cup.
‘Bloody unusual. She was such a mean old bitch, she wouldn’t have been able to sleep if I hadn’t returned her paper… afraid I might run off with it. I banged at the door. No reply. So I went to bed.’
‘Then what?’
‘This morning I expected her to send Interpol round to arrest me for hanging on to her lousy paper, so I tried her door again. Still no reply. I thought she might be ill with that flu virus thing, so I let myself in.’
‘How did you get into her flat?’
She fumbled in her apron pocket and produced a key. ‘I’ve got the spare key to her flat and she’s got the one to mine.’
Frost nodded. The maverick key explained.
‘I didn’t think I’d be able to get in with the key as she always put on the bolts and the chain. But it opened, and I went in and…’ Her body shook at the recollection.
He leant across and patted her hand. ‘I know it’s difficult, love. Just take your time.’ At last, after several false starts, she managed to stem the flow and bravely nodded her willingness to continue. ‘When you saw her last night to borrow the newspaper, did she say she was expecting anyone?’
‘No. She just gave me the paper like she always did bloody begrudgingly.’
‘After that, did you hear anything?’
She blinked at him. ‘Like what?’
Like a bloody woman being disembowelled, you stupid cow, thought Frost. ‘Anything at all that might help us?’ he asked sweetly.
‘No — I had the telly on. I like to read the paper with the telly on — it gives me something to occupy my mind.’ She shivered. ‘Poor Doris was terrified of something like this happening ever since she heard about this Granny Ripper maniac. She was going to get a stronger chain put on her door, but she left it too late.’
‘The chain wouldn’t have helped her,’ said Frost. ‘She let this bloke in like an old friend. Did she have many friends?’
‘Hardly any. She was such a tight-fisted cow, no-one liked her and she hardly ever went out — except to bingo and the club. The senior citizens’ club — it’s run by the church.’
‘Did you go to her club?’
‘No, but she used to get me to go to bingo with her — she was nervous of being out on her own — but I gave it up a year ago. I don’t approve of gambling. Besides, I never bloody won anything.’
Frost shook his head both in sympathy and to keep him self awake. The gas-fire, aided by the gin, was strongly soporific. ‘She only went to the daytime bingo sessions, I suppose?’
‘Yes. She didn’t even like coming back in the dark late afternoon, but that nice driver used to bring her right to her door — leave his coach and escort her right up to the flat.’
Frost’s drooping head suddenly snapped up. ‘What driver?’
‘Of the coach. They lay on this free coach for the bingo picks you up in the town and brings you back.’
‘Only back to the town centre, surely?’ asked Frost.
‘That’s all they’re supposed to do, but if you’ve got a nice driver and he passes your door, he’ll drop you off. It’s almost as good as getting a taxi.’
‘And this nice driver… would he go with you to your door, wait until you got safely inside, help you get the key out from under the mat, or pull the string through the letter- box, or something?’
‘Some of them do. Some just drop you off at the corner.’
‘Hmm.’ Frost spat out a tea-leaf. ‘Mrs Watson was nervous, even of coming home late afternoons, and yet she let someone into her flat at night. Any ideas on who that might be?’
‘The only person I can think of is her poncey son. He lives in Denton somewhere. He often came to see her.’
‘What is he like?’
‘A nasty piece of work. Do you know what he had the nerve to say to me? He said, “Why don’t you buy your own Daily Mirror instead of scrounging one from my poor mother?”
‘Sounds a real right bastard,’ Frost confided, rising from his chair. ‘Thanks for your help. An officer will be along soon to take a written statement. If you think of anything else — anything — that might help, let the officer know.’
Gilmore pushed his untasted cup of gin to one side and followed him out.
In the murder flat they had to flatten themselves against the wall as the body was manhandled out on a stretcher by two ambulance men who had difficulty getting it round the tight bend to the front door, the corner of the stretcher ripping a section of the floral wallpaper in the process. Immediately following the stretcher came the pathologist, looking like an undertaker in his long black overcoat. ‘I’ve given preliminary details to your detective constable. I’ll phone your office with a time for the autopsy.’
In the lounge the Forensic team were packing up. The chair and the bloodstained carpet had been removed and the blood which had soaked through to the exposed floorboards had been ringed in yellow chalk. The warm, sticky slaughter house smell still tainted the air. Moodily, Frost tore off the dangling strip of wallpaper. The poor cow. She’d have a fit if she saw the state of her little flat now.
From the bathroom door came grunting and a metallic clanging. He looked inside. Harding from Forensic was on his knees, swearing softly to himself as he tried to manoeuvre a long-handled spanner underneath the tiny wash-basin in an effort to remove the waste trap. ‘Blimey,’ Frost exclaimed, ‘isn’t there anything you won’t pinch?’
Harding grinned. ‘There’s traces of blood in the sink waste, Inspector.’
Frost showed surprise. ‘You mean he had a good wash afterwards?’
‘The way he sliced her he’d have been splattered with blood. He couldn’t go out like that.’
‘What about his clothes?’
Sucking barked knuckles, Harding gave the spanner one final push and sighed his relief as he felt something give. He looked up at the inspector.
‘I reckon his clothes are smothered in blood — unless he took them off before he butchered her.’
‘Oh,’ sniffed Frost. ‘And what is she doing while he strips off? Staring hypnotized at his John Thomas?’
Harding grinned. ‘Just a theory, Inspector.’ He dropped the spanner and found he could now turn the large nut by hand.
Frost stuck his head out of the bathroom. ‘Don’t forget to check all dry-cleaners.’
‘Already done!’ replied Burton. A waste of time. This killer was too smart.
Back to the bathroom where Harding was easing off the waste trap. ‘So, if he washed himself, the blood you’re going to find in the waste trap will be the old girl’s blood — right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do we need any more? We’re nearly swimming in the bleeding stuff out there as it is.’
Harding shrugged. ‘We’ve got to be thorough, sir.’
‘Smile when you say that,’ said Frost wandering out to the empty-looking lounge. ‘I might think you’re getting at me.’ Gilmore watched him meander about aimlessly, picking up pieces of bric-a-brac and putting them down again. The old fool had no idea what to do next.
PC Jordan and another uniformed officer returned from their door-to-door enquiries to report no joy. As usual, every one was shocked at what had happened, but no-one had heard or seen anything.
‘This bloke’s too bloody lucky.’ Frost dropped his cigarette end on the floor and ground it underfoot. He felt tired, useless and inadequate. Mrs Proctor’s gin was sloshing about in his stomach, he was beginning to feel sick and his head was starting to throb. He flopped into an armchair.
‘What do you want us to do now?’ asked Gilmore.
Just leave me alone, he wanted to answer, then sat up frowning at a burst of voices from outside. He groaned out loud as Mullett, bright and morning fresh, bounced into the room. He could have done without Hornrim Harry at this particular moment.
Mullett’s lips tightened. Typical. A serious murder enquiry. Forensic busy and conscientious as always in the next room and here was Frost, sprawled In an armchair, and — Mullett’s nose quivered to confirm his suspicion — reeking of drink. ‘Another body, Inspector?’ he said testily, his tone implying it was all Frost’s fault.
‘Where?’ said Frost, jumping up and pretending to look around the room. ‘I can’t see it, Super.’
