the two men from Forensic who had been at Greenway’s house. The duty police surgeon, a thin solemn-looking man busily engaged in filling in his Police Expense Claim form, he hadn’t seen before.

A light oak sideboard stood against the far wall. On it a cut-glass fruit bowl held some apples and a black leather purse. Gilmore nudged Frost and pointed it out to him.

Carefully stepping wide to avoid the puddles of blood, Frost picked up the purse with his handkerchief. It bulged with the pension money the old lady had drawn from the main Denton post office the previous morning. He counted it quickly. Nearly one hundred pounds. Gloomily he pushed it back into the purse. ‘How come the killer didn’t take this?’

‘Perhaps he was disturbed?’ suggested Gilmore. ‘He heard someone coming and legged it away.’

‘Perhaps,’ muttered Frost, who wasn’t convinced. He nosed through the other compartments of the purse. An uncollected prescription for some sleeping tablets, a hospital appointment card, a membership card for the Reef Bingo Club, and some ancient raffle tickets. In the last compartment he found two Yale keys; one was for the front door, but the other was a maverick. He clicked the purse shut and returned it to the fruit bowl. “What has been nicked?’

‘Nothing, as far as we can tell,’ answered Burton. ‘Nothing seems to be disturbed.’ He moved away so Frost could look into the bedroom where everything was as neat and tidy as the murdered woman had left it. Frost opened a couple of drawers. The contents clearly had not been touched.

‘Like I said,’ offered Gilmore, ‘he heard someone coming and legged it before he could nick anything.’

‘Perhaps,’ muttered Frost, still doubtful. Back to Burton. ‘All right, son. Let’s have some details.’

Burton flipped open his notebook. ‘Her name is Doris Watson, seventy-six. She’s a widow and has a son living in Denton.’

‘Anyone contacted him?’ interrupted Frost.

Burton shook his head. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, sir.’

Frost sent Gilmore to look the son up in the telephone index in the hall. ‘Ring him. Ask if he can come over. Don’t tell him what it’s about.’ He nodded for Burton to continue.

‘Her neighbour, Mrs Proctor, in the next flat saw her at eight o’clock last night when she called here to borrow a Daily Mirror to read. A little before ten she knocked again to return it, but got no answer.’

‘By ten, she was dead,’ called the police surgeon, picking up his bag ready to leave.

‘You’re bloody precise all of a sudden,’ commented Frost. ‘You usually won’t even pin yourself down to the day of the week. Are you certain she was dead by ten?’

The doctor shrugged. Nothing was certain in determining the time of death. ‘Give or take an hour each way,’ he hedged.

‘Thanks for sod all,’ sniffed Frost as the doctor took his leave. He raised his eyebrows at Gilmore who had finished phoning.

‘All I get is his answering machine,’ Gilmore told him. ‘I left a message for him to phone the station.’

Frost’s eyes travelled round the room. No sign of forcible entry. The killer must have come in through the front door.

They moved through the hall to take a look at the door which had additional bolts fitted and also a security chain, but not a very strong one. There was a peephole lens so any caller could be verified before the door was opened. She was nervous of callers, but when someone knocked some time after eight o’clock at night she had drawn the bolts, Unhooked the security chain and let them in. It had to be someone she knew. Someone she trusted.

‘Her son?’ offered Gilmore.

‘He’ll do for starters,’ grunted Frost. “Who found her?’

‘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 the 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.