'Do you get many cranks?'
Adams gave a sad smile and nodded. 'We get more than our fair share. They are quite shocking to listen to at times, describing in graphic detail some obscene practice or some terrible crime they claim to have committed. Sick people who get their kicks from upsetting others.'
Frost stiffened. 'You get people confessing to crimes?'
'Yes. Mostly imaginary, of course.'
Frost's mind raced. What if the serial killer had phoned to boast about what he had done to those toms? What if he suddenly realized he had given too much away, something that could identify him? That would have made the person who took the call a potential danger. 'If you think people are confessing to a genuine crime, do you notify the police?'
'We have a strict code of confidentiality, Inspector. If it were learnt that someone had been arrested as a result of a call to the Samaritans-'
'But what if the call was from someone who had killed before and would kill again?'
Adams hesitated. 'I don't know. Fortunately the circumstance you describe has not yet arisen. If I was sure the call was genuine and the danger was real, then I might make an anonymous phone call to the police, but I just don't know.'
'Do you ever meet any of the people who phone you?'
'No.'
Frost worried away at his scar. 'Supposing, just supposing, that last call Helen took was from someone confessing to a crime. She urges him to give himself up. The caller says, 'I'm outside, come and talk to me.' Would she have gone?'
'At one o'clock in the morning, you do not meet complete strangers outside without telling someone. Helen was a very cautious lady. She would never have taken the risk.'
Frost scrubbed his face with his hands. He wasn't getting anywhere, but felt he was close, very close, to something. 'Thanks for your help, Mr Adams. I might want to talk to you again.'
As he made his way to the door, the plump lady beckoned him over. Her eyes were still puffy and red. 'I'm sorry I made a fool of myself, Inspector.'
'That's all right, love.'
'It was just the shock. I saw Helen's car outside and thought she was here, and when they told me-'
Frost stopped in his tracks. 'You mean her car is still here?'
'Yes, it's parked in the street outside.'
'Show me,' said Frost.
It was tucked' away in the back street by a lamp post, a light grey six-year-old Mini. The doors when Frost tried them were locked. He bent to look inside. Absolutely clean, ashtrays empty and gleaming, only the driver's seat showed signs of wear, the rest almost as good as new. A lonely woman who probably had few passengers. He straightened up. 'She always came here by car?'
'When she was on nights, she did. There's no public transport in the early hours.'
'Thanks. You've been a great help.' He turned his attention back to the Mini. No buses, so why didn't! she use the car? Was she waylaid before she could get to it? If so, she couldn't have been a random: victim of the serial killer. This area was all one-way streets and cul-de-sacs. You would have to come here deliberately. He looked around. An area mainly of shops, not many with living accommodation above, there would be few people about to see or hear anything at that hour of the morning. But just in; case, he radioed Bill Wells for men to go house-to- house in the immediate area. He also arranged for the Mini to be towed back to the station for Forensic to find their usual sod all, and waited in his car to keep an eye on it until the tow truck arrived. Just his luck for some joy-rider to pinch it before they could examine it.
He sucked smoke, half listening to the dribble of messages over the radio as he turned over events in his mind. His theory that the killer had phoned Helen and given too much away was getting stronger and stronger. But how did he pick her up? The toms would willingly climb in a strange car, but nervous, cautious Helen Stokes, at 1.30 in the morning? She would have to be forcibly dragged with a knife to the throat. Make a sound and you're dead. But wait a minute. If the killer had only heard her voice over the phone, how could he recognize her when she came out?
The tow truck pulled up and he watched them remove the Mini. If she was recognized, the killer must have known her, perhaps from where she worked? He hadn't asked the dentist to account for his movements the night his receptionist was killed. Sod it! Why did he always forget the important things? He reversed out of the street and back to the dental surgery.
The surgery didn't seem to be open. The brass plate by the entrance confirmed it was closed for lunch between 1.00 and 2.30 p.m. He checked his watch. 1.45. Damn! He gave a half-hearted push and, to his delight, the entrance door swung back. The reception area was empty. From force of habit he went to the desk and had a nose through the papers. All boring dental stuff, letters, appointments, forms, but what the hell did he expect to find — a signed confession?
He was about to leave when he heard a sound, a, faint sound, someone moaning. A woman, and it wasn't a moan of pain. The sound came from behind the closed doors of the surgery.
Tiptoeing over, he gently turned the door handle and peeped inside. The dental chair was in a reclining position, above it, a pair of pink buttocks pumped up and down and the long legs of the red-headed receptionist, whose bust Morgan had so recently admired, were wrapped tightly round a bare back.
He watched for a while, then cleared his throat. Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but could I have a word?'
A, gasp, a squeal and the buttocks quivered to an abrupt halt.
'Who the hell is that?' The dentist was in no position to turn round and see.
Frost retreated to the reception area and waited. From the surgery came the sound of angry recriminations. 'I thought I told you to lock the door.' 'I thought I had locked it.' 'Well, you bloody well didn't, did you?'
After a few minutes a red-faced dentist emerged shrugging on a white dental gown, followed by an even redder-faced receptionist who, eyes averted, clattered past Frost to the ladies' toilet. 'I must apologize, Inspector,' began Ashby. 'Most embarrassing…'
'Never saw a thing,' lied Frost. 'A couple of questions I should have asked earlier. Where were you Friday night from the time Miss Stokes left the surgery?'
'I locked up and went straight home. I was dead tired. Then a meal, some television, and early bed.'
'Could this be confirmed, sir? Just routine, of course.'
'My wife will confirm it.'
Frost couldn't be sure, but he thought the dentist was looking a little uneasy. 'And where were you last night, from around midnight onwards?'
The dentist frowned. 'Last night?'
'That was when the body was dumped. As I say, just routine.'
'We had some friends in for dinner. They stayed quite late.'
'How late, sir?'
'It was gone midnight by the time they left. I then went to bed.'
'Your friends' names sir?' Frost scribbled details on the back of his cigarette packet. If the alibis checked he could wipe the dentist off his list of suspects. His list! That was a joke. The dentist was the only name on it. Please, he silently pleaded, please don't let his alibi check out otherwise I'm right up the creek. 'That's all for the moment, sir,' he nodded. I'll leave you to enjoy what's left of your lunch before it gets too cold.'
'Having it away in the dentist's chair?' croaked Morgan, spooning up his soup. 'Flaming heck!' They were in the canteen for a late lunch.
'He not only does extractions, he does insertions as well,' said Frost.
'I've done it in some strange places,' said Morgan in wonderment, 'but never in a dentist's chair.' He wrinkled his nose. 'A bit off-putting though, guv. All those pliers and drills and the spit suction machine gurgling away. Not very romantic.'
'Those spit pumps frighten the life out of me,' said Frost with a shudder. 'I'm terrified they're suddenly going to go in reverse and pump the last hundred patients' spit back into me.' He took another bite at his ham sandwich. 'Which reminds me, did I ever tell you the joke about the bloke who drunk the spittoon for a bet?'
