Night Frost

Tuesday afternoon shift

Frost, cold and stiff from an uncomfortable sleep, staggered into the Murder Incident Room where Gilmore and Burton, seated at adjacent desks behind mounds of green folders, barely gave him a glance. They were transferring details from the folders on to roneoed forms which were then collected by WPC Jill Knight who fed them into the computer for collation.

A large-scale map of Denton, well-studded with coloured pins, had been fixed to the wall alongside the computer and Frost wandered over to take a look at it. The pins marked the scenes of all the recent senior citizen burglaries. On the far wall hung the map compiled by Inspector Allen showing the route of Paula Bartlett’s last paper round. A newly added black thumb tack pin-pointed the crypt where the body was found. A beefy little blonde WPC brought in another armful of green folders and dumped them on the desk.

‘You seem to have things well organized,’ said Frost.

‘Someone had to do it,’ grunted Gilmore who was in a sour mood. A little over three hours’ sleep and then treated to a dose of Liz whining and moaning at being left on her own so much and then, when he reported for duty, he had found Frost sprawled asleep in his office without having done a damn thing about getting the Murder Incident Room set up.

‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Frost. Organization was not his strongest point. ‘Well, the good news is that according to Mr Mullett’s new roster, we’re all off duty until tonight.

The bad news is, we’re far too busy to sod about with his rubbish.’ He wandered across to Burton and Gilmore, both occupied with their green folders. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’ He dropped a cigarette on each desk, then poured himself a mug of tea from Burton’s thermos.

Gilmore looked up from his folders. ‘I’m initiating a computer program. What it does…’

Frost’s hand shot up. If it was to do with computers, then he didn’t want to know. ‘Please don’t explain how it works, son, then I won’t have to pretend I understand what you’re talking about.’

But Gilmore explained anyway. ‘We’re feeding the computer with details from all the recent break-ins and burglaries and attacks involving senior citizens to see if we can build up some sort of pattern… why did the burglar pick on them, and so on.’

Frost peered over Jill Knight’s shoulder, watching the cursor fly across the monitor screen, leaving a complicated trail of facts and figures. ‘Any pattern emerging so far?’

‘A lot of the victims, seem to belong to senior citizens’ clubs,’ she told him.

‘Perhaps that’s the sort of club that senior citizens join,’ said Frost, unimpressed. He flicked through a file half-heartedly, then pushed it away and jabbed a finger at Burton. ‘You were going to check with the vicar about Mary Haynes.’

‘I left a report on your desk,’ protested Burton.

‘You know I don’t read reports. Tell me what it said.’

‘She’d been a member of the church senior citizens’club for nearly six years. No relatives as far as the vicar knows. She kept herself to herself, never invited anyone back to her place and didn’t have any close friends.’

‘That wouldn’t have been worth reading a report, for,’ commented Frost moodily.

‘There’s more,’ continued Burton. ‘She visited her husband’s grave at the cemetery on Sunday…’

Frost’s head shot up. The cemetery. That reminded him. ‘Get the car out — we’ve got to give her parents the good news that their daughter was raped.’

‘If I could finish,’ said Burton. ‘Her husband’s grave had been vandalized… swear words sprayed on with an aerosol. She had a row with the vicar about it. She was always having rows. I’ve started a list of people she quarrelled with, but it’s all trivial stuff.’

‘Follow it through anyway,’ said Frost. ‘Did anyone spot our famous blue van?’

‘No-one so far.’

A sudden thought. Something else he had forgotten. ‘Damn! We should have asked dry-cleaners to look out for bloodstained clothing.’

‘Already in hand,’ said Gilmore, smugly.

A messenger entered with a large envelope and a package for Frost. He ripped it open. The post-mortem reports from the pathologist, beautifully typed by his loyal secretary on expensive paper. Frost flipped open the first and skipped through it. It was for the suicide, the kid in the Mickey Mouse night-shirt, Susan Bicknell. Drysdale’s usual thorough job. He hadn’t missed the marks of the beating, but reported them without comment. His sole concern was the cause of death which was confirmed as barbiturate poisoning, probably self- inflicted. Signs of recent intercourse, but she was not pregnant.

He gave the file to Gilmore who studied it grimly. ‘She didn’t kill herself because she was up the spout, son.’

‘Then why did she?’

‘We’ll probably never know.’ Frost opened up the other folder. ‘I hope everyone’s had their lunch — because it’s stomach contents time.’ He quickly read the typed sheet. ‘Isn’t science wonderful? She’s been dead two months, yet they can tell us she died within half an hour of knocking back chicken and mushroom pie, chips and peas and — wait for it — a dollop of brown sauce.’

The plump blonde WPC pulled a face. ‘I had that for dinner yesterday.’

‘If you get raped and strangled, we’ll know there’s a connection.’ He studied the report again. ‘Paula must have had another meal. She’d never have eaten all that for breakfast.’

‘She was a growing girl,’ suggested Burton. ‘You’d be surprised what kids eat these days.’

‘She died within half an hour of eating,’ Frost reminded him. ‘The meal wasn’t fully digested. I saw it. I can show it to you if you don’t believe me.’ At Burton’s shuddering refusal, he continued. ‘If she had eaten it at home, she would have to be dead by half-past seven.’

‘We’ve got a witness who saw her at 8.15,’ said Burton.

‘Either the witness is lying, or mistaken, or Paula had another meal. A hot, cooked meal.’ He opened up the package. ‘I hope this isn’t the bloody stomach contents.’ They backed away as he plunged his hand inside but it was a polythene bag he pulled out. Inside were the shoes found on the body. He gave them to the blonde WPC and asked her to send them to Forensic. And that reminded him. ‘Bloody hell — I forgot to ask Forensic to send Drysdale the knife from last night’s stabbing.’

‘Already done,’ said Gilmore. What an inefficient lout the man was.

Frost nodded his thanks. Naked, but wearing shoes. Ate a hot meal. You couldn’t force a kid to eat. She must have gone willingly with her killer and that tended to rule the bald plumber out. But Mullett said they shouldn’t spend time on this case. Leave it for whizz-kid Allen. Sod Mullett. He’d do things his way. ‘Come on, the pair of you,’ he told Gilmore and Burton. ‘Let’s drive over the route she took for her paper round.’

There were a number of strange cars in the car park. Of course. Mullett’s press conference must be in full swing. Mullett would be telling them all about the suspected rape and he hadn’t broken the news to Paula’s parents yet. ‘We’ll call on them first,’ he said. ‘Let’s get it bloody over.’

Burton waited in the car and watched Gilmore and the inspector make the short dash through the rain to the Bartletts’ house. The girl’s father, who answered their knock, was stooped and grey-faced and seemed to have aged some ten years since the previous night. He showed them into the living-room where his wife sat staring into empty space. She forced a ghost-smile of greeting. Frost stood uneasily by the door, not knowing how to begin.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mr Bartlett asked them.

‘We’d love one,’ Frost replied, hoping the mother would leave the room to make it. He wanted her out of the way while he broke the news of the sexual assault to her husband. But she sat, staring, unseeing, and didn’t move.

Her husband touched her shoulder. ‘Tea for you, love?’ She shook her head.

Frost left Gilmore to keep the woman silent company and followed the man into the kitchen. Bartlett filled an electric kettle from the tap. ‘She’s been like this ever since we heard.’

‘There’s something I must tell you,’ said Frost. He steeled himself to deliver the blow. The father steeled himself to receive it. ‘Your daughter was sexually assaulted before she died.’

The hand holding the kettle shook violently, splashing water all over the tiled floor. Gently, Frost took it from him and guided him towards a chair. Sobs, racked the father’s body.

His face sharing the man’s pain, Frost could only watch and wonder what the hell to say next. The sobbing brought Mrs Bartlett into the kitchen. She cradled her husband’s head in her arms and held him tight. ‘What is it, love?’ But head bowed, tears streaming, he couldn’t answer. She looked enquiringly at Frost who had to force the words out again.

‘I had to tell him that… that Paula was raped.’

Husband and wife clung together, clutching each other like young lovers, saying nothing, their closeness consoling each other. Ignored by them both, Frost fidgeted and wished he was miles away. ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he told them, ‘your daughter was a virgin.’ Why the bloody hell did he say that? What possible consolation could it be that your daughter was a virgin before some bastard raped and choked the life out of her? He became aware that the father, his tears now of anger, was shouting at him.

‘Of course she was a virgin. She was only fifteen. A kid. She’d had no bloody life…’ And then he was sobbing again.

Hastily, Frost excused himself ‘I’ll be in the other room.’ In the living-room Gilmore, uncomfortable in a too-low chair, raised an eyebrow in query. ‘I sodded it up,’ Frost told him. ‘It’s the wailing bleeding wall out there.’ He flopped into a chair. No sign of an ashtray, but he had to have a smoke. He lit one up, offering the pack to Gilmore who declined.

Barely two puffs later the woman was back, her eyes red. She seemed surprised that they were still there. He pinched out the cigarette and stood up. ‘Two more things, Mrs Bartlett.’ She looked apprehensive. What further horrors could he inflict? ‘It’s just that we’re repeating the video made when Paula first went missing. It’ll be shown on the television news tonight.’

She nodded, relieved that it was nothing worse.

‘And — just for the record. Can you tell me what Paula ate on that last morning?’

‘Cornflakes and toast.’

‘You’re sure? She wouldn’t have cooked herself anything?’

‘Oh no. I was down here with her… cornflakes and toast. That’s all she ever had for breakfast.’ As they moved to the front door, she clutched the inspector’s arm. ‘When can we put her to rest?’

At first he didn’t understand what she meant, then realized she was asking about the funeral. ‘Not for a while, love,’ he said.

‘I’d like to see her,’ said Mrs Bartlett, her eyes blinking earnestly behind her glasses.

‘No, love,’ said Frost firmly.

‘Please…’ She gripped so tightly, it hurt.

He gently disentangled her fingers from his sleeve. ‘She wouldn’t want you to see her as she is now, Mrs Bartlett.’

‘I don’t care how she looks. She’s my daughter. She’s my daughter…!’

Her shouts followed them to the car. With the car door closed she stood in the doorway, still shouting, but they could only hear the rain thudding on the car roof. Then her husband appeared and led her back into the house.

‘That wasn’t an unqualified success, was it?’ sighed Frost, sticking the cigarette end back in his mouth. ‘She had cornflakes for breakfast, Burton. What do you deduce from that?’

‘That you were right, sir. She must have had another meal after she was abducted,’ replied the detective constable.

‘Precisely.’ He scratched the match down the car window. ‘You’re a fifteen-year-old virgin, Burton. You’ve been abducted and taken somewhere. Would you have an appetite for chicken pie, peas and chips?’

‘It depends how long I’d been without food. She might have been held for hours without having anything to eat.’

Frost thought this over and nodded. ‘Cooked food, so it’s got to be indoors. And if he’s keeping the girl hidden there for any length of time, he’s got to be alone in the house. Lastly, to get her from his car to the house, he must be pretty certain he won’t be seen. Which means the house has got to be remote.’ He blew the end of his cigarette and watched it glow. ‘The schoolmaster who usually gave her a lift. Is his house remote?’

Burton nodded. ‘It’s all on its own — miles from anywhere.’

‘Then we’ve got the bastard.’

What are you suggesting?’ asked Gilmore who was feeling left out of the discussion. This was typical Frost, plucking a suspect from thin air, then forcing the facts to fit.

‘I’m suggesting that bloody schoolmaster met her in his car and took her back to his house.’

‘The schoolmaster was at his wife’s funeral that day,’ Burton reminded him.

‘This was around eight in the morning. The funeral wouldn’t have been until ten at the earliest.’

‘But he didn’t have to go in the car and fetch her,’ said Burton. ‘She was due to call at his house with the paper anyway.’

‘He was impatient,’ said Frost, stubbornly. ‘Burning for a bit of the other and couldn’t wait.’

‘So impatient,’ scoffed Gilmore, ‘that he gives her chicken pie, peas and chips at eight o’clock in the morning before he has it away with her and then trots off to his wife’s funeral.’

Frost sank down in the car seat and expelled smoke. ‘All right, so that’s shot that theory up the arse. But I’d still like to have a word with this schoolmaster. Do you know where he lives, Burton?’

Burton nodded.

‘Then take us there. Follow the route the girl went. Point out the houses where she delivered. Show me where her bike was found.’

Burton backed out of Medway Road and cut through some side streets. Gilmore tried to orientate himself, but soon got lost. And then, after a few minutes, the area looked familiar and the car was splashing through Merchant Street. He looked up as the house flashed by, noting that the bedroom curtains were still drawn. Liz would be sleeping, making sure she would be fully refreshed, ready to renew her moaning when he finished his shift. God, what a cynic he was becoming. How he hated this lousy little town.

The car juddered over cobbles as it negotiated a steep hill, then cut through the market place, empty of shoppers in the heavy rain. The houses they passed became fewer and further between and soon they were skirting the woods.

‘She made her first deliveries here,’ said Burton as they crawled past a small, walled estate of some forty houses and maisonettes built by the New Town Development Corporation. ‘You don’t want to see the individual houses, do you?’

‘No,’ replied Frost, ‘just a general outline of the route.’

They left the estate and drove on to the Forest View area where old Victorian properties had been converted into flats, then they headed away from the wood, along bumpy lanes flanked by hedges, past little clusters of old cottages. Burton slowed down and stopped outside a green-roofed bungalow. ‘She made her last delivery there — the Daily Telegraph and a photographic magazine. The lady of the house saw Paula pedalling away down the lane about a quarter past eight. That was the last time she was seen alive.’

Frost stared at the bungalow, then signalled for Burton to drive on. The car sloshed in and out of puddles and turned into an even narrower lane where overgrown branches on each side slashed spitefully at the car as it squeezed through. Burton braked. ‘This is where we found her bike and the abandoned newspapers.’

They climbed out and stood looking down at a deep ditch running beneath an overhanging hedge. The ditch was brimful and covered with a thick layer of emerald green scum, through which the wheels of an upturned supermarket trolley protruded.

‘The bastard must have been waiting for her just about here,’ said Burton.

Frost nodded glumly. He had hoped that visiting the actual locale would give him some magic flash of inspiration. He stood in the pouring rain, looking down into the green slimy water, and decorated it with his discarded cigarette end.

Back in the car he asked Burton where the girl’s bike was. ‘Locked up in the shed at the station. The two newspapers she didn’t deliver are in the exhibits cupboard.’

‘Only two more houses,’ said Burton, as the car bumped into an extra deep puddle which sent a spray of dirty water all over the windscreen.

‘Mind what you’re doing,’ barked Gilmore, who hadn’t had a chance to put Burton in his place for some time.

Burton’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, but he controlled his temper. He pointed up a small side lane which crawled up to a two-storeyed house standing on its own. ‘That’s called Brook Cottage. They would have had the Sun but she never made it.’

Brook Cottage looked a mite dilapidated. They could hear a dog barking as they passed.

The lane widened and passed through empty scrub land. After some minutes a red-bricked house lurched up in front of them. It was an old, solid-looking property and stood alone in extensive grounds. A shirt-sleeved man was working in the garden seemingly oblivious to the pouring rain. ‘She finished her round here,’ announced Burton as he switched off the engine. ‘The man in the garden is Edward Bell, Paula’s schoolteacher.’

Frost crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, then turned up the collar of his mac. ‘Let’s have a word with the bastard.’

The man, wrenching up weeds from the heavy soil, gave a cry of pain as the sharp thorns of a hidden bramble pierced his palm. He stared angrily at the bright red globules welling from the punctures. The damned briar was everywhere. As fast as you cleared it from one section it appeared somewhere else. Well, if it thought it was going to defeat him, it was making a damn mistake. He tore up a thick clump of grass and wrapped it round the briar as protection then pulled and tugged, swearing out loud as the bramble resisted. It took a great deal of effort but at last he tore it free of the rain-sodden earth and hurled it on to the growing pile of garden refuse. His hand was sticky with blood and rain and sweat. He sucked salt and mowed on to the next section, only dimly aware of the sound of slamming car doors and approaching footsteps.

‘Mr Bell?’

‘Eh?’ He straightened up and eased the pain in his back. There were two men, one dark-haired, young and neatly dressed, the other older, hair starting to thin, wearing a crumpled raincoat that had seen better days. The younger one held up a piece of plastic bearing a coloured photograph. ‘Police, Mr Bell.’

‘Is it about Paula?’ he asked. ‘Has she been found?’

‘Let’s talk inside,’ said the scruffy man.

The house was cold and unwelcoming. They passed through the kitchen, its sink and draining board stacked with dirty saucepans and crockery. On top of the fridge stood a half-bottle of lumpy milk. The room was a mess. It reminded Frost of home.

Muttering apologies for the untidiness, Bell opened one door, decided against it and took them into a musty-smelling lounge. Rain streamed down the patio window, blurring the view of the garden beyond. A miserable room. Frost would be glad to get out.

‘Not too cold for you, is it? I haven’t had the heating on. I suppose I should, but it seems pointless…’ Bell’s voice trailed off.

‘This is fine, sir,’ said Frost without conviction, winding his scarf tighter. He and Gilmore sat side by side on the beige Dralon settee, facing Bell who was squatting on a footstool, dripping rain on to the pink carpet.

Bell, who wore a rain-blackened checked shirt and baggy corduroy trousers, was in his late thirties. Thin and nervous-looking, his face was framed by unstyled light brown hair and a few tufts of a scraggy beard. A hint of dark rings around his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping too well.

Unaware of Frost’s scrutiny, Bell unwrapped the blood stained handkerchief, studied his palm, then wrapped it again. Suddenly he remembered the reason for their calling.

‘Paula’s been found, you say? That’s splendid. How is she?’

Frost’s eyes flicked to Gilmore, who sat impassive. This was too naive. Surely Bell must have heard about the discovery of the girl’s body? ‘Don’t you read the papers, sir?’

‘Papers?’ He shook his head. ‘They don’t deliver papers here any more. The parents won’t let their children do it.’

‘Don’t you listen to the radio? Or talk to your colleagues?’

‘It’s half-term and I’ve been too busy in the garden these past few days to listen to the radio. So what has happened?’

‘Paula is dead, sir,’ said Frost bluntly, carefully watching Bell’s reaction. The man jerked back as if he had been hit, then his face crumpled.

‘Oh no. That poor child. Oh no!’ His grief and shock at the news seemed genuine.

Without taking his eyes from the teacher, Frost slowly lit a cigarette. ‘She was murdered, sir. Raped and murdered.’

Bell stood up. He took the soiled handkerchief from his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Nervously, he paced the room. ‘She was only fifteen.’

‘Kids mature earlier these days,’ said Frost. ‘They have sex earlier, they get raped earlier, they get murdered earlier.’ He exhaled smoke and watched it disperse. ‘What sort of girl was she?’

The man dropped back on the footstool and thought for a moment. ‘Quiet. Didn’t mix much. An excellent scholar.’

‘Why did you start giving her lifts to school?’ asked Gilmore.

‘It was her parents’ request. Her newspaper round took her some five miles in the opposite direction. Sometimes the papers would be late which could make her late for school and they didn’t want her to miss any of her lessons. I would meet her at the top of the lane and give her a lift from there.’

‘What did you do about her bike?’ This from Frost.

‘It was one of those folding ones. I put it in the boot. She could then cycle home when school was over. This is all in your files

… I made a full statement to that other officer.’

‘What sort of things did you talk about when you drove her to school?’ asked Gilmore. ‘Did she mention boy friends, or crushes on any of the masters, or anything?’

Bell shifted his position to face the sergeant. ‘We hardly passed more than a few words. She was a quiet girl, and that suited me. When I’m driving, I like to concentrate, not talk.’

‘Was she a teaser?’ asked Frost.

His pale cheeks showed two red spots. ‘How the hell should I know?’

‘In the car, sir, you and her, close. The old knees rubbing together… flashes of elasticated knicker leg and tender young thigh all juicy and throbbing?’

Bell’s lip curled contemptuously. ‘I find you offensive, Inspector.’

Through a haze of cigarette smoke Frost beamed at him. ‘You’re not alone in that, sir. But I found it offensive when I saw what that sod had done to that kid, so just answer my questions.’

Bell stood up and towered angrily over the inspector. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I am involved in this poor child’s death?’

‘Let’s just say you’re quite high on my list of suspects.’ In fact, thought Frost, you’re my one and only bloody suspect, so if it isn’t you, I’m nowhere. ‘Can you tell me your movements for the morning she went missing?’ His raised hand halted Bell in mid-protest. ‘I know you’ve told it all to the other bloke, but I’d like to hear it first-hand.’

‘It was the morning of my wife’s funeral. The hearse arrived from the undertakers at 9.30. The interment was at ten. I got back home a few minutes before noon.’

‘So, before the funeral, you were alone in the house until 9.30?’

‘No. My wife’s parents were here. They’d travelled down from Berwick for the funeral and stayed with me overnight.’

‘Oh.’ Frost tried not to sound disappointed. ‘They’d confirm this, of course?’

‘I think you’ll find they’re already given statements to Inspector Allen.’

Frost groaned inwardly. Why the hell hadn’t he done his homework? ‘I’ve only just skimmed through the files, sir. Skimmed! He hadn’t even opened them. ‘Your morning paper hadn’t arrived by the time you left for the funeral. Didn’t that worry you? Didn’t you wonder why?’

‘I didn’t give it a thought, Inspector. The only thing on my mind was the funeral.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Damn, thought Frost. There goes my best suspect. All he was left with now was the plumber. Which reminded him. ‘Did it rain during the funeral?’

‘There was a sudden cloudburst,’ said Bell. ‘We all got drenched.’

And damn again, thought Frost. Now I haven’t even got the plumber. He poked another cigarette in his mouth and lit up. The smoke curled and drifted and he followed it with his eyes, watching as it was drawn to the fireplace, some of it wafting up to the mantelpiece. In the centre of the mantel piece a clock in Chinese black lacquer, long unwound, had stopped at ten past eight. Something poked out from behind it. A light blue envelope, the address typed. It looked very similar to the one sent to old Mr Wardley.

A sharp cough to catch Gilmore’s attention and a jerk of the head to direct him to the clock. Silently, Gilmore sidled over and pulled out the envelope. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. The typing was identical.

Bell, staring out at the rain-soaked garden, saw nothing of this extended mime show.

‘One final thing,’ said Frost casually. ‘What did the poison pen letter say?’

Bell stiffened, then slowly turned. He saw the envelope in Gilmore’s hand and snatched it from him. ‘You’ve no right…’

‘We’ve every bloody right,’ snapped Frost, standing and holding out his hand. ‘The letter, please, sir.’

Bell stared at him, knuckles white, body stiff with fury. He almost threw the envelope at the inspector. ‘You bastard!’ he hissed. ‘You lousy bastard.’

‘Sticks and stones,’ reproved Frost, mildly. He unfolded the sheet of cheap typing paper. The typed message said, simply, Fornicator.

‘Terse,’ murmured Frost, passing the message to Gilmore. ‘Why should anyone accuse you of that, sir?’

‘It’s none of your damn business.’

‘In a murder enquiry, sir, everything is my damn business.’

Bell walked back to the window and again stared at the puddled garden blurred out of focus by the curtain of rain crawling down the pane. He wouldn’t look at Frost. He spoke to the glass. ‘If you must know, my wife had been ill for a very long time. We were not able to live together as husband and wife. There was a woman in Denton…’

‘Do you mean a tart?’ asked Frost, bluntly.

His back stiffened. ‘Yes, she was a prostitute. Someone must have been spying on us, hence the letters. Filthy letters. I burnt the others. This one came on the day of the funeral.’ He covered his face with his hands and his body shook. ‘The day of her funeral.’

On the way back to the car they detoured. There was the remains of an old bonfire at the end of the garden. Quite a large bonfire. Frost poked at the rain-sodden ashes with his foot. Bits of twigs, stalks and dried leaves. No burnt remains of buttons or the charred remnants of clothes stripped from a schoolgirl’s body. He added his cigarette end to the heap.

‘We’re wasting our time here,’ said Gilmore.

‘Maybe,’ muttered Frost, looking back to the house where a thin, bearded figure was watching them from the patio window. ‘But my philosophy in life is never to trust bastards with thin straggly beards.’

Burton started the engine as Frost slid into the passenger seat beside him. ‘Back to the station, Inspector?’

‘One more call, son. Let’s check with the headmaster of Bell’s school. I want to find out if there’s been any corn plaints of Hairy-chin teaching advanced anatomy to the senior girls.

‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ protested Gilmore from the back seat. ‘You’re forgetting — Mr Mullett said we should drop this case and concentrate on the stabbings.’

‘Mr Mullett says lots of stupid things, son. The kindest thing to do is ignore him.’

As Gilmore had predicted, calling on the headmaster was a waste of time. The man, stout and pompous, was outraged that such an accusation could be levelled at any member of his staff. Mr Bell had an excellent record, was highly regarded, and didn’t the inspector realize that the poor devil had recently lost his wife?

Frost felt like retorting, didn’t the headmaster know that while his wife was dying, his excellent schoolmaster was having it away with a tart in Denton? But he held his tongue and took his leave.

‘Yes, son,’ he said, before Burton could ask. ‘Back to the station.’ And they nearly made it. Another couple of minutes and they would have been in the car-park when Control called.

‘Calling all units,’ said the radio. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Selwood Road? Over.’

Before Frost could restrain him, Burton had snatched up the handset. They were a minute away from Selwood Road.

‘Eleven Selwood Road. Old-age pensioner living on her own. Neighbour reports she hasn’t been seen all day, her newspaper’s still in the letter-box and her milk is still on the step.’

The neighbour who made the phone call, a sharp-faced little busybody of a man wearing a too-big plastic mac, was hovering in the street and scurried over to the car as they pulled up. ‘Are you the police?’

‘More or less,’ grunted Frost.

‘I live next door,’ said the man, darting in front of them like an over-enthusiastic terrier as they made their way across to the house. ‘She always goes out during the day. I watch her through the window. She didn’t today. And none of her lights are on, her milk is on the doorstep. She’s an old-age pensioner, you know.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Frost, wishing the man would go away.

‘I’m an old-age pensioner too, but you’d never think it, would you?’

‘No,’ said Frost unconvincingly. ‘Never in a million years.’ The old sod looked at least eighty. They were now at the door, which was painted a vivid green.

‘Are you going to break in?’ asked the neighbour, pushing between them. ‘Only the council have just repainted these doors.’

Frost leant on the bell push.

‘No use ringing if she’s dead!’

‘Nothing good on telly?’ asked Frost pointedly, hammering at the door with the flat of his hand.

‘You could get over my garden fence if you liked,’ offered the man, ‘but she always keeps her back door locked.’

Frost moved the man out of the way so he could have a look through the letter-box.

‘You won’t see anything. Her morning paper’s stuck in there.’

Frost tugged at the paper, but it was wedged fast.

‘You won’t shift it, I’ve tried.’

Frost gave a savage yank and the newspaper came free.

‘You’ve torn it,’ reproved the man pointing to a thin corrugated tongue of paper that had caught on the side of the letter-box.

‘If she’s dead, she won’t mind,’ said Frost, peering through the flap. All he could see was solid dark. He sent Burton for the torch.

‘I’ve got a torch,’ said the neighbour, ‘but it doesn’t work.’

Burton returned from the car with the flashlight. Frost shone it through the letter-box. He caught his breath. The beam had picked out a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. A woman. And there seemed to be blood. Lots of blood.

‘Kick the door in, son… quick!’

At the second kick there was a pistol shot of splintering wood and the door crashed inwards. Frost found the light switch as they charged in. She was lying face down, her head in a pool of blood. He touched her neck. There was a pulse. She was still alive. Burton dashed back to the car to radio for an ambulance. Gilmore helped Frost turn her on her back, while the neighbour brought a blanket from the upstairs bedroom to cover her.

Her eyes fluttered, then opened. She seemed unable to focus. Frost knelt beside her. ‘What happened, love? Who did it?’ He turned his head away as the stale gin fumes hit him.

‘I fell down the bleeding stairs,’ she said.