Night Frost (45 page)

   "Then this puts Gauld in the clear," said Gilmore. "He was driving his coach until ten and we watched his house until past midnight."

   "He could have gone out again after we left," said Frost, furious with himself for giving up the surveillance so early. "If Doc Maltby is right the time of death could have been as late as one o’clock."

   "You don’t call at one in the morning to fit a chain," pointed out Gilmore. "And old girls of seventy-five don’t sit up all night watching television."

   Frost gave a rueful sniff. The sergeant was right. This was his star suspect flushed down the sewer. He pushed the money back into the purse, then noticed something else in the centre compartment. Membership cards for the Reef Bingo Club and for the All Saints Senior Citizens’ Club.

   "All Saints?" exclaimed Gilmore excitedly. Frost’s suspect might be a non-runner, but his own one was fast coming up on the rails. "That bloody curate comes from All Saints."

The pathologist studied the rectal thermometer, gave it a shake, then wiped it clean before replacing it in his bag. His lips moved silently as he did a mental calculation. "In my opinion death occurred between midnight and one o’clock this morning."

   Gilmore registered dismay. "Not earlier?" They had seen the curate outside the cemetery just after midnight last night and it was over half an hour later that they left him to go on to the vicarage.

   "If it was earlier," sniffed the pathologist, snapping shut his bag, "then I would have said so." He shouted down the stairs for the mortuary attendants to come up and collect the body then shafted a glare of disapproval at Frost who had come bounding back into the flat, grinning all over his face. "I’ve relayed my preliminary findings to your sergeant."

   "Thanks, doc," said Frost, not sounding very interested. He grabbed Gilmore by the arm and pulled him to one side.

   "Autopsy at four," called the pathologist, buttoning up his coat.

   "Right," said Frost. He wasn’t interested in the autopsy. By four o’clock the killer should be behind bars.

   But Gilmore got in with his own bad news first. "Death occurred after midnight, so that clears the curate." He waved away Frost’s offered cigarette. "So now we haven’t got a single flaming suspect."

   "Yes, we have, son," beamed Frost, sending his cigarette packet on a round tour of the room. "Our luck had to change some time and now it’s happened. I’ve been chatting up the old dear next door. First, the dead woman had a job getting off to sleep. She was always up watching television until three or four in the morning. Second, she’d told her neighbour she was going to have a stronger chain fitted and guess who was going to do it?"

   "Gauld?"

   "She didn’t know his name but it was that nice young man who drove the mini-coach that took her to bingo."

   "Did she say when he was coming to do the job?"

   "No, son. But he came last night. Late. After Joe Soap pulled off the bloody surveillance."

   "How do you know?"

   "She didn’t tell her neighbour when he was coming. But she told her how much he was going to charge her. Eight quid."

   Gilmore whistled. The £5 note and three pound coins in the dead hand. "It sounds too good to be true."

   "You know my motto," smirked Frost. "Never kick a gift horse up the fundamental orifice." He noticed Burton hovering. “What is it, son?"

   "Forensic have turned up a rogue fingerprint, sir. On the sideboard. Looks recent."

   Frost beamed. "Luck could be running our way for once. I think the time has come to bring Gauld in."

Friday afternoon shift

The coach drew up at the old lady’s house. The driver sprang from his seat and opened the door, steadying her as she descended the steep step from the coach to the pavement. "Can you manage all right from here, my love?" he asked. She nodded and waved her thanks and hobbled up to her front gate as the coach went on its way.

   There was only one other passenger. A dishevelled individual hunched up in the rear seat, puffing away solidly on the journey back from the bingo hall. Gauld hadn’t seen him before. He slowed down at the traffic lights. Damn. The scruffy man was making his way down the aisle. Not one of those chatty sods, he hoped. The seat behind him creaked as the man lowered himself down.

   "Drop you off at the Market Square?" Gauld asked.

   "Eagle Lane," mumbled the man. "Opposite the police station."

   As he turned into Eagle Lane he noticed in his rear-view mirror a police car close behind him. When he pulled up outside the police station, the car stopped even though it had plenty of room to pass. His passenger shuffled out, squeezing past two uniformed policemen who suddenly appeared at the coach door. "Mr. Ronald Gauld?" asked one of them. "I wonder if you’d mind popping into the station for a couple of minutes." The other policeman leant across and switched off the ignition.

They took him through to a small, functional room, sparsely furnished with a plain light oak table and three chairs. In the corner of the room a young thickset chap in a grey suit was sitting, a notebook open on his knee. Another man, whose scowl seemed permanent, was standing, leaning up against the wall. He pointed to a chair for Gauld to sit. The door opened as a third man came in. Gauld blinked in surprise. It was the scruffy passenger from his coach. "Frost," announced the man, "Detective Inspector Jack Frost."

   The lino squealed as Frost dragged a chair over to sit opposite Gauld. He then laid out on the table a green folder, a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and the large manila envelope containing the possessions the station sergeant had asked Gauld to empty from his pockets. This done, Frost smiled benevolently and helped himself to a cigarette.

   Gauld wriggled in his chair. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. "What’s this all about?"

   Frost frowned. "Haven’t you been told?" He swung round to the man with the notebook. "Didn’t you tell him?" A headshake. Frost tutted with mock exasperation, then slowly took a match from the box and struck it on the table. "It’s about Mrs. Fussell."

   Gauld frowned as if trying to remember. "Never heard of her."

   "Oh dear," exclaimed Frost, looking worried. He turned to the scowler. "We might have the wrong man, Sergeant." Looking puzzled, he scrabbled through the green folder and plucked out some typed pages. "All these witnesses must be lying." Back to Gauld. "You’d swear on oath you don’t know her, sir?" Before Gauld had a chance to answer, he added, "What about Mrs. Elizabeth Winters, Roman Road, Denton? Surely you’re not going to tell us you don’t know her?"

   "I know lots of people. I’m a coach driver. I drive people about all the time. I don’t necessarily know their names."

   "Then here’s an easy one—Mary Haynes."

   "I’ve just told . . ." He blinked and stopped dead, his expression freezing as if he had just realized what the inspector was on about. "Wait a minute! I’ve just twigged. Haynes . . . Winters! They were both murdered! Are you trying to pin them on me?"

   "Yes," replied Frost, simply. "That’s exactly what we’re trying to do." He shook out the contents of the manila envelope and raked through Gauld’s possessions. There was a colour photograph of a grey-haired lady smiling doubtfully at the camera. He picked it up and studied it carefully. "I don’t recognize this one. When did you murder her?"

   Gauld snatched up the photograph. "That’s my mother, you bastard!"

   "Ah!" said Frost with an enlightened nod. He studied his notes. "Father died when you were three, mother alive and well."

   "She’s not well!" retorted Gauld. "She’s got a bad heart."

   "Sorry to hear that," said Frost. "Still, better a bad heart than having your throat cut. Any objection to our taking your fingerprints?"

   "What happens if I object?"

   "We’ll take them anyway, so why cause bad feeling?"

   A young uniformed officer was summoned to take the prints. Frost waited patiently until the task was completed, then whispered something to the officer who nodded and left.

   "I ought to have a solicitor," said Gauld.

   Frost seemed astonished. "You’re innocent! What do you want a solicitor for?"

   "Because I think you bastards are trying to frame me for something I haven’t done, that’s why."

   "Oh no." Frost sounded hurt. "I might frame you for something you had done, but not otherwise."

   The scowler moved forward. "All the murder victims travelled on your coach."

   Gauld twisted in his chair to face the questioner. "So what? Hundreds of people travel on my coach."

   "Where were you last Sunday afternoon?" barked the detective sergeant.

   "I don’t know," smirked Gauld. "Where were you?"

   The door opened and the fingerprint man returned to murmur in the inspector’s ear. Frost’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "All right, Gauld. You can stop the pretence. We’ve got you."

   "Have you really?" he said cockily. "I’m shaking with fright."

   "You’ll be shitting yourself in a minute," said Frost. "You told me earlier you didn’t know a Mrs. Julia Fussell."

   "I said I didn’t know the name."

   "You were going to fit a stronger security chain on her front door."

   Gauld leant back in his chair. "Ah—now I’m with you. Little old dear—about seventy-five. Lives in Victoria Court."

   "So you do know her!" said Gilmore.

   "I didn’t know her name. I always call her Ma." He looked disturbed. "What about her? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?"

   "You called on her late last night to fit the security chain."

   "No, I didn’t. I was going to, but I felt tired, so I had an early night."

   Gilmore, standing directly behind him, bent down. "You lying bastard. You went there and killed her."

   Gauld’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of his chair. "Killed? You mean . . . she’s dead? That poor old lady is dead?"

   "Don’t act the bloody innocent. You know damn well she’s dead," hissed Gilmore.

   Gauld just stared straight ahead, slack-jawed, head moving from side to side in disbelief. Then his eyes narrowed. "And you’re accusing me of killing her?"

   "That’s right," beamed Frost. "You got careless this time. You left a fingerprint behind."

   "A fingerprint!" echoed Gauld, eyes wide open as if under standing for the first time. "So that’s why you think I’m the killer? Would you like me to give you a statement?"

   "If you want to give us one, we’ll take it down, sir," said Frost, signalling to Burton who turned to a fresh page in his notebook. Frost was vaguely worried. The man was looking far too smug and self-assured. Could he possibly have made a mistake? No. His every instinct told him that this smirking little bastard had cut, slashed and mutilated.

   When he saw Burton was ready, Gauld began. "I am making this statement freely, without any inducements being offered, solely to help the police find the perpetrator of this terrible crime." He paused to let Burton catch up with him. "On 14th November, around ten o’clock in the evening, I was returning from the Reef Bingo Club with a party of senior citizens. Amongst my passengers was a lady I now know to be Mrs. Julia Fussell, who expressed herself as being very nervous because of the killings of old people that were taking place and which the police seemed powerless to prevent. When we pulled up outside her destination, Victoria Court, I offered to escort her up to her flat. She accepted. At her door, she gave me her key. I opened the door, had a quick look around inside, and was able to assure her that all was well. I told her that her door chain was inadequate and suggested I fitted a stronger one when I got the chance. She accepted my offer. I then returned to my coach and continued dropping off my passengers. This may serve to explain why my fingerprints were found inside the flat and assist the police to 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."