her as she descended the steep step from the coach to the pavement. ‘Can you manage all right from here, my love?’ he asked. She nodded and waved her thanks and hobbled up to her front gate as the coach went on its way.
There was only one other passenger. A dishevelled individual hunched up in the rear seat, puffing away solidly on the journey back from the bingo hall. Gauld hadn’t seen him before. He slowed down at the traffic lights. Damn. The scruffy man was making his way down the aisle. Not one of those chatty sods, he hoped. The seat behind him creaked as the man lowered himself down.
‘Drop you off at the Market Square?’ Gauld asked.
‘Eagle Lane,’ mumbled the man. ‘Opposite the police station.’
As he turned into Eagle Lane he noticed in his rear-view mirror a police car close behind him. When he pulled up outside the police station, the car stopped even though it had plenty of room to pass. His passenger shuffled out, squeezing past two uniformed policemen who suddenly appeared at the coach door. ‘Mr Ronald Gauld?’ asked one of them. ‘I wonder if you’d mind popping into the station for a couple of minutes.’ The other policeman leant across and switched off the ignition.
They took him through to a small, functional room, sparsely furnished with a plain light oak table and three chairs. In the corner of the room a young thickset chap in a grey suit was sitting, a notebook open on his knee. Another man, whose scowl seemed permanent, was standing, leaning up against the wall. He pointed to a chair for Gauld to sit. The door opened as a third man came in. Gauld blinked in surprise. It was the scruffy passenger from his coach. ‘Frost,’ announced the man, ‘Detective Inspector Jack Frost.’
The lino squealed as Frost dragged a chair over to sit opposite Gauld. He then laid out on the table a green folder, a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and the large manila envelope containing the possessions the station sergeant had asked Gauld to empty from his pockets. This done, Frost smiled benevolently and helped himself to a cigarette.
Gauld wriggled in his chair. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. ‘What’s this all about?’
Frost frowned. ‘Haven’t you been told?’ He swung round to the man with the notebook. ‘Didn’t you tell him?’ A headshake. Frost tutted with mock exasperation, then slowly took a match from the box and struck it on the table. ‘It’s about Mrs Fussell.’
Gauld frowned as if trying to remember. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Oh dear,’ exclaimed Frost, looking worried. He turned to the scowler. ‘We might have the wrong man, Sergeant.’ Looking puzzled, he scrabbled through the green folder and plucked out some typed pages. ‘All these witnesses must be lying.’ Back to Gauld. ‘You’d swear on oath you don’t know her, sir?’ Before Gauld had a chance to answer, he added, ‘What about Mrs Elizabeth Winters, Roman Road, Denton? Surely you’re not going to tell us you don’t know her?’
‘I know lots of people. I’m a coach driver. I drive people about all the time. I don’t necessarily know their names.’
‘Then here’s an easy one — Mary Haynes.’
‘I’ve just told…’ He blinked and stopped dead, his expression freezing as if he had just realized what the inspector was on about. ‘Wait a minute! I’ve just twigged. Haynes… Winters! They were both murdered! Are you trying to pin them on me?’
‘Yes,’ replied Frost, simply. ‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to do.’ He shook out the contents of the manila envelope and raked through Gauld’s possessions. There was a colour photograph of a grey-haired lady smiling doubtfully at the camera. He picked it up and studied it carefully. ‘I don’t recognize this one. When did you murder her?’
Gauld snatched up the photograph. ‘That’s my mother, you bastard!’
‘Ah!’ said Frost with an enlightened nod. He studied his notes. ‘Father died when you were three, mother alive and well.’
‘She’s not well!’ retorted Gauld. ‘She’s got a bad heart.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Frost. ‘Still, better a bad heart than having your throat cut. Any objection to our taking your fingerprints?’
‘What happens if I object?’
‘We’ll take them anyway, so why cause bad feeling?’
A young uniformed officer was summoned to take the prints. Frost waited patiently until the task was completed, then whispered something to the officer who nodded and left.
‘I ought to have a solicitor,’ said Gauld.
Frost seemed astonished. ‘You’re innocent! What do you want a solicitor for?’
‘Because I think you bastards are trying to frame me for something I haven’t done, that’s why.’
‘Oh no.’ Frost sounded hurt. ‘I might frame you for something you had done, but not otherwise.’
The scowler moved forward. ‘All the murder victims travelled on your coach.’
Gauld twisted in his chair to face the questioner. ‘So what? Hundreds of people travel on my coach.’
‘Where were you last Sunday afternoon?’ barked the detective sergeant.
‘I don’t know,’ smirked Gauld. ‘Where were you?’
The door opened and the fingerprint man returned to murmur in the inspector’s ear. Frost’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. ‘All right, Gauld. You can stop the pretence. We’ve got you.’
‘Have you really?’ he said cockily. ‘I’m shaking with fright.’
‘You’ll be shitting yourself in a minute,’ said Frost. ‘You told me earlier you didn’t know a Mrs Julia Fussell.’
‘I said I didn’t know the name.’
‘You were going to fit a stronger security chain on her front door.’
Gauld leant back in his chair. ‘Ah — now I’m with you. Little old dear — about seventy-five. Lives in Victoria Court.’
‘So you do know her!’ said Gilmore.
‘I didn’t know her name. I always call her Ma.’ He looked disturbed. ‘What about her? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?’
‘You called on her late last night to fit the security chain.’
‘No, I didn’t. I was going to, but I felt tired, so I had an early night.’
Gilmore, standing directly behind him, bent down. ‘You lying bastard. You went there and killed her.’
Gauld’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of his chair. ‘Killed? You mean… she’s dead? That poor old lady is dead?’
‘Don’t act the bloody innocent. You know damn well she’s dead,’ hissed Gilmore.
Gauld just stared straight ahead, slack-jawed, head moving from side to side in disbelief. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘And you’re accusing me of killing her?’
‘That’s right,’ beamed Frost. ‘You got careless this time. You left a fingerprint behind.’
‘A fingerprint!’ echoed Gauld, eyes wide open as if under standing for the first time. ‘So that’s why you think I’m the killer? Would you like me to give you a statement?’
‘If you want to give us one, we’ll take it down, sir,’ said Frost, signalling to Burton who turned to a fresh page in his notebook. Frost was vaguely worried. The man was looking far too smug and self-assured. Could he possibly have made a mistake? No. His every instinct told him that this smirking little bastard had cut, slashed and mutilated.
When he saw Burton was ready, Gauld began. ‘I am making this statement freely, without any inducements being offered, solely to help the police find the perpetrator of this terrible crime.’ He paused to let Burton catch up with him. ‘On 14th November, around ten o’clock in the evening, I was returning from the Reef Bingo Club with a party of senior citizens. Amongst my passengers was a lady I now know to be Mrs Julia Fussell, who expressed herself as being very nervous because of the killings of old people that were taking place and which the police seemed powerless to prevent. When we pulled up outside her destination, Victoria Court, I offered to escort her up to her flat. She accepted. At her door, she gave me her key. I opened the door, had a quick look around inside, and was able to assure her that all was well. I told her that her door chain was inadequate and suggested I fitted a stronger one when I got the chance. She accepted my offer. I then returned to my coach and continued dropping off my passengers. This may serve to explain why my fingerprints were found inside the flat and assist the police to
