heart attack. Well, that was a relief. Clipped to the report was the SOC’s photograph of the dead man in situ, sharp, clear and full of graphic detail. He showed it to Gilmore.
‘I shall dream about that damn face tonight,’ moaned Gilmore as they walked out to the car.
‘I hope I don’t,’ said Frost. ‘I want to dream of Mrs Compton.’
He did dream of Jill Compton. But she was eyeless and screaming and crawling with bloody-snouted rats. He woke up just before five in a cold sweat and couldn’t. get back to sleep again.
Wednesday morning shift
Police Superintendent Mullett stamped up the corridor to his office. He was angry. His sleep had been continually disturbed by calls from the media, and then from County, the Chief Press Officer, demanding his comments on a possible serial murderer in Denton, the brutal killer of three old ladies. When he had phoned the station to try to get some information from Frost; he was informed that, despite the rota, the inspector and his team had left for the night and calls to Frost’s home indicated that the phone had deliberately been left off the hook. He finally managed to get the information required from Detective Sergeant Gilmore, but only after Gilmore’s wife had been extremely rude over the phone, asking why her husband was expected to be at everyone’s beck and call twenty-four hours a day.
Scooping up a fearsome stack of mail from his absent secretary’s desk, he unlocked his office door, then paused, nose twitching, testing the air. What was that smell? A stale, rancid oniony aroma which reminded him of curry. He dumped the post in his in-tray and flung open the window. The curtains flapped wildly as the wind roared and drove in the rain. Below, in Eagle Lane, the noise of traffic was deafening. He hastily closed the window and returned to his desk where he reached for the internal phone to ask the station sergeant to come in with his morning report.
While he waited he flicked through the post, shuddering at a photograph of a mutilated body found outside Denton rubbish tip, then frowning at the totally inadequate, scrawled report from Frost — Mrs Alice Ryder, victim of burglary assault, died in Denton Hospital — full report to follow. Mrs Betty Winters, aged 76, 15 Roman Rd Denton. Murder by stabbing — full report to follow. Mullett’s frown deepened. As he knew from bitter experience, Frost’s ‘further reports’ never materialized. The man’s paperwork was hopeless. Which reminded him, where were those car expenses? He rummaged through his tray but, as expected, they were not there.
He looked up as Sergeant Johnson came in with the morning report and the mail from County. He greeted him with a smile. ‘Good to see you back, Sergeant. Are you fit?’
‘Well, actually, sir…’ began Johnson, who was starting to feel a trifle light-headed and was wondering if he hadn’t reported back to work too soon.
‘Excellent,’ cut in Mullett hastily. He didn’t want a catalogue of the man’s ailments. He’d had enough of moans from Sergeant Wells. ‘Manning level?’
‘Three men back from sick leave,’ Johnson reported, ‘but two more off — injured in that pub punch-up last night.’
‘First class,’ snapped Mullett, concerned only with the plus side of the arithmetic. ‘We’re winning, Sergeant.’ He smiled as he signed the report and blotted it neatly. ‘We’ll soon be back to normal.’
‘We’re going to be very thin on the ground today as far as normal duties are concerned,’ warned the sergeant. ‘Mr Frost has commandeered most of my men for house-to-house enquiries — another old lady stabbed to death last night.’
‘I know,’ said Mullett bitterly. ‘The press phoned me at three o’clock in the morning to tell me — and Mr Frost kindly scribbled a note for my in-tray.’ He held aloft the piece of paper. ‘County want us to tread very carefully with this one, Sergeant. A serial killer at large in Denton — could cause panic. It’s vital I see the inspector the minute he comes in.’
‘Sir,’ said Johnson, taking the signed report.
The office door opened. Mullett hoped it was Frost, but it was his gum-chewing temporary secretary in a disturbing polo-necked sweater who wiggled in with the correspondence he had dictated yesterday. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, dumping the poorly typed, heavily corrected letters on his desk, ‘but we’ve run out of Snowpake. I had to buy some more. Oh — and this has just come.’ She dropped the Denton Echo in front of him.
He snatched up the paper from her and stared goggle-eyed, mouth dropping with dismay at the screaming banner headlines. Town of Terror — Granny Ripper Claims Third Victim!!! Terror spread like wild-fire amongst the senior citizens of Denton today as news of yet another brutal murder… The phone rang. Still staring at the paper he groped for it. ‘Yes?’ he croaked. He jerked to attention. ‘Good morning, sir… Yes, I’ve just seen the paper.’ He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece and bellowed at Johnson, ‘Find Frost. I want him here, now!’
To Johnson’s surprise, Frost was already in his office, a wad of blank petrol receipts in front of him which he was filling in with different coloured pens. Sitting in the other desk was the new detective sergeant, looking disgruntled and also scribbling out petrol receipts.
‘Hello, Johnny,’ greeted Frost. ‘Welcome back. We thought you were dying. We’ll have to send the bloody wreath back now.’ He indicated the withering floral tribute in his in-tray. ‘Talking of wreaths reminds me of a joke.’
‘Never mind jokes,’ said Johnson, ‘Mr Mullett wants to see you.’
‘Sod Mullett,’ said Frost. ‘There was this woman… He paused as DC Burton came in.
‘Got a minute, sir?’
‘Sure, son, but I’ve got a joke first. There was this woman.. ’ He paused again as Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon, nose red and sore, poked his head round the door.
‘Oh, if you’re busy, Jack…’
‘No come in, Arthur. I’ve got a joke for you.’
Hanlon pulled a face. ‘If it’s the one about the man drinking the spittoon for a bet, you’ve told it to me.’
‘A different one,’ said Frost, beckoning him in. ‘It’s about the funeral of a woman who’s had fifteen kids.’ He frowned as the phone rang. Burton answered it.
‘Forensic for you, Inspector. They say it’s urgent.’
‘Everything’s bloody urgent!’ He took the phone and in a strangulated voice said, ‘Mr Frost will be with you in a moment.’ He pressed the mouthpiece to his jacket. ‘Where was I?’
‘Fifteen kids,’ reminded Johnson, anxious to get the story over so Frost could report to Mullett.
‘Right. Funeral. Woman who’d had fifteen kids being buried. As the coffin’s being lowered down into the grave, the vicar turns to the husband and says, “Together at last!” The husband says, “What do you mean, together at last? I’m still alive.” “I wasn’t referring to you,” says the vicar. “I meant her legs.”
Gilmore sat stone-faced as Frost’s raucous roar of mirth almost drowned the others. Old women butchered and the fool was cracking jokes! Frost raised the phone, poking his finger in his ear to shut out the laughter. ‘Hello. Frost here. Sorry, I can’t hear you. I think the Divisional Commander’s throwing a party.’ He flapped a hand for silence. ‘That’s better, I’ve shut the door. You were saying?’ He listened. ‘That’s bloody marvellous. Check it out and let me know.’ He hung up and beamed happily at Gilmore and Burton. ‘Those newspapers we sent to Forensic. Nothing on the Daily Telegraph, but when they shoved the Sun under the microscope, not only were the Page Three girl’s tits enormous, but they spotted tiny flakes of black paint and rust on the outside page.’
‘Black paint and rust?’ frowned Burton.
‘If our luck’s in, it’s from Greenway’s letter-box,’ explained Frost. ‘It could have rubbed off as the paper went in and out. Forensic are sneaking someone round to his house to check. If the paint matches, we’ve got the bastard.’ He rubbed his hands with delight and passed his cigarettes round.
Johnson was getting fidgety. ‘Mr Mullett wants to see you, Jack.’
‘I’m not ready for him yet.’ He peeled off some blank petrol receipts. ‘Fill these in for me, Johnny. Disguise your writing. Six gallons, eight gallons and four gallons.’
The sergeant’s pen flew over the receipts. ‘What crime am I committing?’
‘Forgery,’ said Frost, giving three blanks to Burton. ‘Disguise your handwriting, son. Two lots of eight gallons and one of six.’ He pushed two more blanks across to Arthur Hanlon. ‘Five gallons and seven gallons, Arthur — and blow your nose, it’s starting to drip.’
