‘We believe the same bastard killed them all,’ said Frost. ‘There’s got to be a link.’
Purley gave a sad, apologetic smile. ‘Then I’m afraid I don’t know it.’
On the way back to the station they detoured to drop off the curate at the vicarage. As the car passed the churchyard Frost was reminded of the wreath dumped in the Comptons’ lounge. He couldn’t remember picking it up and was relieved when Gilmore jerked a thumb to the back seat where the wreath lay between a pair of mud-caked wellington boots.
‘You might as well take the Compton case over, son. I’m not going to have much time for it.’
‘Right,’ said Gilmore, trying to keep the delight from his voice. A case of his own. He’d show these yokels how to get a result.
‘You don’t buy wreaths off the peg — they have to be ordered specially,’ continued Frost. ‘If I were you I’d get Burton to check with every florist in Denton.’
‘That’s what I intend to do,’ said Gilmore.
As they crossed the lobby with the wreath, Sergeant Wells looked up from his log book. ‘Who’s dead?’ he asked.
‘Glenn Miller,’ grunted Frost. ‘It just came over on the radio.’ He was in no mood for Wells’ jokes.
‘I’ll tell you who is dead,’ said Wells, anxious to impart his news.
Frost groaned, and walked reluctantly across to the desk. More cheer from Wells. The man was a walking bloody obituary column. ‘If it isn’t Mullett, I don’t want to know.’
Wells paused for dramatic effect, then solemnly intoned, ‘George Harrison! Heart attack as he was going downstairs. Dead before he hit the bottom.’ He leant forward to observe the effect this had on the inspector.
Frost’s jaw dropped. Police inspector George Harrison had only retired a few weeks ago after twenty-four years ser vice. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘First you come round with the list for their retirement present,’ said Wells, dolefully, ‘next thing you know you’re going round with the list for their wreath. You might as well collect both at once and be done with it.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Frost again. The force was his life and retirement was the one thing he dreaded. The thought made him depressed. He jerked his head to Gilmore and headed for the stairs. ‘Come on, son, let’s get something to eat.’
‘If you’re going to the canteen, don’t bother,’ said Wells, happy to be the bearer of more bad news. ‘It’s shut.’
‘Shut?’ echoed Frost in dismay.
‘The night staff are still down with flu. If you want any thing, you’ve got to bring it in from outside.’
‘And eat it in this ice-box?’ moaned Frost, giving the dead radiator a kick. ‘Sod that for a lark!’ Then a slow grin crawled across his face. Somewhere in the building there was a room with comfortable chairs, a carpet and a 3-kilowatt heater. He pulled the car expense sheet from his jacket pocket and licked the tip of a stubby pencil. ‘I’m taking orders for the all-night Chinky. Who wants curried chicken and chips?’
‘I don’t like this, Jack,’ said Wells. ‘If Mullett finds out.. ’
‘He’s not going to find out.’ retorted Frost, peeping inside a foil container. ‘Who ordered the sweet and sour?’
They were in the old log cabin, Mullett’s wood veneer-lined office, Gilmore, Burton, Wells, and the four members of the murder enquiry team, the heater going full pelt, the room hot and steamy and reeking of Chinese food. The top of the satin mahogany desk was littered with foil containers and soft drink cans. Frost, in Mullett’s chair, smoking one of Mullett’s special cigarettes, was sorting out the food orders. ‘Who wanted pancake rolls?’
Gilmore stood near the door, hovering nervously, his eye on the corridor, expecting any moment to see an irate Divisional Commander bursting through the swing doors.
‘Come on, Gilmore,’ called Frost. ‘The chop suey’s yours.’
Gilmore smiled uneasily and sat himself where he could still see down the corridor. He shuddered to think what discovery would do for his promotion chances.
‘All we want is a disco and a few birds,’ said Frost, spilling sweet and sour sauce on the carpet, ‘and this job would be just about tolerable.’ He swung round to Burton who was demolishing a double portion of sweet and sour lobster balls. ‘Mrs Ryder died in hospital. Any news from Forensic on that knife the killer dropped?’
Burton swallowed hard. ‘Nothing that helps much, Inspector. Their report’s on your desk.’
‘You know I don’t read reports,’ said Frost, dipping a chip in his curry sauce. ‘What did it say?’
‘An ordinary cheap kitchen knife of a standard pattern. No fingerprints, but traces of blood type 0.’
Frost sniffed disdainfully. ‘That’s a coincidence — the victim was type 0.’ He peered suspiciously into his foil dish. ‘This looks like stomach contents.’ He sniffed. ‘Smells like it, too.’
‘Oh God, Jack,’ shuddered Wells, pushing his food away from him.
Frost addressed the murder enquiry team. ‘Any joy from the neighbours?’
‘Most of them are in bed,’ Burton told him. ‘We’re going to have to go back first thing in the morning to catch the rest before they set off for work. Those we’ve spoken to hardly knew the old girl. She stayed in most of the time. No-one seemed aware of the string.’
‘And no-one saw anyone suspicious hanging about,’ added Jordan.
‘Suspicious?’ said Frost, pulling a piece of gristle from his mouth and flinging it in the vague vicinity of Mullett’s wastepaper bin. ‘This bastard isn’t going to mooch about looking suspicious. He won’t have a stocking mask on and a bleeding great knife poking out of his pocket. He’s going to be inconspicuous. I want to know about everyone who’s been seen going up and down the street — and that applies to the other two victims as well. I don’t care if it’s the road sweeper, the postman, doorstep piddlers or even a bleedin’ dog — I want to know. People, vans, cars, the lot. We can then start comparing — see if anyone’s been seen in all three streets.’
‘The computer…’ began Gilmore.
‘The computer’s a waste of time,’ cut in Frost. ‘I’m only going along with it to keep Hornrim Harry quiet. The only way to solve these cases is by good, solid detective work. By beating the hell out of some poor sod until he signs a fake confession.’
Gilmore faked a smile. ‘It will be quicker with the computer, I promise you.’
‘All right,’ said Frost. ‘I’ll leave it to you.’
‘What about a search team for the murder weapon?’ asked Burton, wiping his mouth. ‘He could well have chucked it.’
‘Put a couple of men on it, but don’t waste too much time. My gut feeling is that the bastard has kept it — ready for next time.’
The room went quiet. ‘Next time?’ said Wells.
‘Yes, Bill.’ He pushed the empty container away and fished out his cigarettes. ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling in my water that he’s going to kill again.’
Mullett’s phone rang. A collective gasp and all eating stopped in mid-chew.
‘It’s all right,’ assured Wells, ‘I had the main phone switched through here.’
Frost picked it up. ‘Mullett’s Dining Rooms,’ he said.
Wells’ eyes bulged with alarm until he realized the inspector had his hand over the mouthpiece.
The caller was a technician from Forensic reporting that he had extensively examined all the items removed from 46 Mannington Crescent, Denton and found nothing that would link them with the murder of Mrs Mary Haynes. As Frost listened he raised his eyes to the ceiling in despair. ‘Sod clearing the innocent — what about nailing the guilty for a change? I asked you to drop that and check on those two newspapers as a matter of priority. No, I don’t know who I spoke to. All right, all right.’ He banged the phone back on its rest. ‘He never got the message. Flaming Forensic. They’re about as bloody efficient as we are. They can’t start on the newspaper until tomorrow.’
‘Well, it is two o’clock in the morning,’ Wells reminded him.
‘Then I’m bloody going home,’ said Frost, not bothering to cover up a yawn. ‘I’ve had enough for today. The rest of you, go home too. Grab some sleep and be back here by six. You can pinch some men from the next shift and start knocking on doors before people go off to work.’
‘But Mr Mullett’s rota…’ began Wells.
‘Sod Mr Mullett’s rota. See you in the morning.’
He looked in his office on the way out. His in-tray was overflowing. He tugged the top paper from his tray. It was PC Collier’s report on the dead body outside the refuse tip. He had almost forgotten about it. Natural causes —
