Five o’clock. Cold, raining steadily and still dark.
Tuesday morning shift (1)
They got back to the station at 5.15. A less than happy Sergeant Bill Wells was still on duty wearing his greatcoat against the cold of the unheated lobby.
‘Still here?’ asked Frost.
‘Yes, still bloody here. But I’m going home at six on the dot whether anyone relieves me or not. I’ve had it up to here.’ His hand indicated a point well above his head. He spun round to Gilmore. ‘And I’ve got enough to do without keeping on answering calls from your bloody wife demanding to know when you’re coming home.’
‘When did she phone?’ Gilmore asked.
‘Do you mean the first time, the second or the third? The last one was ten minutes ago.’
Gilmore hurried off to the office to use the phone and Wells accepted a cigarette from Frost. ‘She sounded well sozzled, Jack,’ he confided. ‘You could smell the gin over the phone.’
‘They’ve not been married long,’ said Frost. ‘She’s suffering from night starvation.’
‘Tough!’ grunted Wells, pulling his phone log over. ‘Couple of messages for you. Jill Knight phoned from the hospital. The old lady is still in intensive care. Doubtful if she’ll regain consciousness. And Arthur Hanlon says one of the neighbours spotted a blue van parked at the back of Clarendon Street just before midnight.’
‘Clues are pouring in thick and fast,’ said Frost, trotting off down the corridor.
In the office Gilmore was making apologetic noises down the phone. ‘I know, love… I’m sorry. What time will I be back?’ He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and looked enquiringly at Frost.
‘Let’s pack it in now,’ said Frost. ‘Grab a few hours sleep and be back about twelve.’
Gilmore nodded his thanks and assured Liz, cross his heart, he’d be with her in fifteen minutes.
On the way out Frost pushed open the door to the Murder Incident Room. Burton was slumped by the phone, half asleep. Frost gave him a shake. ‘Come on, son. I’ll take you home.’
Burton smothered a yawn. ‘I’ve located the firm that did the work at the cemetery, but I won’t be able to get the plumber’s name and address until their offices open at nine.’
‘That’s what I want,’ mused Frost. ‘A nine to five job, an expense account with no limit and a sexy secretary with no knickers.’ He sighed at the impossibility of his dream. ‘Leave a note for your relief to follow it through. Let’s go home.’
The Cortina was juddering down Catherine Street, Gilmore fighting sleep at the wheel, Frost slumped with his eyes half closed at his side and Burton yawning in the back seat. They passed a row of shops; one, a newsagent’s, had its lights gleaming. Burton in the back seat stirred and peered through the car window. ‘That’s where Paula Bartlett worked.’
‘Pull up,’ yelled Frost. Gilmore steered the car into the kerb. The name over the shop read G. F. Rickman, Newsagent. ‘Let’s chat him up,’ said Frost. With a searing scowl at Burton for not keeping his big mouth shut, Gilmore clambered out after him.
George Rickman, plump and balding, was deeply engrossed in a study of the Page Three nude in The Sun. On the floor in front of the counter, stacked in neat piles, were the newspapers he had sorted and marked ready for the kids to take out on their rounds. The shop bell tinkled to announce a customer, old Harry Edwards from round the corner for his Daily Mirror and some fifty pence pieces for the gas. While he was serving Harry, the bell sounded again and two men he hadn’t seen before came in: one, in his early twenties, looking tired and irritable; the other, older, wearing a crumpled mac. They hovered furtively by the door, obviously waiting for the shop to empty before they approached. Rickman smirked to himself. Dirty sods. He knew what they were after.
Harry shuffled out and the two men sidled across. Warning them to wait with a movement of his hand, Rickman darted over to the shop door and squinted through the glass to make sure no-one else was coming, then lowered his voice. ‘Who sent you — Les?’
‘Yes,’ replied Frost, equally conspiratorial, wondering what the hell this was all about.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Rickman, unlocking a door behind the counter. He ushered them through. ‘Some of this stuff’s dynamite.’ He clicked on the light. The room was full of shelved books and magazines with lurid covers of naked, sweating, entwined men and women. In boxes on a table were stacks of soft porn videos.
‘Les said you had something special,’ suggested Frost, signalling to Gilmore, who was fumbling for his war rant card, to hold his horses.
Rickman leered and tapped the side of his nose knowingly. He unlocked a cupboard. More videos, this time in plain white boxes with typed labels.
‘There’s everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘All tastes catered for — men with men, women with women, with kids, animals… any permutation you want. Fifty quid a time — return it undamaged and I’ll allow you twenty-five quid off your next purchase.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve got that much money on me,’ said Frost, reaching for his inside pocket.
‘I take Access… American Express… any card you like.’
‘What about this one?’ asked Frost.
Rickman stared at a warrant card. His jaw dropped. ‘Shit!’ he said.
A ring from the shop bell and a boy’s voice called, ‘Papers ready, Mr Rickman?’
‘By the counter. Take them and go.’ He waited until the bell signalled the boy’s departure. ‘Look, officer. I’m sure we can come to some understanding.’ He brought out his wallet and pulled out two?50 notes.
‘Give the gentleman a receipt for a?100 bribe,’ said Frost, holding out his hand for the money. ‘I’ll read you the numbers.’
Hastily, Rickman stuffed the banknotes in his pocket. ‘You misunderstand me, Inspector.’
‘I hope I do,’ replied Frost. ‘You’re in enough bloody trouble as it is.’ He read some of the labels on the videos and shuddered. They were very explicit.
Rickman fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed sweat from his face. ‘I don’t usually indulge in this sort of stuff. Harmless soft porn, yes, but not the hard stuff. I met this bloke in a pub…’
Frost cut him short. ‘Save your fairy tales for the officer down the station.’ He sent Gilmore to the car to radio for someone to collect Rickman and the books and videos.
‘You try and do people a good turn and this happens,’ moaned Rickman. ‘What bastard shopped me?’
‘We’ve been watching this shop for months,’ lied Frost. He had taken an instant dislike to the podgy newsagent. Some of the videos involved schoolgirls. He wondered if Paula Bartlett was tied in with this in some way. He stared at the fidgeting Rickman and slowly lit a cigarette. ‘We’ve found her, you know.’
‘Found who?’
‘Paula.’
‘Paula Bartlett… my news girl?’
Frost nodded.
‘Is she…‘ He steeled himself to say it. ‘Is she dead?’
Another nod.
‘Oh, that’s terrible.’ His face was screwed tight in anguish.
‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘And you should see what the bastard did to her. It would make a good video for you to sell.”
The shop bell tinkled again as Gilmore returned. He’d also asked Bill Wells to phone his wife and say he would be late, but had got short shrift from the sergeant.
Frost sat on the corner of the ice-cream cabinet. ‘Tell me about Paula.’
‘A really nice, sweet kid,’ said Rickman.
‘They’re always nice when they’re dead,’ said Frost. ‘Tell me what she was like while she was still alive.’
Rickman shrugged. ‘She was a nothing. A dull kid. A bit of a pudding. Never laughed. Hardly ever spoke. Did her work. That was all.’
Again the shop bell quivered and rung and an old woman shuffled in. ‘We’re closed,’ said Frost, taking her by the arm and steering her out into the street. He reversed the Open/Closed sign and rammed home the bolts.
