'I picked her up in Fenton Street about half-past two.' Exactly what we said in the telecast, thought Frost.
We give these sods too many clues. 'I went to a tall tart first, but she was too dear.' Frost sat bolt upright and signalled frantically to Mullett. He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece. 'Trace this call and get someone over there to pick him up… he's our man.'
Back to the phone as Mullett dialled. 'Sorry about that,' Frost apologized, 'I was looking for my pen. So you picked her up? Then what?'
'We drove down a cul-de-sac and we had it away. I don't like speaking ill of the dead, but she was rubbish. Then she had the flaming cheek to ask me to drive her home to Castle Street.'
'And did you?'
'No, I bloody didn't. I live near there and I didn't want anyone to see me with her in the car… she was hardly quality. I told her I wasn't going that way, so she asked me to drop her off at a phone box so she could call a cab.'
'What phone box?'
'The one by the railway arch in Vicarage Street.' Frost looked hopefully across to Mullett who had the phone clamped to his ear. Mullett shook his head. 'Still trying to trace it,' he mouthed.
'Do you know what cab firm she was going to Phone?' Frost asked.
'I didn't hold a conversation with her. I just wanted her out of my car.'
'Had you been with her before?'
'If I'd been with her before, I'd never have gone with her last night. She wasn't bloody worth it.'
'So you said,' murmured Frost, again raising enquiring eyes to Mullett who signalled back, winding his hand for Frost to keep the conversation going. 'Look, sir, I promise you'll be kept out of it, but it would be helpful if we could have your name.'
'No way.' A click and the purr of the dialling tone.
Frost slammed the phone down. As he did so, Mullett raised a finger. 'The public call box outside the main post office. Charlie Alpha is on the way.'
'I hope he'll have the decency to wait for them,' grunted Frost, heaving himself out of the chair. 'The bollocking will have to be put on hold, Super. I've got to follow this up…'
The phone in the murder incident room rang. Burton answered it. 'Charlie Alpha,' he announced. 'No-one in the phone box when they arrived.'
Frost gave a resigned shrug. 'I don't think there's any more he could have told us.' He was more concerned with getting a reply from British Telecom to tell him the number dialled from the call box in Vicarage Street. 'Come on, come on,' he moaned at the phone. 'I haven't got all flaming day.' He snatched it up on the first ring. British Telecom had the number, and it wasn't Denton Minicabs. Frost dialled it.
'Speedy Radiocabs,' announced a woman's voice.
'This is Denton police. You received a call around 2.30 yesterday morning to pick up a woman in Vicarage Street. Can you tell me which of your drivers handled it, please?'
A pause and the rustling of paper. 'Got it. Woman wanted to go to Castle Street. Our cab got there in ten minutes, but she wasn't there. We've had quite a few of these abortive calls lately.'
Frost put the phone down and spun round. 'She called for a cab. When it arrived she wasn't there. Jackson said the same thing happened for him with Helen Stokes and Big Bertha. This changes everything. We're not looking for someone pretending to be a punter. We're looking for someone posing as a minicab driver.' He got off the chair and paced up and down excitedly, teasing out his thoughts. 'A couple of years ago we had this pirate cabbie listening in to the other firms' calls on his radio so he could get to their pick-up before they did. I bet my flaming pension this is what our bloke is doing. He lurks about late at night, hears a call from a tart wanting a cab and gets there first. By the time the poor cow realizes he's not taking her where she wants to go, it's too late.'
'Possible,' acknowledged Hanlon.
'It's more than possible, Arthur. I've got one of my infallible feelings. Right, drop everything else. I want every minicab and licensed cab firm in Denton called on. Find out if they had calls the nights any toms went missing and if there was no show when they arrived. And I also want someone to check out the bloke with the pirate cab and see if he's up to his old tricks. The slightest suspicion, like a dead tom in the back of his motor, bring him in.' This was better. This was what he liked. Action.
The door crashed open and Taffy Morgan burst in. 'I've tracked her down, guv… Nelly Aldridge, the lady with the nipples.'
'Damn,' said Frost. 'I'd forgotten about her. What cemetery is she buried in?
'She's alive and well, guv. Lives in a smallholding at Hill Lane on the outskirts of Denton. No sign of a son.'
'She must be pushing eighty. I bet her nipples aren't worth looking at now.'
'She's a tough old bird by all accounts, won't let anyone go near the place. The Social Services lady tried to call and got the chamber pot emptied all over her for her trouble.'
'We'll have to send Mr Mullett round in his best uniform. How long has she been there?'
'Over forty years. The previous owner died and the council had the place down in their records as empty and derelict. They only recently realized someone was living there.'
'How did they find out?'
'The old girl fell and broke her wrist. She got herself to Denton Hospital and they wanted to keep her in, but she refused. That's why they sent the Social Services lady round there.'
Frost checked his watch. If they could get this one tied up and out of the way they could concentrate on more important things. 'Right, Taffy. You and me will pay her a visit and see if she remembers burying her son in a neighbour's garden.'
Hill Lane was narrow, rutted and steep, and tested the car's springs to the limit. A bumpy, uncomfortable ride, so it was almost a relief when the lane petered out to a muddied footpath and they had to get out and walk, fighting their way, heads down, against a driving wind. A dank and desolate area with hostile branches and brambles scratching and tearing as they sloshed their way through rain-filled pot-holes. The lane twisted and started getting steeper. 'Are you sure this is right?' asked Frost. It doesn't seem to be leading anywhere.'
'It's definitely up here somewhere, guv,' Morgan told him. 'Not easy to reach, the lady said.'
'Ladies never say that to me,' said Frost. 'Ah..' They had reached the summit and were looking down on the untidy sprawl of the smallholding, mud dotted with piles of rubbish and battered corrugated sheeting.
Rusty wire held in a few scrawny chickens who squawked in protest at the invasion of the two detectives. From somewhere behind the chicken shed they could hear a goat bleating. The small house looked neglected with boarded-up windows, peeling paint and sections of guttering hanging limply down like a broken arm.
As they scrunched their way down a swampy cinder path, Morgan screwed up his face in disgust. 'What's that smell, guv?'
Frost indicated a small brick outhouse with a corrugated iron roof. 'That's an earth privy — a wooden seat and a bucket. If she offers us rhubarb and custard, say no.'
There was no knocker or bell push on the cracked front door so he thumped with his fist. They waited. Nothing.
'Perhaps she's out,' suggested Morgan, wishing they'd never started this.
'Perhaps she's filling up the chamber pot,' said Frost, stepping well back. 'You take over the knocking.'
Nervously, Morgan gave the door a tentative rap, then tried to look through the window, but the thick grime barely let him see through to the drawn, dirt-heavy curtains and all he saw was his own blurred reflection. He hammered the door again. 'Police — open up.'
'Clear off!' An old woman's voice. The upstairs window had opened.
Morgan hopped back quickly as a bucketful of something nasty splattered down. 'I don't think she's too keen to see us, guv,' he muttered.
'It's just her way,' said Frost as the window slammed shut again. He gave the door a savage kick. 'Open up, missus, or we'll kick the bloody door in.'
The window again creaked open. 'Go away. I'm sick.' The voice was weak and quavering.
'You'll be a bloody sight sicker if you don't let us in,' bellowed Frost.
They waited as footsteps slowly descended the stairs, then countless bolts were drawn and the front door
