eliminate me from their enquiries so they can concentrate on finding the real killer.’
A pause. The detectives shuffled their feet and cleared their throats. Gilmore shot a glance across to Frost who was looking very worried. ‘You’re saying that this happened on the 14th… the day before the killing?’
‘That’s right. I’ve got a coach-load of witnesses if you don’t believe me.’
‘We’ll check them out,’ said Frost, but he knew they would corroborate Gauld’s story. This slimy sod was too clever by half and Frost wasn’t anywhere near clever enough. He tugged the list of murder dates and times from the folder and began rattling them off one by one. ‘Where were you on these dates?’
Gauld shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably at work, driving.’
‘You weren’t,’ barked Gilmore. ‘We’ve checked.’
Mockingly, Gauld knuckled his brow, then beamed. ‘If I wasn’t at work, then I probably stayed in and kept my mother company. I’ll ask her when I get home.’
‘We can save you the trouble,’ Frost told him. ‘We’ve got a team searching your house now. One of my men is having a word with your dear old mum this very minute.’ He jerked back as Gauld lunged forward, all composure gone.
‘My mother’s got a heart condition. If any harm comes to her, I’ll kill you…’
‘You know all about killing, don’t you,’ said Frost, getting in quickly while the man was rattled.
The only sound was Gauld’s heavy breathing as he fought to control his temper. Then he smiled. ‘I’m not taking any more of your insults, Inspector. You either charge me, or I’m walking straight out of that door.’
‘You’ll go when I say you can go,’ snapped Frost, frowning as someone knocked. He didn’t want to be disturbed. He wanted to get Gauld rattled again. The door opened. Detective Sergeant Hanlon, not looking like a man with good news to impart, beckoned him out. Hanlon had been leading the team searching Gauld’s house.
‘We tore the house apart,’ reported Hanlon. ‘We found nothing. No bank books, no money we can tie in with the killing, no sign of blood on his clothes or shoes… nothing!’
‘There must be some bloodstains,’ insisted Frost. ‘The pathologist said he would have been swimming in the bleeding stuff.’
‘Forensic have double-checked. Not a trace. And to make matters worse, his mother swears blind he was with her on each of the murder nights.’
‘Then she’s lying,’ said Frost. ‘He’s as guilty as arseboles.’ He scuffed the brown lino moodily. ‘What about his car? Did you check that for blood?’
Hanlon nodded. ‘Forensic have given it the works — nothing.’
Frost treated the lino to an extra hard kick. Things were not working out. His heart sank as the brisk clatter of polished shoes announced the approach of the Divisional Commander, all eager for news of yet another triumph for the Denton team.
‘We’ve hit a couple of minor snags,’ Frost told him. ‘We’ve found sod all clues and his mother’s given him a watertight alibi.’
Mullett’s jaw dropped. ‘But you told me you had conclusive evidence. A fingerprint!’
‘It wasn’t so conclusive as we thought, Super. He explained it away.’
‘The house search?’
‘We found nothing,’ said Hanlon.
Mullett switched his gaze from Hanlon to Frost. ‘So what hard evidence have you got?’
Frost shuffled his feet. All he now had was a gut reaction. He knew Gauld was the Ripper. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew.
‘Your silence gives me the answer I expected,’ snapped Mullett. ‘You’ve blown this, Frost. You jumped in feet first without checking your facts. If he is the Ripper, which is by no means certain, all you’ve done is put him on his guard. Without evidence, there’s no way we can hold him.’ His lips tightened. ‘Thank goodness Inspector Allen is coming back on Monday and we can start getting things done properly.’ He spun on his heel and marched back up the corridor, pausing only to punch out one last below-the-belt blow. ‘The inventory?’
‘Almost done,’ called Frost.
‘I can tell County it will go off tonight?’
‘Without fail,’ Frost assured him. Tell the buggers what they want to hear, then make your excuses later was his philosophy. Absently, he pulled out his cigarettes, only to realize he was already smoking.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Hanlon.
‘I’m nipping round to see Gauld’s mother and try and get her to change her story.’
‘Be careful — she’s got a weak heart,’ Hanlon reminded him.
‘And I’ve got a weak bladder, so that makes us quits.’ Halfway down the corridor he turned and yelled, ‘Probably a waste of time, but send someone down to check out the Oxfam shop where Gauld works.’
Gauld’s house was just round the corner from Jubilee Terrace where they had found the mummified body all those weeks… no days… ago. A small cul-de-sac of older-type properties, jammed on both sides of the road with parked cars so Frost had to leave the station runabout round the corner.
The hinges of the black iron gate grated as he walked through. The woman who answered the door stepped back in alarm. She had been expecting the return of her son and here was this man in a dirty mac, a knitted maroon scarf trailing untidily from his neck. She was about to shut the door on him when he held up a piece of plastic with a coloured photograph on it. ‘Detective Inspector Frost,’ he announced.
She peered at the photograph, then at the man. There was a slight resemblance. ‘I’ve had enough of police. Where’s my son?’
He gave his reassuring smile. ‘Ronnie’s fine. He’s having a cup of tea down at the station.’
‘I’ve got his supper waiting,’ she said.
Frost sniffed the savoury warm smell floating from inside the house. ‘Lucky devil. I’d like a couple of words, if I may.’
She took another look at his warrant card. ‘Are you sure you’re a policeman?’
‘Fairly sure,’ said Frost, following her down the passage, ‘although my boss has his doubts at times.’
The radio was mumbling away, just around the limit of audibility. The tiny kitchen was warm from the gas oven which breathed out sausage and onion. On the small table a red and white checked cloth was laid with knife and fork and HP sauce. One place only. Frost unwound his scarf, pulled the green file from his pocket and sat down. He sniffed again. ‘Smells good.’
She opened the oven door and peeked inside. ‘It’ll spoil soon. When is he coming home?’
‘Difficult to say,’ Frost hedged. She moved a chair to the table and sat opposite him. Grey-haired, she was probably in her early sixties, but looked older. A nervous smile twitched on and off and her hands were constantly moving, plucking at her apron, smoothing out the table-cloth, straightening the knife and fork. A bag of nerves, he thought. He tried his smile out again. ‘I’m not stopping you from making us both a cup of tea, am I?’
‘You’ve got a cheek” she said. But she filled the kettle from the sink. ‘This isn’t a restaurant, you know.’ A plop as she lit the gas. ‘Why are you still holding him?’
‘Murder is a very serious charge, Mrs Gauld.’ Her back stiffened as she reached for the tea caddy, but her face was composed and apparently unconcerned when she turned. From the hooks on the dresser she took two cups, her hands shaking a little as she set them down.
‘He’s a good boy,’ she said flatly, ‘a very good boy.’
A larger version of the photograph taken from Gauld’s wallet looked down from the top of the dresser. ‘Does he miss his father?’ asked Frost.
She frowned. ‘His father died when Ronnie was three. He hardly remembers him.’
Frost ‘tutted’ sympathetically. ‘He couldn’t have been very old. How did he die?’
She looked away. ‘He killed himself.’ At Frost’s start of surprise, she added, ‘He used to get very depressed. He threw himself under a train at New Street station.’
‘And you had to bring Ronnie up on your own?’
The tea in the pot was given a vigorous stir. ‘I had to go to work. His gran brought him up.’ She put the lid back on the teapot and filled the two cups. ‘It wasn’t a very happy time for him. She was very strict. She used to beat him. Poor little mite.’ She pushed the tea across.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He tried to conceal his excitement, but his hand wasn’t steady as he spooned in the sugar. Whatever vague doubts he might have had about Gauld being the Ripper were now dispelled. He endeavoured to keep his voice casual. ‘I suppose, being beaten by his granny made him hate old people?’
