Winter Frost

3

There were too many people packed into too small a space. The single bar electric fire screwed on the wall, the dials of its prepayment meter spinning madly, belted out its one kilowatt of heat making the room a sweat-smelling oven.

'Turn that bloody thing off before we all cook,' ordered Frost. He opened the window, but the blast of cold night air that was sucked in immediately turned the room into a fridge. He slammed it shut and looked again at the still figure off the bed.

Dr McKenzie, the police surgeon, overtired and overworked, had paid his flying visit on his way to a terminally ill patient and had officially pronounced her dead, probably within the hour. Confirming death was all he was paid to do — let Drysdale, the snotty-nosed Home Office pathologist, who was paid ten times as much for far less work, determine the cause of death. There was little love lost between Dr McKenzie and Drysdale.

It was a tiny cubicle of a room. The original rooms had been subdivided with plasterboard partitions to pack in as many short-stay tenants as possible. There was just room for the bare essentials: a single divan, a plastic-coated chipboard bedside cabinet supporting a phone, also with a prepayment meter, and a narrow simulated pine wardrobe.

Morgan, whose shamefaced, mumbled apologies had been cut short by Frost, had been sent off with a couple of uniforms to look for the runaway Hughes.

And as if there weren't enough people in the tiny room, Liz flaming Maud had put in an appearance. Frost forced a smile, but could have done without her. She smiled back, but inwardly she was seething. No-one had bothered to tell her about the murdered prostitute. She had only found out by accident when she realized everyone else was missing. She was looking after Inspector Allen's cases, one of which was Linda Roberts, the tortured and murdered prostitute. This new killing could well be by the same man, so this should be her investigation, not Frost's, and as soon as she could drag him away to have a word in private she would demand he hand it over to her. In the meantime she was full of contempt for DC Morgan. 'It's beyond belief! A key witness — probably a prime suspect — and he just lets him run off.'

Frost wasn't too concerned. 'Hughes can't get far. We've got his car and we know his address. He's probably just round the corner spewing his guts up.'

'That's not the damn point!' snapped Liz. 'The man's bloody useless.'

'He's better than nothing,' said Frost, who had suddenly found an unexpected soft spot for Morgan now that the DC had finished the long and tiresome outstanding crime statistical return for him. Let Morgan do all the paperwork and he could be as bloody inefficient as he liked.

Frost gave a grunt of annoyance as he was jostled to one side by Harding from Forensic who was chalking around some splashes of blood on the floor by the bedside cabinet. No sooner had he moved than he was jostled again as the photographer moved in to do his stuff. There were too many people in too small a space and he could have done without Liz Maud breathing down his neck.

He squeezed against the wall and again looked through the red and black plastic handbag from the bedside cabinet. It contained close on Ј300 in crumpled five and ten pound notes, a lipstick, a powder compact, and three packs of condoms. He kept diving his fingers down the various compartments hoping to find some kind of identification but there was nothing. They had no idea who the dead girl was. He shuffled past Harding and bent over the bed to stare down at the pale face. 'Who are you, love?' he asked as his eyes travelled from the blood round her swollen nose and mouth, down to the gouts and thin snail trails of blood which patterned her bare stomach and stained the white panties.

Once again he checked her hands which were just starting to feel cold to the touch. No cuts or marks which would indicate she had tried to defend herself against her attacker's knife. Her long, scarlet-painted nails were unbroken, but — her wrists showed bruising where she had been gripped tightly by her assailant. He needed the bloody knife and a team was out searching for it in rubbish bins, drains, gutters, hedges… Her killer would not want to be found with it on him, and would have dumped it at the first opportunity. Frost had also radioed through to the station asking them to give Hughes's car a thorough going-over. A bloodstained knife in the glove compartment would do wonders to narrow the field of suspects!

He looked up hopefully as Jordan and Simms came back. They had been sent knocking on doors in the building to ask if anyone had seen or heard anything, or perhaps knew the name of the dead woman. 'No joy,' reported Simms. 'Too late for most toms and the rest must have scarpered when they heard us arrive.'

'With all this activity you'll probably find most of the girls will steer clear of the place until it dies down,' added Jordan. 'They only rent these rooms by the week and they're not going to get much trade with the fuzz crawling all over the place.'

I'm sure the landlords keep meticulous records,' said Frost. 'I want names and addresses of all their tenants. We must know who this poor cow is.' His radio paged him.

'Wells calling Inspector Frost.'

'Yes?'

'That drunk — Harry Hughes. I sent a car round to the address he gave us. They've never heard of him.'

Frost hissed annoyance. 'The bastard! Get ownership details for his motor.'

'I've already checked. The registered owner sold it for cash last week… never took the buyer's name and the car hasn't been re-registered.'

'Shit!' hissed Frost. 'Let's hope we can pick him up before he makes it home.' He dropped the radio back in his pocket and revised his good opinion of Taffy bloody Morgan.

The phone on the bedside cabinet suddenly rang. No-one moved, then Harding reached out for it, but was stopped by Frost who crooked a finger to Liz. 'You answer it. You're Lolita. If it's a client, get him round here. He might know her name.'

Liz picked up the phone. 'Lolita,' she announced in what she hoped was a sexy voice. 'Yes, I'm free at the moment. Why not come over… we could take our time… Good, I'll be waiting.' She replaced the receiver and nodded. 'He's a regular. He'll be here in five minutes.'

Frost ordered all police cars to be moved from the street in case they scared the man off. They waited. Frost, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, lolled against the bedside cabinet, looking down at the dead girl on the bed. 'How old do you reckon she is?' he mused. 'Twenty — twenty-one? Three hundred quid in her handbag for one night's work and I've been slogging my guts out for three hours trying to fiddle a fiver on my car expenses. I'm in the wrong profession.'

Liz Maud, at the window, was staring down into the windswept street. The punter should have been here by now. 'I'm not sure that I fooled him.'

'You fooled him,' Frost assured her. 'After hearing that sexy voice he won't be able to get his dick out fast enough — it made me feel the same.'

She twitched a polite smile. A room with a blooded corpse on the bed wasn't the place for tasteless jokes. The street was silent and deserted. No sound of footsteps or a car. Then she stiffened. A shadow crept from around the corner. A man, walking briskly, making for the door of the flats. 'It's him!' Frost joined her at the window. 'What did I tell you… Look at the dirty sod, he's nearly running. Blimey, it's Mullett! Everyone hide!'

Only Collier took him seriously. The rest were too well versed in the inspector's dubious sense of humour to do anything but grin.

Footsteps tripping up the stairs. Liz stood by the bed, blocking the body from view. Simms and Jordan were on either side of the door, ready to grab. A tentative knock.

'Come in,' husked Liz.

The door creaked open and a man smartly dressed in a dark suit and matching overcoat bounded eagerly into the room, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Liz. 'You're not…' he began, spinning round in alarm as the door slammed shut behind him and Jordan and Simms barred the way out. 'What the hell…?'

Frost stepped forward and flashed his dog-eared warrant card. 'Police, sir. I'm afraid it's not going to be the erotic experience you were anticipating.' But the man, the blood draining from his face, wasn't listening. He was staring over Frost's shoulder. He could see the girl. 'Oh my God…!'

There was now no room to move so Frost took the man's arm to lead him outside to the landing. The man backed out, unable to tear his eyes away from the body. 'Is she…?' He couldn't bring himself to say 'dead'.

Frost nodded. I'm afraid so. How well did you know her?'

'Know her?' The man waved his hands in protest. 'I don't know her. This is all a mistake, officer. I was looking for somewhere else. I've come to the wrong place.' He tried to move to the stairs, but Frost's grip on his arm tightened almost to the point of pain.

'Don't sod us about, sir. You phoned — you're a regular. What was her name?'

'Name? They don't tell you their real name any more than I tell them mine.' He fumbled in his pocket. 'She gave me this.'

A cheaply printed business card, green ink on grey cardboard. 'Lolita for Discreet and Lingering Naughty Fun — Denton 224435.'

Frost took the card. 'Lingering naughty fun? What's that — sado-masochism?'

The man flushed brick red. 'No, it damn well isn't, just…' He fluttered his hands vaguely, '… fun.'

'The poor cow didn't have much fun tonight,' said Frost. 'Any idea who killed her?'

'Of course not,' spluttered the man. 'Why on earth are you asking me?'

'Because at the moment, sir, you're all we've got. Did she mention any punters she was worried about?'

'I didn't visit her to discuss her life history, officer. I'm sorry. I can't help you. I want to go.'

Frost's grip on his arm remained firm. 'We can't always have what we want, sir. Fill me in on some background. How did you first get to know her?'

'I happened to be driving past King Street and saw her plying for hire with the other girls. She was a new face and didn't look quite so raddled as most of the others so I thought I'd give her a go. We came back here and afterwards she gave me her card: said I should phone her the next time.'

'How many next times were there?'

'Five… six… I didn't keep count.'

Frost squeezed some life into his scar with his free hand. It was bitterly cold on the landing with the front door wide open. He gave the man his hard stare and noticed that he seemed to be avoiding his gaze. 'I think you know something you're not telling us, sir.'

'This is ridiculous. I don't know anything.'

'Tell you what, sir, let's go back to the station. If we wait long enough you might remember something important.'

'Look, officer… I can't get involved… I'm married. If my wife found out…'

Frost gave him a broad grin. 'That's a good idea, sir. What about if I drive" you home, we wake up your wife and I question you in front of her. It might jog your memory.'

The man looked both frightened and angry. 'You bastard!'

Frost beamed happily back. 'Funny — people often say that to me, sir. I don't know why. So you have something to tell me?'

'I'm not making a statement. I'm just telling you something. I was here two nights ago. As I was getting dressed the phone rang. She answered it, all sort of sexy at first, then her face went white. Whoever was phoning had frightened the shit out of her. She was shaking like a leaf. She said, "Why don't you leave me alone?" — or something like that — then banged the phone down. I asked what it was about and she said it was nothing.'

'And you've no idea who the call was from?'

'No. Please can I go now?'

There was little point in detaining him further. Frost took the man's name and address then let him go. As he bolted thankfully down the stairs and out into the street, a gleaming black Rolls-Royce pulled up outside. The Home Office pathologist, Drysdale, a thin, austere figure, in a long black overcoat, looking like an undertaker. He was followed by his female secretary, a fading blonde who was always at his elbow taking notes, seemingly unfazed by the horrors he would delve into, but nervous of the winks and leers she all too often got from that awful Inspector Frost. She remembered the time she was bending to pick something up when a finger was jabbed in her rear and a raucous voice cackled, 'How's that for centre?' She blushed at the memory of it as she scudded up the stairs behind her master. 'What have you got for me this time?' sniffed Drysdale.

'A nice warm dead tom,' Frost told him, opening the door and ushering them both into the packed hothouse of a room.

Drysdale's nose wrinkled. 'I can't work in these conditions. Get everyone outside, please.'

Frost ordered everyone, except Liz, who looked as if she intended staying put anyway, to wait outside. Drysdale, staring fixedly at the figure on the bed, removed his overcoat and, without looking, held it out and let it go in the secure knowledge that his secretary would leap forward to catch it and fold it neatly before it had a chance to hit the floor.

His initial examination was brief. He bent over, his nose almost touching the blooded stomach as he examined the knife wounds. He then transferred his attention to the face and neck. 'She was on the bed when you found her?'

Frost nodded.

'She wasn't killed on the bed. She was standing when she was stabbed.' He pointed. 'See how the blood initially flowed downwards… but then changes direction as she was laid on her back?'

Frost gave a curt nod. He had worked all this out for himself.

Drysdale took a pad of cotton wool from his bag and carefully cleaned away a small area of blood from the stomach. 'Lots of blood. The wounds are deep, but relatively superficial.' He turned his attention to the hands, examining them as Frost had done. 'No cuts that would suggest she tried to defend herself. Bruising from manual pressure on the wrists.' Lastly he lifted the head from the pillow and moved back the long, black hair, revealing extensive bruising on each side of the neck. He opened the mouth and shone a small torch inside, then nodded. 'Death caused by manual strangulation.' Behind him, the blonde secretary's pen flew over her shorthand notebook, taking down her master's findings.

'You're bang on form tonight, doc,' said Frost approvingly. 'You haven't missed a thing Dr McKenzie spotted.'

Drysdale's lips tightened. He and the lowly Dr McKenzie were sworn enemies ever since the doctor disputed, and eventually overturned, part of his evidence at a local coroner's court. 'If the good doctor spotted it, it must be screamingly obvious.' He studied the face. 'Bruising round the eye, probably the result of a blow from a fist.' He lifted the head from the pillow again and slipped his hand underneath so he could explore the back of the scalp. 'Minor contusions,' he murmured to his secretary, 'and…'he withdrew his hand and looked at his fingertips, '… a small amount of bleeding.' He looked up at Frost. 'Did the good Dr McKenzie spot that?'

'No,' said Frost, wiping the triumphant smirk from Drysdale's face by adding, 'He didn't — but I did!' He showed the pathologist some small red smudges, ringed with Harding's blue chalk on the wall above the splodge of blood on the thin carpeting. 'I reckon she was standing here. As he strangled her she jerked her head back and banged it on the wall…'

Drysdale sniffed his grudging agreement. He liked to be the one with the theories. 'Do we know her name?'

'Not yet, doc.' Frost flashed the green business card. 'You don't indulge in naughty lingering fun by any chance?'

Drysdale flushed angrily. 'No, I don't.' He snapped his fingers for his secretary to pass him a mercury thermometer and took the room temperature. A second finger snap produced a clinical thermometer which he slipped under the armpit of the dead girl. He studied the reading and did a mental calculation. 'She's been dead about an hour. Ninety minutes at the most.'

Frost nodded his agreement. 'You're probably right, doc… The bloke who was enjoying her favours about an hour ago was pretty certain she was still alive.'

Drysdale signalled his secretary that he wanted his overcoat, holding out his arms as she helped him on with it. 'I've finished for now. You can remove the body when you like. I'll perform the autopsy tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock.' He stared significantly at Frost who was always rolling up at post-mortems anything up to half an hour late. 'It would be a welcome change if you were there on time.' With a curt nod to Liz, he took his leave.

As he left, the others filed back in. The phone shrilled. Frost held up a hand for silence and again signalled for Liz to answer it. 'If it's another punter, get him in. We've got to find out who she is.'

Liz picked up the phone. 'Lolita…'As she listened, her expression changed. She frantically beckoned Frost over, holding the receiver away from her ear so he could listen in, but as he reached her the caller hung up, leaving Liz scowling at the buzz of the dialling tone. 'Damn.' She jiggled the rest so she could dial 1471.

'A punter?' asked Frost.

She shook her head. 'No. A man. He said, "That was just a taste, Lolita… next time it will be something really serious…" ' The pay phone wouldn't let her dial 1471 until she inserted a pound coin. She obtained the caller's number, then got through to the exchange for the caller's location. 'Damn,' she said again, hanging up. The call came from a public phone box in King Street.

Without much hope, Frost sent a car round in case the caller might still be there. 'And I want this line tapped and all incoming calls monitored and recorded.' Back to Liz. 'Would you recognize the voice again?'

She pursed her lips in thought. 'I might, I'm not sure. He sounded a nasty piece of work.' Now would be a good time to tell Frost she wanted to take over the case before he got too involved. 'Could I have a word — in private?'

'Sure.' They went outside to the landing, pressing against the wall as the two undertaker's men brought a black-painted coffin up the stairs for the removal of the body to the mortuary. 'What can I do for you, love?'

From inside the room came the crackle of heavy duty plastic being unfolded and then the hiss of the long zip on the body bag. Liz closed the door. 'A prostitute killed by a punter… could be the same man who killed Linda Roberts, which is one of my cases. I should be leading this investigation.'

Frost had doubts that the two cases were connected — tonight's tom hadn't been tortured — but if Liz took over, she would have to attend the crack of dawn autopsy and he could have a few hours' lie-in. 'It's yours, love,' he told her. 'I never fight for more work…'

'Mind your backs, please!' called the big, red-faced undertaker cheerfully. They moved to one side so the coffin could be man-handled down the stairs and out through the front door. As they watched, the uniformed officer on duty at the front door called up to them: 'Urgent message for Inspector Maud. Would you contact the station. Something to do with that armed robbery.'

PC Lambert in Control had taken the call. A near hysterical woman, almost incoherent, just sobbing and sobbing. He had to squeeze the details out of her drop by drop. 'Whatever the trouble we can help you, madam. Can you tell me your name?'

'My name? What does my name matter? They shot him. They stole our car. He's bleeding to death.'

'Shot? Who's been shot?' Lambert clicked his fingers urgently to gain Sergeant Wells' attention.

'My husband. There's blood everywhere.'

'Where are you?' He signalled for Wells to listen in on the other earpiece.

'They shot him… They stole our car…' She again broke down into uncontrollable sobbing.

Lambert tried to calm her. 'We can help you, madam, but we must know where you are.'

'The public call box… corner of Forest Road…'

'Is that where your husband is?'

'No — but I can take you to him.'

Wells put down the earpiece and dialled for an ambulance.

'Wait there, madam,' said Lambert. 'Don't leave the phone box… an ambulance is on its way.' He hung up and radioed the message to Liz Maud.

As Detective Inspector Maud drove towards Demon Woods, an area car, siren blaring, roared past in the opposite direction clearing the way for a following ambulance which had already picked up the victim and his wife. She swore softly. If she hadn't seen them she would have wasted precious time searching for them in the woods. She squealed the car into a tight U turn and tagged on behind the area car. Damn, damn, damn… She had played this all wrong. She should have asked Frost to take over the armed robbery so she could concentrate on the murder case. She'd put this in hand as soon as she got back to the station.

The grim shape of the Victorian Denton General Hospital loomed up ahead and the ambulance turned off down an 'Ambulances Only' lane, while the area car, Liz following closely, drove to a parking area near the main entrance. She skidded to a stop behind them and confronted them, eyes blazing, before they had a chance to get out of their car. 'Next time you damn well let me know you've left the scene with the victim,' she snapped.

The two men, PCs Baker and Howe, looked at each other in puzzlement. 'We told the station,' said Howe. 'Sergeant Wells said he would let you know.'

Wells! Bloody Wells, up to his tricks again. Her radio buzzed. This would be him, belatedly passing on the message, hoping that by now she was floundering in the woods. 'Yes?' she snapped.

'Acting Inspector Maud-' began Wells.

She cut him short. 'Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant, but it didn't work.' She clicked off, still seething. 'They'll be in Casualty,' Howe told her, leading the way down the long echoing corridor.

'Fill me in,' she said.

'Mr and Mrs Redwood — both in their seventies. They were driving back from a friend's house and as they went through Forest Lane they saw a man lying at the side of the road, another man bending over him waving to flag them down. They stopped, thinking the man was injured. Redwood switched off the engine and got out. The next thing he knew there's a shotgun stuck up his nose and they were demanding his car keys. Like a silly sod, Redwood makes a run for it, so this bloke calmly shoots him in the legs, grabs the keys, turfs out the old dear and they both drive off leaving the old boy bleeding and the old girl screaming.'

'Was this before or after the armed robbery?' asked Liz.

'Before. They nicked the car to do the job.'

Liz frowned. 'Why nick it? What happened to their own car?'

Howe shrugged. 'No idea. Perhaps it broke down.' 'Then it's got to be in the woods, somewhere near where they ambushed the couple… Did you look?'

'No — our main concern was getting the old boy to the hospital.'

'Well, he's here now… Get back there and look. I'll take over here.'

They turned back to the main entrance as she followed the signs to 'Accident and Emergency' where, even at that late hour, there were several people, some the obvious victims of pub fights, waiting for attention. She drought she recognized a couple of them from the coachload of drunken football supporters at the station earlier.

"They've taken Mr Redwood straight up to the theatre,' the staff nurse told her. 'That's his wife over there.' She nodded towards an elderly woman in a thick grey woollen coat who was strangling a handkerchief to death with gloved hands. The old lady looked up anxiously as Liz went over, thinking it might be the nurse with news of her husband, Liz sat on the bench beside her.

'Can you tell me what happened?' The story came out a few disjointed words at a time. She had little to add to what she had already told the two policemen. 'They shot him — in cold blood — they shot him…'

Liz nodded in sympathy. 'Can you describe them?'

'It all happened so quickly… They were medium height… in their mid-twenties, I think… dark clothes… zip-up jackets. The one with the gun had this black ski mask thing hiding his face and the other one wore a blue baseball cap, the peak pulled down. He had a wispy beard, and he wore an ear-ring, a silver stud thing in his right car. When the other one shot my husband, he laughed, he thought it was a great joke.'

'When they spoke, what did they sound like?'

'Just ordinary. I think they were local… they didn't say much, just "Give us the keys." '

Liz persisted with her questioning, but got little more from the woman except that she doubted if she would recognize cither of them again. A tired-looking doctor, making a great effort to stifle his yawns, approached them. 'We've sent your husband up to Nightingale Ward for the night, Mrs Redwood. His injuries are minor, but he's in a state of shock. Hopefully he can go home tomorrow.'

'His leg?'

'We've got all the pellets out and cleaned him up. No permanent damage.' He pointed to the staff nurse. 'The nurse will take you to the ward.'

'Is he in a fit state to answer questions?' asked Liz.

The doctor shook his head. 'He's still groggy from the anaesthetic… Best wait until the morning.'

She smiled her thanks. This suited her. She wanted to get back to the more important murder inquiry. Frost could take over the questioning of Redwood in the morning. She radioed the description of the two men to Control, then made her way back to her car. She was almost at the exit doors when a red-faced and panting young nurse caught up with her. 'Inspector. The old gentleman who was shot in the petrol station. He wants to speak to you. Says it's important.'

Damn and double damn. Liz hesitated, trying to think of a reason to get out of seeing him. The longer she delayed getting back to the murder investigation, the more Frost would be getting his heels dug in too far to give it up. This was her case. A successful murder inquiry would give her chance of promotion the boost it needed.

'Inspector…?' said the nurse, waiting for her reply.

Liz sighed and forced a smile. 'Would you take me to him, please.'

With the body and Liz Maud out of the way they were able to move furniture about and give the room a thorough search. This produced two major finds. A bloodstained flick-knife was found under the divan bed, probably kicked there during the struggle. 'Get it checked for prints,' said Frost, who then remembered the green business card in his pocket. He passed it over to Detective Sergeant Hanlon. 'If we haven't found out who the poor cow is by the morning, Arthur, show this to the local print shops. They might come up with a name.'

Hanlon wasn't too sure. 'You can run these off on a home computer now, Jack. She probably printed it herself.'

'Try anyway,' said Frost.

And then Simms, who was dragging the wardrobe away from the wall, yelled with excitement. 'Something here, Inspector.' Wedged between the wardrobe and the wall was a wallet. Frost took it carefully by the edges and picked through the contents. Banknotes to the value of some Ј400, credit cards and credit card receipts and a diary full of telephone numbers. Frost beamed. 'Our drunken friend's missing wallet,' he announced. 'And he told us a porky about his name… it's Gladstone… Robert Gladstone and he lives in Denton.' He radioed for Morgan to go and pick him up.

One of the search parties radioed in to report they had had no luck in finding the missing knife. 'Ah!' said Frost. 'Might be a good idea to let them know we've already found it.' There was little more he could do on the spot, so he left them to get on with it and drove back to the station.

Gladstone, now sobered up, looked uneasily at Frost. He was wearing a white, one-piece overall provided for him while his own clothes were away for forensic examination. 'Look… I don't want to get involved in this. You've got no right-'

'Shut up!' said Frost cheerfully, dropping into the chair opposite and sticking a cigarette into his mouth. 'Do you want to confess now, or shall we waste time beating you up and claiming you fell down the stairs while drunk?'

Gladstone stared warily at Frost, not certain whether to take this seriously or not. 'I don't have to put up with this. I'm the victim here.'

Frost dragged the cigarette from his mouth, eyes opened wide in mock amazement. 'You're the victim? I thought the poor cow on the bed was the victim!' He nodded for Morgan to start up the tape machine to record the interview.

'I came to you to report a crime.'

'You reported the wrong one, though, didn't you? I suppose it slipped your mind to tell us you'd killed her.'

'Killed her! That's bloody stupid. If I killed her, why did I take that dozy Welsh cop back to her place?'

'You killed her, then you panicked and drove off, then you realized she'd nicked your wallet… You didn't have the guts to go back in case you were spotted, or in case some other punter had already found the body and called the police.'

'That's bloody ridiculous!'

'If we found a body and your wallet, we wouldn't have wasted time looking for anyone else to pin it on, would we? You know how we like to jump to conclusions.'

'You're jumping to conclusions now. I told you what happened.'

'Then tell me again. It might sound less like a pack of lies the second time round.' Frost dribbled smoke which rolled across the table between them like a creeping barrage and put on his look of absolute disbelief as the man told his story.

'I'm driving down King Street eyeing the talent when I spots this one, leaning against the phone box. I hadn't seen her before and I fancied a bit of fresh meat so I beckons her over. I said, "How much?" she says, "Forty quid" and I said, "You'd better be bleeding good for that, love," and she answers, "Try me." She hops in my motor car and directs me to her place. I thought I was on to a winner. She was doing all her stuff, squeezing the old thigh and what-not in the car, but as soon as I pulled up outside her gaff, she seemed to change.'

'How do you mean?

He shrugged. 'It was as if something had upset her. She just lost interest in me.'

'Perhaps she'd just felt the size of your dick?' suggested Frost.

'Bloody funny! Anyway, I follow her up the stairs, she strips off and we gets down to it.'

'And…?'

'She was rubbish — just lay there like a bleeding wet fish studying the cracks in the ceiling.'

'And you complained?'

'You bet I did. I told her she was crap and if I paid her what she was worth she'd get sod all. I offered twenty which was bleeding generous. She told me to stick it up my arse and pay the agreed price.'

'Just love talk, then. Was that when you knifed her?'

Gladstone glared at Frost. 'I only stuck one thing in her and it wasn't a bleeding knife.'

A tentative tap at the door. Wearily, Frost pushed himself up. No-one would interrupt the questioning of a murder suspect unless it was important. He opened the door. Bill Wells beckoned him outside. 'Forensic have matched the prints on the knife, Jack. They're the tom's… no other prints.'

'Shit!' He scratched his chin in thought. 'Her prints… which means it was probably her knife. She must have cut herself in the struggle. Has the lab checked for blood on Gladstone's clothes yet?'

'They're still working on it. I'll let you know as soon as I hear. Oh, and Mr Mullett wants to see you.'

'Bloody hell! I thought the sod had gone home. What did he say about his motor?'

'Nothing I could repeat.'

Frost nodded and returned to the interview room. 'Right… so she came at you with a knife… then what?'

'Knife? Of course she didn't come at me with a knife. She came at me with her bleeding long fingernails. I didn't mind them digging in my back, but when she tried to scratch me eyes out…'

'Was that when you strangled her?'

'Strangled her? I never touched her!'

Frost leant across the table. 'Show me your hands.'

Frowning, Gladstone put his hands, palms upwards, on the table. Frost turned the right hand over and tapped the knuckles. They were grazed with a dribble of blood and slightly swollen. 'You punched her… she had a black eye. Don't bother denying it, we can get Forensic to match skin samples.'

'All right, so I hit her — once — and in self-defence… I didn't want my eyeballs stuck on the ends of her painted bleeding fingernails. I finished getting dressed and got the hell out of there.'

'Slow down,' urged Frost. 'You've missed out the bit about wrapping your hands round her neck and squeezing the life out of the poor cow.'

'The poor cow was alive, well and effing and blinding as I left. I drove off, realized the bitch had nicked my wallet, so… back I go…'

'Is this when you strangled her?'

'How many more bleeding times… I didn't even get back in… The cow had locked the door on me.'

'The door wasn't locked when I took you back there,' said Morgan.

'Of course it wasn't, you Welsh twit — she had to open it to let the killer in… unless he was already in there. Come to think of it, I did hear a man's voice.'

'And you've only just remembered it,' cut in Frost. 'Do me a bloody favour!'

Gladstone leant back in the chair and folded his arms defiantly. 'All right. If you're not going to believe anything I say, I'm not saying another word. I want a solicitor.'

'Your prerogative,' said Frost. He watched Gladstone being led back to a cell, then yawned and stretched his arms wearily. He wondered if there would be time to watch the videoed fight in the rest room before the duty solicitor arrived and he wished Liz Maud would hurry back so she could take over this case.

'You won't forget Mr Mullett wants to see you,' reminded Morgan.

'It's one treat after another,' said Frost, pushing himself up, but before he could do so, Bill Wells came in. 'Good news, Jack.'

'Mullett's gone home?'

'Not quite as good as that. Forensic phoned. Traces of blood on Gladstone's jacket which match the blood from the knife wound.'

Frost expelled a stream of cigarette smoke in a happy sigh of relief. 'We've got him then. That's the clincher we need. He can lie and deny it as much as he flaming well likes, but there's only one way he could have got her blood on his jacket…' His voice tailed off as he became aware that Morgan was wriggling uncomfortably in the chair next to him. 'What's the matter, Taffy — do you want to do a wee?'

'No, guv…' He was squeezing his hands and staring at the ground in embarrassment, hoping Bill Wells would leave. 'Something I should have mentioned earlier,' he mumbled.

Sensing something tasty, Bill Wells kicked the door shut and leaned forward with interest.

'Go ahead, Taff,' urged Frost. 'We're all friends here. What have you done — had it off with Mrs Mullett?'

'Nothing like that, guv. It's about Gladstone. When I took him back to the flat…'

'Yes?' prompted Frost.

'When I went back to the flat with him, he was up the stairs and in the room before I could stop him. By the time I got there he was shaking her and demanding to know where his wallet was.'

Frost's jaw sagged. 'Are you telling me you let him touch the body?'

'To be fair, guv, I didn't know there was going to be a body.'

'So any blood on his jacket could well have got there then?'

Morgan nodded miserably. 'I thought I'd better mention it.'

'Flaming heck,' said Wells, dropping into the vacant chair. 'I've heard some stupid things in my time-'

'Yes,' cut in Frost, 'mainly about me. Your phone's ringing, Bill.'

Wells strained his ears. 'I can't hear it.'

'Whether it's ringing or not — go and answer it!'

Reluctantly, Wells left, taking his time, hoping to hear more, but Frost waited patiently until the sergeant was out of earshot.

'A bit of a balls-up, Taff, to put it mildly?'

Morgan nodded his dejected agreement.

'We all make balls-ups, son. I've been known to make the odd one myself, but when it's a murder inquiry you don't keep it a bloody secret.'

'I know, guv… I'm sorry, guv…'

The DC was the picture of misery. No point in nagging him any more, the damage was done. Frost chewed at his knuckles, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. 'The thing is this, Taff. Are we dealing with a clever bastard who deliberately got in there first so there would be a reason for the blood on his jacket? He doesn't strike me as that clever, but you never can tell by appearances. Mullett doesn't look a complete twat, but he is.' He stared up at the ceiling. 'I think we've got to let him go.'

'Let him go?' echoed Morgan.

'We've got nothing to hold him on. When his solicitor turns up he'll tear our case to shreds.'

'I'm sorry guv. It's all my fault.'

'No. In a way, you've helped, Taffy. You've made me look at it from another angle. If he was that bloody clever, why would he run away? Why would he give us a fake name and address?' He stood up. 'I don't think he did it. We let him go. We can always pull him in again if we're hard up for another suspect.' He yawned. 'What a bleeding night; false gen about the missing kid, the pillow burglar strikes again, an armed robbery and a dead tom. If it wasn't for Mullett's car being smashed it would be a complete wash-out.' He snapped his fingers. 'Mullett! Let's see what he wants.'

Mullett was in the car-park examining what those drunken hooligans had done to his Rover. The wing was crumpled, the rear light smashed. It was in no state to be driven to County tomorrow. He'd be a laughing stock. He would have to borrow his wife's Honda. Ah, at last! Frost shuffling out of the station and coming over to him. The same scruffy mac, that same tired scarf. Hadn't the man anything else to wear? But that wasn't the main thing on his mind. He wanted to find out about the prostitute killing. He had the awful thought the victim could have been the harridan who approached him when he was stopped at the traffic lights. There weren't many blue Rovers in Denton. What if someone had seen her approach him? Headlines about kerb-crawling top policeman kept flashing in his mind.

'Nasty,' said Frost, nodding at the damage.

'Yes,' agreed Mullett through clenched teeth. That stupid Sergeant Wells. He was commanding a Division of incompetents.

'It must be hard to say no to a drink at these County meetings,' muttered Frost, bending to take a closer look himself. 'Your best bet is to say it was parked and some drunken sod ran into it.'

'That's exactly what did happen,' snapped Mullett.

'Good for you!' nodded Frost approvingly. 'I almost believe you myself and I can always see through a lie.' He straightened up, fingering the car expenses form in his pocket, anxious to gauge the opportune time to present it to Mullett for his signature. 'You wanted to see me, Super?'

'Ah… yes.' Mullett tried to sound disinterested. 'This prostitute killing. Was she young… old…?'

'Early twenties,' said Frost. 'Dark-haired, medium height. Why — do you think you know her? We're trying to trace her regulars.'

'No, no…' said Mullett hastily, relieved that she didn't sound at all like the same one. 'Of course I don't know her. I want this case cleared up quickly, Frost. We now have a second dead prostitute. We don't want panic because there's a serial killer on the loose.'

'We don't know it's the same bloke,' said Frost. 'The victims are toms but there seems no other connection.'

'I understand you've handed the case over to Acting Inspector Maud? You didn't think of clearing it with me first?'

'I didn't believe it necessary. The first dead tom was investigated by Inspector Allen and she's taken over from him.'

Mullett waved a dismissive hand. 'I know all about that, but we're talking serial murder. What are they going to say at County tomorrow when they learn that a woman — I mean an acting inspector is in charge of such an important case? No. I want you to take it over.'

'She can handle it,' insisted Frost.

'Allow me to be the judge of that,' snapped Mullett. 'She's an inexperienced woman officer.'

'Who's got to gain experience.'

'But not at our expense, Frost. If this blows up in our face it will be my head on the chopping block. She can work under you if you like, but you are in charge.'

Frost looked up as a grey Nissan bumped its way into the car-park. 'There she is, Super. Shall I call her over so you can tell her yourself?'

'No,' said Mullett hastily. 'Better if it comes from you. It will underline that you're in charge…' He tugged open the door of his Rover. 'Got to go… early start tomorrow.'

'Hold it, Super.' Frost grabbed the car door, preventing it from closing. 'Before you go, would you OK my car expenses?'

Mullett stared in annoyance at the claim form with its wad of scruffy petrol receipts attached. For some reason Frost never seemed to patronize petrol stations who provided a printed receipt. He fingered through them doubtfully.

'Got a minute, Liz?' called Frost, beckoning her over. Mullett snatched the pen from Frost's hand and scribbled his signature. 'Keep me posted,' he muttered as he slammed the car door and drove off.

She took the news badly, staring tight-lipped at Frost as if it was all his fault. 'I presume you'll be covering the post-mortem tomorrow then?' she asked icily, before spinning on her heel and marching to her office.

'Unless you'd like-' said Frost, his sentence cut off as the doors slammed behind her. 'I'll take that as a no,' he muttered. Shit. What a lousy bloody night. He looked at his watch. 3.15 in the morning. In five hours he would be watching Drysdale slice the dead tom up. But sod it. That was tomorrow. Mullett had gone. He had the station to himself. Nothing he could do about the dead tom until the morning. An Indian takeaway, a handful of Mullett's fags from the hospitality box and the recording of the big fight on the telly in the rest room. Things could be worse.

I'm sorry, guv,' mumbled Morgan. 'I'm truly sorry. I don't know how it happened.'

'It happened, you Welsh nit,' snarled Frost, 'because you recorded the wrong flaming channel. We're all sitting there like a load of prats, expecting the big fight, and what are we watching? The flaming singing nuns in The Sound of bloody Music.'

'Sorry, guv,' said Morgan again.

'Sorry, guv! That's your catch phrase. I can forgive you letting that drunk maul the corpse last night, but sodding up the recording of the big fight…'

Morgan hung his head in shame.

'Chance to redeem yourself. Go and get me a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich and bring it to the murder incident room. If you turn up with cocoa and a fairy cake, you're sacked.' Frost yawned. He'd had a rotten night. After the fiasco of the big fight video, he'd staggered off to bed just after four, but sleep had stubbornly eluded him. He just lay there, smoking, sucking hard on the cigarette from time to time so he could check the crawl of time on his wrist-watch in its red glow. When he finally drifted off to sleep he had dreams of the autopsy, but the body being hacked about by Drysdale was not the prostitute; it was Vicky Stuart, the little girl with the gap in her teeth, who suddenly sat up from the autopsy table and screamed, waking him in a cold sweat. And just as he was drifting off again, the flaming alarm clock shook him awake at 7.45, just in time to tumble out of bed, splash his face with water, a quick shave, then off to the mortuary to watch Drysdale slice open the unknown tom on an empty stomach.

Drysdale, methodical, waspish and impassive, was able to tell him little he didn't know already. Death due to manual strangulation and the stab wound probably self-inflicted as her attacker tried to wrest the knife from her.

Frost was puzzled that there were no traces of the assailant's skin under the long, unbroken fingernails. 'Surely she would have tried to scratch the bastard's eyes out, doc?'

Drysdale lifted the head and indicated the swellings at the back of the skull. 'Her head was banged several times against the wall with considerable force. This could have caused concussion at which point she would have been incapable of defending herself.' He pointed to the livid yellow patch near the left eye. 'She was punched.'

'We've got the bloke who gave her the black eyes, doc, but we don't think he was her killer.' His stomach rumbled noisily. 'I need to get some stomach contents myself, doc… a bacon sandwich — so unless there's anything else you can tell me?'

There was nothing else. 'A name would be a convenience,' said Drysdale.

'As soon as we find out who she is, you'll be the first to know,' Frost assured him. Flaming hell. Bad enough it was a murder inquiry without having to waste manpower trying to find the victim's name.

'Did you see the big fight on the telly last night?' the mortuary attendant asked as he made his way out.

'No, I bleeding well didn't!' snapped Frost.