throat from left to right.’
Frost yawned openly. The pathologist was making a damn meal of this. She was stabbed from behind and dumped on the bed. He’d deduced that himself within seconds. ‘Would he have got blood on his clothes?’
‘Yes. Possibly on his upper left arm, but almost certainly a considerable amount of blood from the throat would have gushed on to his right hand — the knife hand — and the sleeve of his coat or whatever he was wearing. He also stepped into the pool of blood when he carried the body across to the bed. You can see the imprints on the carpet.’
‘You mean the ones Forensic have ringed round in chalk? Yes, we did spot them, doc.’
‘How did blood get there?’ asked Gilmore, pointing to a patch of discoloration on the left-hand sleeve of the black dress. ‘That doesn’t fit in with any of the wounds.’
Annoyed that he had missed it, the pathologist studied the mark. ‘That’s where he wiped the blade clean of blood.’ He straightened up. ‘That’s all I can tell you for now, Inspector. You’ll have a full report when have completed the post-mortem.’ He looked around the room. ‘Has anyone seen my overcoat?’
The body had been carefully placed in a cheap coffin and man-handled down the narrow staircase for transport to the mortuary. The Forensic team had departed with their spoils and Frost, alone in the empty bedroom, sat moodily dragging at a cigarette and staring down at bare floor- boards. All the bedding had been stripped from the bed and the carpet and underfelt removed for examination. He stubbed out his cigarette in one of the little glass dishes on the dressing table. The young bride in the photograph, her face wreathed in smiles, beamed down happily through the shower of confetti to the stripped, bleak room where she died, alone and terrified.
He wandered downstairs, his feet clattering on the bare wood where the stair carpet had been taken away for examination. Gilmore and Burton and two of the uniformed men were in the kitchen drinking tea. ‘Any joy with the neighbours?’
‘No reply from most of the houses,’ said handing him a mug. ‘Probably gone to work. We’ll have to try again tonight. Three people saw someone suspicious hanging around yesterday afternoon.’
Frost’s head came up hopefully. ‘Did you get a description?’
‘I got three descriptions,’ Burton ruefully admitted ‘All different. One medium build, darkish hair who may or may not have a beard aged between thirty and fifty. He was walking up and down the street just after two, staring at windows. The next was a skinhead on a motor bike who kept going round and round the block and the third was a West Indian in a dark suit.’
‘And what did the West Indian do to arouse suspicion?’ asked Gilmore.
‘He just walked by, Sarge, minding his own business. I don’t think the lady I spoke to liked West Indians.’
Frost sipped his tea. It was lukewarm. ‘It’ll be a waste of time, but check them out anyway. Have we traced any relatives, or anyone who might be able to tell us if anything’s been pinched apart from her purse money?’
‘Not yet,’ answered Gilmore. ‘I’ll check with that senior citizens’ club she belonged to. They might be able to help.’
‘Good. What sort of woman was she? Did she get on well with the neighbours?’
Burton shook his head. ‘A cantankerous old biddy by all accounts, always finding something to complain about. No-one liked her much.’
‘We’ll have to find out what she’s been complaining about recently. Perhaps someone resented it enough to kill her.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the moggie?’
‘The RSPCA bloke has taken it away,’ Gilmore told him.
‘I expect the little bleeder will have to be put down,’ gloomed Frost, swilling down the dregs of tea and pulling a face as if it were bitter medicine. ‘Tell me something to cheer me up.’
‘Forensic found a few alien prints dotted about,’ offered Gilmore. ‘One looked very hopeful.’
‘It’ll be from the sanitary inspector or her family planning adviser, anyone but the killer.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘I’m too tired to think straight.’ He glanced across to Gilmore who was grey with fatigue. ‘Let’s call it a day. We’ll have a couple of hours’ kip, then back to the station at noon.’
Noon! The detective sergeant sneaked a look at his watch. That would give him about three hours’ sleep if he was lucky. He hoped Liz wouldn’t be awake, waiting up for him, spoiling for a row.
He sat tense in the car as Frost drove him back after dropping off Burton, expecting every radio message to be the one sending them out on yet another case. But none of its messages were for them, although one call rang a familiar bell. ‘Neighbours complaining of strange smells coming from 76 Jubilee Terrace.’
‘Must have been your aftershave,’ muttered Frost as the tires scraped the kerb outside 42 Merchant Street. He had to shake Gilmore awake.
The house was quiet when Gilmore got in. A plate of cold, congealed food stood accusingly on the dining room table. His supper. He scraped the food into the waste bin and dropped the plate in the sink.
Upstairs, Liz was sleeping. Even in repose her face was angry. He undressed and crawled into bed beside her, moving carefully for fear he would wake her and the row would start. Almost immediately he plunged into an uneasy sleep, full of dreams of bodies bleeding from knife wounds and all looking like Liz.
Frost slammed the car into gear and headed for home and bed. He nearly made it.
‘Control to Mr Frost. Come in, please!’
The plumber. The suspect in the Paula Bartlett case. Able Baker had picked him up. They were holding him, at the station.
‘On my way,’ said Frost, spinning the wheel for an illegal U-turn, deaf to the shouts from a minicab driver who had to brake violently to avoid a collision.
Tuesday morning shift (2)
Superintendent Mullett strode briskly into the station, pausing only to remove and shake the rain from his tailored raincoat. At 9.30 in the morning the lobby had a tired, slept-in look, which reminded him that he wanted to have a few words with Frost to ascertain his progress with the Paula Bartlett case.
‘Mr Frost in yet, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Wells, barely managing to camouflage a yawn. ‘He’s out on another fatal stabbing — an old lady in Mannington Crescent.’
Mullett’s forehead creased in anguish. ‘Oh no!’
‘Nasty one by all accounts,’ continued Wells. ‘Stomach ripped and throat cut.’
‘Send the inspector to me the minute he comes in, Sergeant. Do you know if he left a report for me on the Paula Bartlett case? I’ve got a press conference at two.’
‘I haven’t seen one, sir.’
Mullett sighed his annoyance. ‘How can I answer press questions if I’m not kept informed? It just isn’t good enough.’
‘We’re all overworked, sir,’ said Wells.
‘Excuses, excuses… all I hear are excuses.’ His eyes flicked from side to side, doing a brisk inspection of the lobby. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Wells, swaying slightly from side to side, trying to give his impression of a loyal, dedicated policeman almost dead on his feet from overwork ‘The thing is, with this flu epidemic..’
‘We mustn’t use that as an excuse to lower standards, Sergeant. This lobby is our shop window. The first thing the public see when they come in. A clean lobby is an efficient lobby… it inspires confidence.’ He paused and stared hard at the Sergeant. ‘You haven’t shaved this morning. A fine example to set the men.’
In vain Wells tried to explain about the double shift and that his relief sergeant was down with the virus, but Mullett wasn’t prepared to become involved in the trivial details of station house-keeping. ‘Excuses are easy to make, Sergeant. Those of us fortunate enough to escape the flu virus must work all the harder. Standards must be maintained.’
Waiting until the door closed behind his Divisional Commander, Wells permitted himself the luxury of an impotent, two-fingered gesture.
‘I saw that, Sergeant!’ rasped the unmistakable voice of the Chief Constable.
