down to his bowels. The alleged rapist, spluttering with indignation, was Desmond Thorley from the converted railway carriage. “I demand an explanation, Mr. Frost. This is an outrage.”
“I’m as outraged as you are, Desmond,” said Frost, sinking wearily into a chair. “We’ve both been dragged here on false pretences.” He searched his pockets for a cigarette, then remembered he was out. Behind him, Burton and Collier were exchanging puzzled glances, wondering where they had gone wrong. “You pillocks,” he told them, feeling dead tired. “The Demon rapist rapes women. Desmond wouldn’t know what to do with a bloody woman if she came into his bedroom stark naked.”
Desmond shuddered. “What a repulsive thought.”
“But he was carrying the mac,” insisted Burton. “There’s blood on it.”
He opened it out to display the stains.
Jack Frost took the garment and examined it.” It’s blood all right,” he agreed. He folded it carefuly and placed it on the table. “So what’s the answer, Desmond? Are you our rapist? Are you AC/DC? Does your plug fit all sockets?”
Thorley’s faced flushed at the insult. “The very idea!”
Again Frost searched his pockets for a cigarette. Infuriatingly Desmond had none and neither Burton nor Collier smoked. A mental picture of the silver box in Mullett’s office swam before him like the mirage of an oasis to a thirst-crazed man in the desert. He excused himself, sneaked into the Commander’s office, found a key on his bunch that would unlock the desk drawer, and liberally helped himself from the Divisional Commander’s special stock.
He returned to the interview room, puffing happily. “Right,” he said, diffusing expensive Three Castles smoke, ‘let’s get down to business.” He pointed to the mac. “Where did you get this, Desmond?”
“The man dropped it. If that thug of a policeman had asked, I’d have told him. But no, he hurls himself at me, frog-marches me to a dirty old van, and when I try to protest, he yells at me to shut up.”
“He’s a courtesy cop,” explained Frost, letting the smoke trickle slowly from his lungs. “Who dropped it?”
“I don’t know. He bashed into me nearly knocked me over.”
“Start from the beginning,” said Frost.
“Might I have a cigarette?”
Frost puffed across a steam of smoke so Desmond could savour its quality second-hand. “These are really too good for you, Desmond, but tell me about tonight, and if you don’t leave anything out, you might get one.”
“Well,” said Desmond, clasping his hands together,
“I was out on my little nocturnal expedition, looking for courting couples, when I noticed this great big car parked very suspiciously. It was bouncing up and down on its springs and the most peculiar noises were coming from inside. I tiptoed over and peeped through the back window, and what do you think I saw?”
“A disgustingly naked lady underneath a plump little man in red socks?” offered Frost.
Desmond’s eyebrows soared in admiration. “Who’s a clever boy then? Anyway, while I was peeping, the man looks up from his endeavours and shakes his fist at me.”
“You sure it was his fist he shook?” murmured Frost.
“Anyway, I beat a hasty retreat. Good job I did, because a short while later there’s crashing and yelling and police whistles. I thought they might be after me, so I took one of my little shortcuts. Then this man suddenly looms up out of nowhere, carrying something bundled under his arm. He barges into me and sends me flying. When I pick myself up, there’s no sign of him, but the mac is lying on the ground. I picked it up, intending to hand it in at the police station …”
“I bet you were,” scoffed Frost.
“When,” continued Desmond, ‘this oaf of a policeman hurls himself at me. That is every word the gospel truth.”
Frost chucked him a Three Castles and lit it for him, then prodded the mac. “Nothing in the pockets, I suppose?” he asked Burton.
Burton looked embarrassed. “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t look.”
“Well, look now,” said Frost.
Picking up the mac, Burton went through the pockets. The left-hand pocket was empty, but in the other, something he first thought was the bottom of a pocket turned out to be a crumpled plastic bag. He pulled it out and, as he did so, he felt something else. Something the bag had wedged tight in the depths. A key. An old, worn Yale- type key. Not an original, but a copy, with no identification number.
Collier was sent for some fingerprint powder just in case the rapist had forgotten to wipe it clean. He hadn’t!
The screwed-up plastic bag was straightened out. Two holes had been cut from it. The inspector pulled it over Collier’s head. The holes matched his eyes. They had found the “Hooded Terror’s’ famous mask. Originally a waste-bin liner, it didn’t look at all impressive.
Frost turned his attention to the key. He placed it in the centre of the table and stared at it.
“It could be the key to the rapist’s house,” suggested Collier.
“Yes,” agreed Frost. “All we’ve got to do is try it in every front door in the county. If it fits, we’ve got him.”
“Rather like Cinderella’s slipper,” said Desmond.
“Trust you to think of fairy stories,” said Frost, dropping the key into his pocket. “I’ll try it in Mullett’s front door tomorrow. You never know your luck.” He rose from the chair, all the tiredness and depression coming back.
“Can I go now?” asked Thorley.
“Take his statement, then chuck him out,” said Frost. “And get that mac over to Forensic’
He left the interview room and drooped across the lobby, shoulders down, his scarf dragging behind him.
“You all right, Jack?” asked Wells. “You don’t look too good.”
“Just tired,” Frost told him. “I need some kip.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got to see Mr. Mullett at nine o’clock sharp.”
“I won’t,” said Frost, stepping out into the cold, dark, friendless night.
Friday day shift
He took the key from the black plastic mac and tried it in the lock. It slid in easily. He turned it. The lock clicked and the door swung open on to a long, narrow passage. At the end of the passage was a woman, young, stark naked, her arms wide open, warm, welcoming. He ran to her, but there was Mullett barring his path. An angry, snarling Mullett.
Frost woke with a jolt and opened his eyes to blazing sunlight. Sunlight? He sat up in bed and snatched up the alarm clock, staring in disbelief at what it was telling him. 11.30 a.m. It couldn’t be! The alarm was supposed to have woken him at seven. He had an interview with Mullett at nine. He tested the winding key. It was fully extended. Either he had forgotten to wind it last night or it had rung itself to exhaustion and he had slept right through it. Damn.
Swinging his bare feet to the floor, he screwed shut his eyes against the harsh probing jab of the morning sunshine. Who wanted sunshine on a day like this? If he was going to get a bollocking, let it pee with rain.
He broke all speed records dragging on his clothes, which were in a heap on the floor. Then he stopped, sat on the bed, and lit up one of
Mullett’s cigarettes. What the hell? There was no point hurrying. If he skipped a shave, skipped breakfast, and roared nonstop to the station he would still be nearly three hours late.
So why not be four hours late? A leisurely wash and shave, followed by a fry-up and plenty of time to try and think up some novel excuse, some heart-rending sob story that would stop Hornrim Harry stone cold in his tracks.
Whistling happily, he bounced down the stairs, scooping up two letters from the mat, and taking them into the kitchen. The first was a statement of account from Bennington’s Bank. He wasn’t ready yet for more bad news, so he tossed it, unopened, into the kitchen bin. The second envelope was a mystery with handwriting he didn’t recognize. Propping it against the bread bin, he filled the electric kettle and switched it on. Two dubious-looking rashers of bacon sweated and cowered in the corner of the fridge. He took them out, sniffed them, and decided to chance it.
