Jewellery. Lots of jewellery. Mainly old-fashioned, but good quality — brooches, lockets, bangles, rings.
‘Well, well, well,’ smirked Jordan. ‘And what is your perfectly reasonable explanation for these, sir?’
The hospital was slowly waking up as they clattered down the stone stairs past the first shift of cleaners with mops and buckets. They could hear the car radio as they crossed the pavement.
‘Frost,’ he yawned into the handset.
‘We’ve got him, Jack,’ reported Sergeant Wells triumphantly.
‘You’ve got Bradbury?’ asked Frost, unable to believe his luck. ‘Is he dripping with petrol, smothered in blood and carrying a blunt instrument?’
‘Not Bradbury,’ replied Wells, testily. Frost was always joking at the wrong moment. ‘No joy with him yet. But we’ve got Wally Manson. Jordan and Simms picked him up. His van’s a bloody treasure trove — full of stolen gear from the senior citizen break-ins. Mr Mullett is cock-a-hoop.’
'What’s that about Mr Mullet’s cock?’ asked Frost innocently. ‘This is a very bad line.’ He replaced the handset. ‘The station, son.’
But Gilmore was already on the way.
Frost sank down in his seat again. He dug down in his pocket, but the Benson and Hedges packet was empty.
Thursday morning shift
A quarter to six in the morning and Mullett, freshly shaven, highly polished, and immaculately dressed in his best tailored uniform, emerged from his office, mentally rehearsing the speech he would make to the press and the television cameras after they had charged Manson with the ‘Granny Ripper’ killings. He waylaid the dishevelled Frost and Gilmore, both looking tired and edgy, on their way to the Interview Room. ‘No doubts about the right man this time, Inspector. Hanlon has definitely identified an item of jewellery from Manson’s van as belonging to one of the murder victims and there’s a positive forensic report on those jeans.’
‘Great!’ muttered Frost, trying to share his commander’s enthusiasm. He always got worried when things appeared to be going too well.
They looked in on the exhibits store where Arthur Hanlon, his nose red and sore from repeated blowing, was hovering over a collection of cardboard boxes, the spoils from Wally Manson’s van. ‘Mr Mullett tells me it’s all cut and dried,’ said Frost. ‘Wally’s confessed and hanged himself to spare the state the cost of a trial.’
‘Not quite, Jack,’ giggled Hanlon, blowing his nose with a sodden handkerchief. ‘He’s denying everything at the moment — you know what a slimy little sod he is.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘I sometimes think he’s Mr Mullett’s illegitimate son. Anyway, what have we got?’
Hanlon pushed one of the boxes over and raised the flaps. ‘This was a surprise, Jack.’ The box was packed tight with pornographic videos. ‘Forty-nine in all,’ reported Hanlon. ‘The same titles as we got from the newsagent’s.’ Frost grunted and pulled the next box towards him. This one held assorted house-breaking tools — screwdrivers, jemmies, hammers, glass cutters. The last box, the smallest of the lot, contained various small plastic supermarket bags. Selecting one at random, Frost looked inside, then handed it over to Gilmore. Jewellery. Gold rings, chains, lockets, crucifixes. Another bag held necklaces and ear-rings. Yet another, old- fashioned cameo brooches, and heavy dress jewellery.
‘We’ve only positively identified this, so far,’ Hanlon told them, fishing out a pearl-studded crucifix on a silver chain. ‘But it’s the one that matters. This belonged to Mrs Alice Ryder.’
Frost held the crucifix in his open hand. It looked like silver, but it wasn’t and the pearls were false. It was worth a few pounds at the most and the old lady who fought to stop it being stolen had had her skull smashed in and had died in Demon Hospital. ‘Mullett was yapping about positive forensic evidence?’
‘The stains are definitely blood, the same group as the old lady, and there were small fragments of china which matched up to that vase he smashed getting through the window.’
‘What have you told Manson?’
‘I haven’t told him anything. I’ve only questioned him about being in possession of stolen property.’
‘You haven’t mentioned the killings?’
‘Good. Let’s keep the sod guessing. Bring him to Interview Room Number 1.’ Frost patted his pockets and realized he was out of cigarettes. He sent Gilmore back to the office to fetch a packet from his desk drawer.
Gritty, tired and irritated at being treated as a messenger boy, Gilmore yanked the drawer open. Underneath the camouflage of two ancient files were a couple of packs, each containing 200 Benson and Hedges export only cigarettes. He paused. A way to get back into his Divisional Commander’s good books. This was exactly the sort of thing Mullett had asked him to look out for. Evidence of Frost’s dubious practices. A quiet word in Mullett’s ear. ‘I don’t know if I ought to be saying this, sir, against a fellow officer, but…’ He could already see the Cheshire cat grin spreading over the Divisional Commander’s face. He stuffed a spare packet in his pocket as evidence. Then be noticed something protruding beneath one of the packs in the drawer. A battered, blue material-covered case. Something else Frost had helped himself to? He clicked it open. Snug on red plush a silver cross on a dark blue ribbon, the inscription in the centre reading For Gallantry. Frost’s famous medal. The George Gross. The civilian equivalent to the VC. Gilmore stared at it, then quickly clicked the case shut and replaced it at the bottom of the drawer together with the spare pack from his pocket. Frost would never know it, but yet again his medal had got him out of possible trouble.
‘Gentleman to see you, Inspector,’ announced Hanlon, pushing Wally Manson into the Interview Room.
Manson blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright light after the shaded bulb of his cell. Through a haze of blue smoke he could see the unwelcome sight of Detective Inspector Jack Frost sprawled untidily in a chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. On the table in front of him were a couple of the boxes taken from his van.
‘Nice of you to drop in, Wally,’ said Frost, waving a hand at the other chair by the table. ‘Sit down.’ Behind the inspector, leaning against the wall under the tiny window, was a younger man he didn’t recognize, in a smart suit. The younger man looked tired and frazzled and nasty.
Gilmore contemplated Manson with disgust. The man was a slob with his weasel-like face, lank greasy hair and eyes that kept shifting from side to side; a cornered rat looking for an escape route.
‘I don’t know what this is all about, Mr Frost,’ Manson said, shrinking down into the offered chair. ‘Like I told the other gentleman, I found those boxes dumped in a lay-by. I was on the way to the police station to hand them in when those two coppers picked me up.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Wally,’ said Frost, shaking ash all over the floor, ‘I was hoping you were guilty, because we’re going to frame you anyway.’
Wally grinned at the inspector’s joke, but Frost didn’t seem to be joking. He dipped into one of the cardboard boxes and pulled out a pearl crucifix which he swung by the chain under Wally’s nose.
‘She identified you, Wally.’
Manson jerked his head away. ‘Like I told the other officer, Mr Frost, I found these boxes in a lay-by…’
‘They’ll find you in a bleedin’ lay-by if you don’t stop sodding me about, Wally. You’ve been identified, we know you did it and we’re going to get a confession and a conviction by fair means or foul. So tell us about it.’
‘If only I knew what you’re talking about, Mr Frost,’ said Manson, giving his unconvincing impression of puzzled innocence, then nearly jumping out of his chair as the young thug behind him suddenly bellowed in his ear, ‘We’re talking about the woman whose skull you fractured, you scum-bag.’
‘There’s no need to raise your voice, Sergeant,’ reproved Frost mildly. ‘He’s going to give us everything we want with out bullying, aren’t you, Wally?’
‘I’ll help you if I can,’ said Manson, rubbing his ear.
Frost beamed a friendly smile that made the prisoner’s blood run cold. ‘Good. Then help me with Mrs Alice Ryder, the old lady from Clarendon Street who you put in hospital.’ At this stage he wasn’t going to let Manson know that she was dead.
Manson looked hurt. ‘Not me, Mr Frost. That’s not my style.’
Frost snorted a cloud of Benson and Hedges smoke. ‘Style! You haven’t got any bleeding style. If you’re going to sod me about, I can sod you about. Notebook, Sergeant.’ Gilmore took out his notebook and flipped it open.
‘Stand up,’ snapped Frost to Manson.
