Night Frost (33 page)

   "Great!" muttered Frost, trying to share his commander’s enthusiasm. He always got worried when things appeared to be going too well.

   They looked in on the exhibits store where Arthur Hanlon, his nose red and sore from repeated blowing, was hovering over a collection of cardboard boxes, the spoils from Wally Manson’s van. "Mr. Mullett tells me it’s all cut and dried," said Frost. "Wally’s confessed and hanged himself to spare the state the cost of a trial."

   "Not quite, Jack," giggled Hanlon, blowing his nose with a sodden handkerchief. "He’s denying everything at the moment—you know what a slimy little sod he is."

   "Yes," nodded Frost. "I sometimes think he’s Mr. Mullett’s illegitimate son. Anyway, what have we got?"

   Hanlon pushed one of the boxes over and raised the flaps. "This was a surprise, Jack." The box was packed tight with pornographic videos. "Forty-nine in all," reported Hanlon. "The same titles as we got from the newsagent’s." Frost grunted and pulled the next box towards him. This one held assorted house-breaking tools—screwdrivers, jemmies, hammers, glass cutters. The last box, the smallest of the lot, contained various small plastic supermarket bags. Selecting one at random, Frost looked inside, then handed it over to Gilmore. Jewellery. Gold rings, chains, lockets, crucifixes. Another bag held necklaces and ear-rings. Yet another, old-fashioned cameo brooches, and heavy dress jewellery.

   "We’ve only positively identified this, so far," Hanlon told them, fishing out a pearl-studded crucifix on a silver chain. "But it’s the one that matters. This belonged to Mrs. Alice Ryder."

   Frost held the crucifix in his open hand. It looked like silver, but it wasn’t and the pearls were false. It was worth a few pounds at the most and the old lady who fought to stop it being stolen had had her skull smashed in and had died in Demon Hospital. "Mullett was yapping about positive forensic evidence?"

   "The stains are definitely blood, the same group as the old lady, and there were small fragments of china which matched up to that vase he smashed getting through the window."

   "What have you told Manson?"

   "I haven’t told him anything. I’ve only questioned him about being in possession of stolen property."

   "You haven’t mentioned the killings?"

   "Good. Let’s keep the sod guessing. Bring him to Interview Room Number 1." Frost patted his pockets and realized he was out of cigarettes. He sent Gilmore back to the office to fetch a packet from his desk drawer.

   Gritty, tired and irritated at being treated as a messenger boy, Gilmore yanked the drawer open. Underneath the camouflage of two ancient files were a couple of packs, each containing 200 Benson and Hedges export only cigarettes. He paused. A way to get back into his Divisional Commander’s good books. This was exactly the sort of thing Mullett had asked him to look out for. Evidence of Frost’s dubious practices. A quiet word in Mullett’s ear. "I don’t know if I ought to be saying this, sir, against a fellow officer, but . . ." He could already see the Cheshire cat grin spreading over the Divisional Commander’s face. He stuffed a spare packet in his pocket as evidence. Then be noticed something protruding beneath one of the packs in the drawer. A battered, blue material-covered case. Something else Frost had helped himself to? He clicked it open. Snug on red plush a silver cross on a dark blue ribbon, the inscription in the centre reading
For Gallantry
. Frost’s famous medal. The George Gross. The civilian equivalent to the VC. Gilmore stared at it, then quickly clicked the case shut and replaced it at the bottom of the drawer together with the spare pack from his pocket. Frost would never know it, but yet again his medal had got him out of possible trouble.

"Gentleman to see you, Inspector," announced Hanlon, pushing Wally Manson into the Interview Room.

   Manson blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright light after the shaded bulb of his cell. Through a haze of blue smoke he could see the unwelcome sight of Detective Inspector Jack Frost sprawled untidily in a chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. On the table in front of him were a couple of the boxes taken from his van.

   "Nice of you to drop in, Wally," said Frost, waving a hand at the other chair by the table. "Sit down." Behind the inspector, leaning against the wall under the tiny window, was a younger man he didn’t recognize, in a smart suit. The younger man looked tired and frazzled and nasty.

   Gilmore contemplated Manson with disgust. The man was a slob with his weasel-like face, lank greasy hair and eyes that kept shifting from side to side; a cornered rat looking for an escape route.

   "I don’t know what this is all about, Mr. Frost," Manson said, shrinking down into the offered chair. "Like I told the other gentleman, I found those boxes dumped in a lay-by. I was on the way to the police station to hand them in when those two coppers picked me up."

   "I’m sorry to hear that, Wally," said Frost, shaking ash all over the floor, "I was hoping you were guilty, because we’re going to frame you anyway."

   Wally grinned at the inspector’s joke, but Frost didn’t seem to be joking. He dipped into one of the cardboard boxes and pulled out a pearl crucifix which he swung by the chain under Wally’s nose.

   "She identified you, Wally."

   Manson jerked his head away. "Like I told the other officer, Mr. Frost, I found these boxes in a lay-by . . ."

   "They’ll find you in a bleedin’ lay-by if you don’t stop sodding me about, Wally. You’ve been identified, we know you did it and we’re going to get a confession and a conviction by fair means or foul. So tell us about it."

   "If only I knew what you’re talking about, Mr. Frost," said Manson, giving his unconvincing impression of puzzled innocence, then nearly jumping out of his chair as the young thug behind him suddenly bellowed in his ear, "We’re talking about the woman whose skull you fractured, you scum-bag."

   "There’s no need to raise your voice, Sergeant," reproved Frost mildly. "He’s going to give us everything we want with out bullying, aren’t you, Wally?"

   "I’ll help you if I can," said Manson, rubbing his ear.

   Frost beamed a friendly smile that made the prisoner’s blood run cold. "Good. Then help me with Mrs. Alice Ryder, the old lady from Clarendon Street who you put in hospital." At this stage he wasn’t going to let Manson know that she was dead.

   Manson looked hurt. "Not me, Mr. Frost. That’s not my style."

   Frost snorted a cloud of Benson and Hedges smoke. "Style! You haven’t got any bleeding style. If you’re going to sod me about, I can sod you about. Notebook, Sergeant." Gilmore took out his notebook and flipped it open.

   "Stand up," snapped Frost to Manson.

   Manson hestiated so Gilmore yanked him to his feet.

   "Walter Richard Manson," droned Frost, "alias the Granny Ripper . . ."

   "Granny Ripper?" croaked Manson, his astonishment sounding genuine this time.

   "Shut up!" barked Gilmore.

   "Alias the Granny Ripper," continued Frost, "I am arresting you on three counts of murder . . ." To Gilmore he said, "Fill in the details—I forget the names and dates." Gilmore nodded, his pencil scribbling furiously. "You are not obliged to say anything—etc. etc., but anything you do say, blah, blah, blah. Take it as read, Wally—you know the words better than I do."

   "I am totally innocent of these preposterous charges," said Manson smugly, twisting his head to make sure Gilmore was writing it all down.

   Frost put his hand on Gilmore’s notebook to stop him writing. "Hold on, Sergeant. I’m sure we can do better than that." He scratched his scar thoughtfully. "Put . . . 'The prisoner replied I didn’t mean to kill them. I’m terribly sorry for what I did. I deserve to be punished.' "

   The man’s jaw dropped. "I never said that."

   Frost lit up another export only. "What you actually said doesn’t matter, Wally. It’s what he puts down in his book that gets read out in court."

   Manson shrunk back in his chair. "I shall deny saying it. I shall say it’s all lies."

   "Of course you will, Wally. And it will be the word of a cheap slimy little crook with a record against a detective inspector with a medal. Courts seem to think that people with George Crosses are incapable of telling lies."

   "That’s not fair," said Manson, almost in tears.

   "Life’s not fair when some bastard breaks into your house and smashes your skull in," snapped Frost.

   Wally’s tongue flicked snake-like across dried lips. "You wouldn’t perjure yourself, Mr. Frost?" he pleaded, but the expression on the inspector’s face said, "Yes, I bloody well would."

   Frost leant his head back and treated the ceiling to a squirt of smoke. "Not perjury, Wally—it’s called oiling the wheels of justice. Take him away, Sergeant, and charge him. We’ll have him in court first thing tomorrow."

   Hanlon stepped forward and took the man’s arm, but Wally shook him off. "What do I get if I co-operate?"

   "My undying gratitude, Wally—and perhaps a whisper to the judge about how helpful you were."

   Manson hesitated. "This old lady in Clarendon Street. You say she identified me?"

   "She described you perfectly, Wally. She said her attacker was an ugly little bastard with bad breath and dandruff. We showed her some photographs and she picked you out right away."

   Manson gnawed at his lower lip. "I didn’t mean to hurt her, Mr. Frost. She came at me like a bloody tiger."

   "An eighty-one-year-old tiger," said Frost. "What did she attack you with—her pension book?"

   "A knife, Mr. Frost . . . a flaming great knife." He tugged the shirt from his trousers and lifted it to expose his stomach. "Look what she did to me!" A thick pad of dirty red-mottled cotton wool, blood still weeping from the edges, was strapped to his stomach by strips of sticking plaster. "She’d have killed me. I had to hit her to defend myself." He fumbled at the dressing. "Do you want to see what it’s like underneath?"

   Frost waved the offer away. "No, thanks, Wally. It’s a bit too near your dick and I haven’t had my breakfast yet. I’ll get the doctor to have a look at it." He slid from his chair and went to the door, making a small jerk of his head to signal Hanlon to follow.

   Outside in the passage, Frost closed the door firmly and lowered his voice. "Here’s a turn-up for the bleedin’ book, Arthur. Did you check that knife to see if it matched up with any of the old girl’s cutlery?"

   "No, Jack. There were no prints on it and the damn thing had been honed razor sharp. I just assumed it came from her attacker."

   "She was terrified of burglars. She probably kept a sharpened knife to protect herself. Check it out now—and find out what blood group Wally is. It should be on his prison file." He followed the worried-looking Hanlon down the corridor and asked Sergeant Wells to call the duty police surgeon.

The police surgeon dropped unused bandages into his bag and clicked it shut. "I don’t think there’s any danger, but just to be on the safe side, the hospital should check him over." He gave Frost his 'Payment Request' form to sign and checked it carefully before nodding his goodbye.

   An agitated Arthur Hanlon was waiting outside the Interview Room. His shamefaced expression told Frost all.

   "The knife came from her cutlery drawer," Hanlon admitted. "She’s got a carving fork and a sharpening steel all in the same pattern to match. I’m sorry, Jack, I should have checked."

   "Never mind, Arthur," said Frost. "It makes me feel better to know I’m not the only twat in the force."

   "And Wally’s blood group is 0, the same as the dead woman’s, so the blood on the knife could well have come from him."

   "Damn. The knife was the only thing that tied him to the other two killings and we haven’t got that now. Never mind, let’s do our best with what little we’ve got—as the bishop said to the actress."

   In the Interview Room, which now reeked of antiseptic, their prisoner was noisily drinking a cup of tea, watched by a sour-faced Gilmore. Frost dropped wearily into his chair. "Right, Wally. The doctor says you’re not going to die, but I’ve got over my disappointment. Tell me about the old dear at Clarendon Street—right from the beginning." He pushed a cigarette across the table and lit it for the man. "And cover up your stomach—it’s wobbling like a bloody blancmange."

   Manson sucked gratefully at the cigarette. "Thanks, Mr. Frost." He tucked his shirt back in and readjusted his belt. "This was last Monday night—one of those nights when everything went wrong."

   Frost nodded in sympathy. He had many nights like that.

   "The first house I tried I thought was going to be easy. Up on the dustbin and through the back window. I could hear the old boy talking to his wife downstairs, so I thought the coast was clear. Straight in the bedroom and there’s this weird niff . . . I flashes my torch around and, bloody hell—there’s a decomposing corpse grinning at me. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I had to nip in the pub for some Dutch courage and who comes walking through the door but you and that bloke there with the fancy aftershave. This just ain’t my bloody night, I thought. But I phoned you. I told you about the body."

   "I know, Wally," nodded Frost. "I recognized your voice."

   "I should have packed it in, but I needed some readies—I owed the bookie a couple of hundred and he was screaming for it. I’d already marked out this house in Clarendon Street. It looked easy and they said this old lady had cash all over the place. It must have been well bloody hidden—I never found it. The bedroom was empty. She was in the other room watching the telly, then, just my flaming luck, I knocks this vase over and the next thing I know she’s charging in with the knife, stashing away. I lashed out in self-defence and she went out like a light." He took another drag at his cigarette. "It was all her fault, Mr. Frost. I could have sued her for what she did to me. You know the law—you’re only supposed to use reasonable force in ejecting a burglar, and gouging chunks out of his gut with a carving knife ain’t reasonable force."