silly cow and went back to his own house. She kept ranting on about it not being in the same place she’d left it.’
‘The poor bitch was right,’ said Frost. ‘There’s no sign of forcible entry, all doors and windows are internally secured. The killer must have let himself in through the front door. He was already in the house.’
Gilmore grunted begrudgingly. He couldn’t fault the inspector’s logic.
‘Right,’ continued Frost. ‘He got in after she went off to the graveyard at three. He wouldn’t have hung about after slicing her up, so we can assume he left fairly soon after five. Knock on more doors. People usually go deaf and blind when there’s been a crime but someone must have seen or heard something. And ask if it was general knowledge that she secretly kept a spare key under the mat.’
‘Right,’ said Burton, swaying slightly.
The poor sod’s dead on his feet, thought Frost. ‘I’ve got some more men coming soon, Burton. You can go home when they arrive.’
The detective constable shook his head. ‘I can hold on for a while, sir.’
Stifling a yawn, Frost wished there was someone to tell him to go home. He wouldn’t refuse. He turned his attention to Gilmore who was waiting to speak.
‘I’ve checked her purse,’ Gilmore told him. ‘Empty except for a membership card for All Saints Church Senior Citizens’ Club and a hospital appointment card. Nothing else in the house appears to be disturbed or taken.’
‘A few quid,’ said Frost. ‘I can’t believe the bastard ripped her up for the few quid in her purse.’ He let his gaze wander around the bedroom, which smelt stalely of blood and lavender furniture polish. He lit a cigarette and added the smell of tobacco smoke. On the wall above the veneered walnut dressing table hung a framed black and white wedding photograph, the bride in white and the groom in morning dress amidst a snow shower of confetti. That same bride was now in funeral black, eyes wide open and staring up at the yellowing ceiling. Her dress and the bed-cover were rusted with gummy gouts of dried blood.
‘That must be her grave-visiting dress,’ muttered Frost. Something brushed against his legs. The cat. He leant down and scratched its neck, then put it outside. Crossing to the window he twitched aside the curtain and looked down on the empty street where black clouds kept the morning dark. His head was buzzing. So much to do and he didn’t really feel he was capable of handling it.
An area car nosed into the Street and stopped outside the house. PC Jordan and two disgruntled-looking detective constables who had thought their shift was over climbed out. A second car brought Roberts, the SOC officer, with his cameras and flash-guns, and hardly had this pulled up when a green Honda Accord brought the two men from Forensic. Gilmore led them all up to take turns to view the body before sending the constables to join Burton, knocking at doors.
‘Find out if anyone saw a blue van,’ bellowed Frost as they left.
‘You haven’t touched anything?’ asked one of the Forensic men.
‘I haven’t even touched my dick,’ said Frost, giving his well-worn, stock reply.
The door knocker thudded. ‘The doctor’s here,’ called Gilmore, pushing Maltby up the stairs.
‘Bit of fresher meat for you this time, doc,’ said Frost as a bleary-eyed Maltby, his face flushed, squeezed between the Forensic men into the tiny bedroom.
‘I might have guessed it would be you again,’ growled Maltby, who seemed to be in a sour mood.
‘Three bodies in one shift,’ agreed Frost. ‘I’m beginning to suspect I’m on Candid Camera.’
The doctor grunted and bent over the body. His examination was brief.
‘She’s dead.’
‘I worked that out myself,’ said Frost. I offered her a fag and she wouldn’t reply. When did she die?’
Maltby took a pad from his bag and scribbled something down. ‘You’ve sent for the pathologist, I understand?’
‘That’s right, doc.’
‘Then let him answer your questions. He gets paid a lot more than I do. Found out who’s been sending those poison pen letters yet?’
‘Blimey, doc,’ moaned Frost. ‘It was only six hours ago when you last asked me. I haven’t even had a pee since then.’
Maltby blinked at the inspector. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing properly. ‘Hours ago? Is that all?’ He felt for a chair and sat down heavily.
‘Are you all right, doc?’ asked Frost with concern.
‘Yes, yes, of course I’m all right.’ He grabbed the inspector’s arm and pulled him down, dropping his voice and engulfing Frost in Johnnie Walker fumes. ‘Did you know Drysdale’s put in a complaint about me, just because I examined that body in the crypt before he did? He phoned me especially to tell me.’
‘The man’s a bastard, doc,’ soothed Frost. He nodded towards the bed. ‘How long has she been dead?’
Maltby lurched over to the corpse and prodded the flesh. ‘Rigor mortis has come and just about gone. Some time Sunday evening, say. Anything else you want to know, ask Drysdale.’ With a sharp snap he closed his bag and bustled off. ‘God’s here,’ he bellowed from half-way down the stairs. A burble of exchanged frigid conversation and the pathologist swept into the bedroom accompanied by his secretary. He stared pointedly at the Forensic men who took the hint and retired downstairs.
‘Was that Dr Maltby who just brushed past me?’ he sniffed.
Frost nodded.
‘And he’s been mauling the body about, I suppose?’
‘He never touched it,’ said Frost. ‘He didn’t want to spoil your pleasure. If you could speed it up, doc.’
Drysdale gritted his teeth at the ‘doc’, but his eyes gleamed when he saw the body. He took off his long, black, expensive overcoat and handed it to his secretary. She, in turn, passed the coat over to Frost who screwed it into a ball, dumped it on a chair and sat on it. He shook a cigarette from his packet.
‘Please don’t smoke,’ snapped Drysdale, glad to have the chance of putting this oaf in his place. Methodically he examined every inch of the body, murmuring the results of his findings to the secretary whose pen translated the great man’s words into the loops and whirls of Pitman’s shorthand.
After fifteen long minutes, ignoring Frost’s repeated and over-loud signs of impatience, he straightened up to deliver his verdict. ‘She’s been dead approximately thirty-six hours.’
‘That’s what Dr Maltby said,’ grunted Frost. The pathologist smiled thinly. ‘Delighted to have my opinion confirmed by such an expert. The pattern of the bloodstains indicates she was standing upright when she was attacked. The killer would have come at her from behind…’
Frost wriggled in the chair. The overcoat buttons were biting into him. ‘He was waiting for her behind that door, doc. There’s a couple of lovely blood puddles there if you want to have a paddle.’
Drysdale allowed himself a brief look, then carried on. ‘The killer would have clamped his hand over her mouth — you can see the thumb pressure mark on the, left cheek?’ He moved away to allow Frost to inspect this if he wished, but Frost declined with a flick of his hand. He didn’t need a pathologist to point out something he had noticed as soon as he entered the bedroom.
The pathologist shrugged. ‘The killer then stabbed her three times in the abdomen with a knife. The blade would be single-edged, non-flexible, about 6 inches long — and — and razor sharp.’
‘Something like a kitchen knife, doctor?’ asked Gilmore who had returned after giving instructions to the door-knocking team.
‘Could very well be,’ accepted Drysdale.
‘There was a similar attack last night… an old lady in Clarendon Street. He left a knife behind.’
‘Clarendon Street?’ barked Drysdale. ‘Why wasn’t I called?’
‘You can have first crack at her as soon as she dies,’ replied Frost, ‘but at the moment she’s still alive.’ He related the details.
‘If you let me examine the knife,’ said Drysdale, ‘I’ll do some tests to confirm whether it could be the same weapon used to inflict these wounds.’
Frost scribbled a reminder about the knife on his discredited car expenses. ‘I’ll get it sent over. Carry on, doc. I’m sure you and your secretary want to get back to your bed… er, beds.’
Not noticing Frost’s lewd wink to Gilmore, Drysdale continued. ‘The killer jerked back her head, pushed the tip of the blade into her throat just there.’ His thumb pointed to the left-hand side of the gaping wound. ‘He twisted the knife so the blade was horizontal — that’s why the wound is much wider at that point, then slashed open her
