Night Frost (36 page)

   Now it was Gilmore’s turn to be angry. If he were to share in Frost’s failures, he wanted to share in his few triumphs. "Why didn’t you tell him about Hanlon? He was the one who sodded up the knife and Manson was our collar, not his."

   "We’re supposed to be a team, son," said Frost, "not all fighting for Brownie points."

   Gilmore’s reply was stifled by the return of DC Burton and PC Jordan. But all right, he muttered to himself, if it takes Brownie points to get on, I’ll give the bastard Brownie points.

Desmond Watson scooped up the post from the mat and closed the front door behind him. He dumped his brief-case by the hall stand and checked through the letters on his way through to the living-room. Two bills, a bank statement and a commission cheque from his firm. Watson was the Northern Area Sales Representative for a double-glazing company. In the living-room the little green light on his telephone answering machine told him there were messages waiting. He fast-forwarded on cue and review, his ear able to recognize from the high-pitched gabble the girl from his firm passing on sales leads which he would note down later, and then the familiar sound of his mother’s voice. He released the button and listened as he opened up the envelope to check that his firm hadn’t yet again made a mistake with his commission payment.

Hello, son. It’s mother. You needn’t worry any more about . . . Just a moment, there’s someone at the door
. . . A pause. A long pause. And then the automatic cut-off operated.

   He raised his head from his checking of the commission payment and waited for the next message which should have been his mother phoning back. But it was a strange voice. A man’s voice. It asked him to ring the Denton Police Station. The commission cheque fluttered from his fingers. His stomach churning with foreboding, he reached for the phone.

Thursday afternoon shift (1)

Gilmore spooned sugar into a cup of hot, strong tea and placed it in front of Watson who was still in a state of shock after formally identifying his mother’s body. The cup clattered on the saucer as his shaking hand raised it to his mouth. He tried to concentrate on what the scruffy inspector was saying.

   "I know it’s been an awful shock, sir, but if you could answer one or two questions."

   The cup was rattling against his teeth. He lowered it back to the saucer, the tea untasted, and pushed it away. "Yes . . . anything."

   "We’ve been listening to a tape from your answering machine, your mother’s last message. You said she made the call at 9.35 p.m. If you weren’t at home, how do you know that?"

   "My answering machine logs the time and date of all calls."

   "I see, sir. And where were you at 9.35 last night?"

   "Me?" His head jerked up. "You suspect me?"

   "I’d be happy if I had anyone to suspect, sir," said Frost, wearily. "I just want to eliminate. Your mother was a nervous woman. She kept her front door chained and bolted and yet someone calls at 9.35 at night and she cheerfully lets them in. It had to be someone she knew and trusted . . . some one like you, sir. So where were you?"

   "I was in Birmingham. The Queensway Hotel." He pulled a receipt from his inside pocket and handed it across. "You’ll want to check, of course."

   Frost glanced at it and passed it to Gilmore who went out to phone.

   "I’d like it back," said Watson. "I need it for my expenses claim."

   Frost nodded. He knew all about expenses claims. "On the tape, sir, your mother starts by saying, 'You needn’t worry any more about . . .' Any idea what she meant by that?"

   "I think she was referring to a new security chain. The one on her front door was inadequate. After hearing about those burglaries and then those two women killed, I’d been on to her to get a stronger one."

   "Can you think of anyone your mother would be happy to admit into her flat at 9.35 at night?"

   "No-one. She was a very nervous woman." He looked up as Gilmore returned with the receipt and murmured some thing in the inspector’s ear.

   "The hotel confirm your visit, sir." Frost handed the receipt back and stood up. "Thank you for your help. We’ll let you know how our enquiries progress . . . and, of course, you have our deepest sympathy." As the door closed behind Watson, Frost’s solemn expression changed to a grin. "So he had a double room and a woman and he asked the hotel for a single room receipt?"

   "Yes," confirmed Gilmore.

   "The crafty bastard," said Frost, shaking his head in admiration. "He gets his firm to pay for his nookie. I wish I could wangle something like that. Anyway, Sonny Boy’s in the clear." He picked up the cassette from the answering machine. "Let’s find out if this can tell us what we want to know."

The Murder Incident Room was swirled with a fog of duty-free cigarette smoke. Frost sat on the corner of the front desk watching Gilmore slot the tape into the Yamaha cassette deck. He clapped his hands for silence.

   "Right. As you know, we’ve had another Ripper murder." He held aloft some enlarged colour prints where red was the predominant colour. "We’ve got photos of the victim, but unless you get a kick out of steaming entrails, I suggest you take them as read. The bastard almost disembowelled her." He stood up, the cigarette waggling in his mouth as he spoke. "The victim is a Mrs. Doris Watson, aged seventy-six, a widow with one son. She rarely went out, except to the twice-weekly senior citizens’ afternoon sessions at the Reef Bingo Club. The poor cow was terrified of being attacked so she had extra bolts, a spy-hole and a security chain fitted to her front door. Last night, at 9.35, she made a telephone call to her son. The son was out, but his answering machine picked up the call. This is it." He nodded for Gilmore to start the tape.

   A bleep. Then,
Hello, son. It’s mother. You needn’t worry anymore about . . . Just a moment, there’s someone at the door . . .
Vague sounds as the tape continued, then another bleep. Gilmore jammed down the Stop control.

   The room was dead quiet.

"She put down the phone," continued Frost, "and went to the front door. She squints through the spy-hole, likes what she sees, so this nervous woman undoes the chain, draws the bolts and welcomes in the bastard who’s going to rip out her intestines." He took the cigarette from his mouth and spat out a shred of tobacco. "You’re all a lot smarter than I am, so let’s have some brilliant suggestions. Come on—you’re a nervous woman of seventy-six. Who would you let into your flat at night—apart from a toy-boy with his own teeth and a big dick?"

   Burton raised his hand. "Something we’ve never considered, sir. She’d never let in a man—but what if the Ripper was a woman?"

   Frost chewed on his lip as he thought this over. "It’s possible, son. It would explain a lot, but my gut reaction is against it. We’ll keep it in mind, though."

   WPC Jill Knight raised a hand. "If she’d phoned for a doctor, she’d let him in."

   A buzz of excitement.

   "You’re right," said Frost. "She’d let a doctor in."

   "Or a priest," added Gilmore. Purley was still his number one suspect.

   "Or a priest," agreed Frost. "OK, son You can check on the curate. We want to know where he was last night. And you, Jill. Find out who her doctor was. See if she asked him to call last night and even if she didn’t, find out where he was at 9.35. Anything else?"

   He waited. Nothing. He took out a fresh cigarette then threw the pack to Burton to offer around. "I’ll tell you some thing that worries me." He struck a match on the table leg. "This time he took no money. He didn’t ransack the bed room. Over a hundred quid in her purse in full view on the sideboard and it wasn’t touched. Now Sergeant Gilmore suggests something disturbed the Ripper and he had to hoof it off before he could nick anything." He blew out the match and let it drop to the floor. "But stupid sod that I am, I can’t buy that. This bloke is icy cold. Nothing panics him. I reckon money’s never been his motive."

   "So what is his motive?" asked Gilmore.

   "Killing," said Frost. "I reckon he gets his kicks out of cold, bloody killing."

   The room went quiet. Chillingly quiet. This had the ring of unpalatable truth.

   "Right." Frost slipped down from the desk. "Let’s play the tape again."

   It was played again, and again and again. Frost, smoking, chewing his knuckles, hunched in front of the loudspeaker.
Just a moment, there’s someone at the door .
. . Vague sounds. A bleep. Gilmore’s voice . . .
Mr. Watson, this is Denton Police

   "Again," snapped Frost. There was something there. Some thing his subconscious had caught but which kept slipping away. "This is no damn good," he moaned. "I want it louder."

   "It won’t go any louder," said Gilmore.

   "We could use the hi-fl equipment in the rest room," suggested Burton.

   They crowded into the rest room. Gilmore slotted in the cassette and turned the amplifier up almost to its maximum. He pressed Play and the hiss of raw tape crackled from the twin speakers.

   The bleep screamed out like an alarm signal. Tape hiss.
Hello, son. It’s mother,
shouted the old lady, the sound almost hurting their ears.

   "Leave it," ordered Frost as Gilmore’s hand moved to turn down the volume.
You needn’t worry any more about
. . . Through the mush, a buzzing vibrating sound. Then an other.

   "The door bell," muttered Frost. At ordinary volume level it was inaudible.

Just a moment, there’s someone at the door
. . . A rustling, then an echoing bang as if someone had hit a microphone. She had put the phone down. Fading footsteps as she padded up the hall to the front door, eager to let in her murderer. Now the tape background roar was paramount. Frost pressed his ear to the speaker. "Nothing. I imagine she’s giving him the eyeball through the peep-hole. Ah . . ." He moved back. Just about audible, the sound of bolts being drawn and the chink of the chain being removed. The lock clicked. The door opened. The woman said something, but it was so faint and the background so loud, they couldn’t distinguish a word. Then a screaming bleep as the automatic cut-off operated.

   "Let me have a go," said Burton, elbowing Gilmore away and adjusting various controls on the hi-fl’s graphic equalizer which could cut and boost individual frequencies. "Now try it."

   By now, they almost knew every squeak, rustle and click off by heart. When the woman spoke after opening the door it was clearer, but tantalizingly not clear enough for them to make out a single word. "Again," ordered Frost. But Mrs. Watson might have been talking in a foreign language for all the sense it made. God, thought Frost. She could be naming her killer—'Come in, Mr. Ripper of 19 High Street, Denton'—yet they couldn’t understand what she was saying.

   "Try the earphones," said Burton.

   The earphones were better, but still not good enough.

   "Let me have a go," said Jill Knight, adjusting the earphones over her tightly curled hair. She listened and frowned. "Again," she said. The frown was deeper, but this time her lips were moving as if she was repeating what she heard. She took off the earphones. "She’s saying, 'Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you so soon.' "

   They played it again through the speaker. The WPC was right.
Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you so soon
. Frost’s head bowed. He had been hoping for so much and this was nothing.

   "She knew him," said Burton.

   "And he came sooner than expected," muttered Frost. "I think that’s called premature ejaculation." The resulting laughter lifted his depression. "Let’s hear it again." He waved aside the moans that they knew it off by heart. "Indulge an old man’s whim. We might have missed something."

   Again they listened, but only half-heartedly. The tape had told them everything it could. There was nothing they had missed.
Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you so soon
. The thud of the door closing behind him, then the hiss and clanking as raw tape scraped past the replay heads when the automatic cut-out operated. A bleep .

   Frost was sitting bolt upright in his chair, an unlit cigarette drooping in his mouth. "Again—just the end bit—and the volume as high as you bloody well like." Gilmore spun the volume control to its maximum. At first they didn’t spot it. "You must be stone bleeding deaf," roared Frost. "Again . . . and listen this time . . . There!" And this time they heard it. A fraction of a second before the message switched off. The closing of the front door. The hiss, roar and crackle as the tape bumped past the heads then . . . a boxy, metallic chink.

   Burton scratched his head. "Could be anything, Inspector. He could have bumped against the table as he came in."

   "Even if he did," said Frost, "there was nothing on the hall table that would chink. That is definitely a metallic sound."

   "There could have been something on the table—some thing valuable—but he took it away with him," suggested Gilmore, who was feeling left out of things.

   "I thought I heard something chinking as he came through the door," said the WPC.

   "Did you?" exclaimed Frost excitedly and he was up on his feet, jamming his finger on the Rewind button and playing the tape through again. "Yes . . . there!" And through the mush, as the man stepped through the door, a faint metallic chinking sound . . . then another.

   They didn’t hear the door open. "What’s going on in here?"

   "Piss off!" said Frost. "Oh, sorry, Super . . . didn’t know it was you." He played the tape through yet again for Mullett who tried to look as if he knew what Frost was driving at, but obviously didn’t.

   "That noise, sir. At first we thought he’d bumped into the hall table and jolted something on it, but we now reckon that whatever it was, he brought it in with him and dumped it on the hall table."

   Mullett considered this. "It might help if we knew what it was. But we don’t."

   "I think I do," said Frost. He looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “What about a new security chain?"