Night Frost (46 page)

   "Forensic have double-checked. Not a trace. And to make matters worse, his mother swears blind he was with her on each of the murder nights."

   "Then she’s lying," said Frost. "He’s as guilty as arseholes." He scuffed the brown lino moodily. "What about his car? Did you check that for blood?"

   Hanlon nodded. "Forensic have given it the works—nothing."

   Frost treated the lino to an extra hard kick. Things were not working out. His heart sank as the brisk clatter of polished shoes announced the approach of the Divisional Commander, all eager for news of yet another triumph for the Denton team.

   "We’ve hit a couple of minor snags," Frost told him. "We’ve found sod all clues and his mother’s given him a watertight alibi."

   Mullett’s jaw dropped. "But you told me you had conclusive evidence. A fingerprint!"

   "It wasn’t so conclusive as we thought, Super. He explained it away."

   "The house search?"

   "We found nothing," said Hanlon.

   Mullett switched his gaze from Hanlon to Frost. "So what hard evidence have you got?"

   Frost shuffled his feet. All he now had was a gut reaction. He knew Gauld was the Ripper. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew.

   "Your silence gives me the answer I expected," snapped Mullett. "You’ve blown this, Frost. You jumped in feet first without checking your facts. If he is the Ripper, which is by no means certain, all you’ve done is put him on his guard. Without evidence, there’s no way we can hold him." His lips tightened. "Thank goodness Inspector Allen is coming back on Monday and we can start getting things done properly." He spun on his heel and marched back up the corridor, pausing only to punch out one last below-the-belt blow. "The inventory?"

   "Almost done," called Frost.

   "I can tell County it will go off tonight?"

   "Without fail," Frost assured him. Tell the buggers what they want to hear, then make your excuses later was his philosophy. Absently, he pulled out his cigarettes, only to realize he was already smoking.

   "What are you going to do?" asked Hanlon.

   "I’m nipping round to see Gauld’s mother and try and get her to change her story."

   "Be careful—she’s got a weak heart," Hanlon reminded him.

   "And I’ve got a weak bladder, so that makes us quits." Halfway down the corridor he turned and yelled, "Probably a waste of time, but send someone down to check out the Oxfam shop where Gauld works."

Gauld’s house was just round the corner from Jubilee Terrace where they had found the mummified body all those weeks . . . no days . . . ago. A small cul-de-sac of older-type properties, jammed on both sides of the road with parked cars so Frost had to leave the station runabout round the corner.

   The hinges of the black iron gate grated as he walked through. The woman who answered the door stepped back in alarm. She had been expecting the return of her son and here was this man in a dirty mac, a knitted maroon scarf trailing untidily from his neck. She was about to shut the door on him when he held up a piece of plastic with a coloured photograph on it. "Detective Inspector Frost," he announced.

   She peered at the photograph, then at the man. There was a slight resemblance. "I’ve had enough of police. Where’s my son?"

   He gave his reassuring smile. "Ronnie’s fine. He’s having a cup of tea down at the station."

   "I’ve got his supper waiting," she said.

   Frost sniffed the savoury warm smell floating from inside the house. "Lucky devil. I’d like a couple of words, if I may."

   She took another look at his warrant card. "Are you sure you’re a policeman?"

   "Fairly sure," said Frost, following her down the passage, "although my boss has his doubts at times."

   The radio was mumbling away, just around the limit of audibility. The tiny kitchen was warm from the gas oven which breathed out sausage and onion. On the small table a red and white checked cloth was laid with knife and fork and HP sauce. One place only. Frost unwound his scarf, pulled the green file from his pocket and sat down. He sniffed again. "Smells good."

   She opened the oven door and peeked inside. "It’ll spoil soon. When is he coming home?"

   "Difficult to say," Frost hedged. She moved a chair to the table and sat opposite him. Grey-haired, she was probably in her early sixties, but looked older. A nervous smile twitched on and off and her hands were constantly moving, plucking at her apron, smoothing out the table-cloth, straightening the knife and fork. A bag of nerves, he thought. He tried his smile out again. "I’m not stopping you from making us both a cup of tea, am I?"

   "You’ve got a cheek" she said. But she filled the kettle from the sink. "This isn’t a restaurant, you know." A plop as she lit the gas. "Why are you still holding him?"

   "Murder is a very serious charge, Mrs. Gauld." Her back stiffened as she reached for the tea caddy, but her face was composed and apparently unconcerned when she turned. From the hooks on the dresser she took two cups, her hands shaking a little as she set them down.

   "He’s a good boy," she said flatly, "a very good boy."

   A larger version of the photograph taken from Gauld’s wallet looked down from the top of the dresser. "Does he miss his father?" asked Frost.

   She frowned. "His father died when Ronnie was three. He hardly remembers him."

   Frost 'tutted' sympathetically. "He couldn’t have been very old. How did he die?"

   She looked away. "He killed himself." At Frost’s start of surprise, she added, "He used to get very depressed. He threw himself under a train at New Street station."

   "And you had to bring Ronnie up on your own?"

   The tea in the pot was given a vigorous stir. "I had to go to work. His gran brought him up." She put the lid back on the teapot and filled the two cups. "It wasn’t a very happy time for him. She was very strict. She used to beat him. Poor little mite." She pushed the tea across.

   "I’m sorry to hear that." He tried to conceal his excitement, but his hand wasn’t steady as he spooned in the sugar. Whatever vague doubts he might have had about Gauld being the Ripper were now dispelled. He endeavoured to keep his voice casual. "I suppose, being beaten by his granny made him hate old people?"

   Her expression changed. "What are you trying to make me say?"

   "We both know what this is about, Mrs. Gauld. He’s your son and you want to protect him. I understand that. But he’s killed four people. He could kill more."

   She thrust out her chin defiantly. "Drink your tea and go!"

   Frost took out the list of dates of the killings and waved it at her. "You didn’t tell my colleague the truth, Mrs. Gauld. Ronnie wasn’t with you on any of these nights. He was out killing old people. He gets a kick out of it."

   "I don’t tell lies," she said. He stared at her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze and turned her head away.

   He opened the green folder and dealt out the colour photographs of the victims. "Look at these," he ordered, jabbing the worst of them with his thumb. "This is what your precious boy is doing to get his own back on granny."

   He heard her gasp with horror and then the gasp changed to an ominous choking sound. He looked up in alarm. Her face was contorted and blue and she was clutching at her chest. A heart attack! The old dear was suffering a heart attack. "Where’s your bloody tablets?" he shouted.

   A gargling sound from her throat. Her finger shook weakly in the direction of the dresser.

   By the time he had found them, she was slumped unconscious in her chair. He slipped the wafer thin tablet under her tongue, his other hand digging in his pocket for his radio. "Frost to Control." He paused. He couldn’t remember the damned address. "I’m at Gauld’s place. Send a bloody ambulance quick."

Mullett was feeling feverish. This wretched business with Gauld’s mother couldn’t have come at a worse time. The smoke from Frost’s cigarette wafted across and made him cough, and when he coughed, his head ached. He fanned the smoke away pointedly. Frost took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked ash all over the carpet, then replaced it. The phone rang. Mullett snatched it up, his expression hardly changing as he listened. "Thank you." He hung up, then stared grimly across to Frost. "That was the hospital. A very mild attack. They’re keeping her in overnight for observation, but will probably send her home in the morning."

   Frost dropped down in the chair, almost sweating with relief. "Thank God for that. I’ll try her again tomorrow. I think I can bust the alibi story."

   Mullett took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. "You’re going nowhere near her. You’ve caused enough trouble. You knew she had a heart condition, yet you showed her those horrific photographs."

   "Of people butchered by her son. Don’t worry, Super. I’ll be gentle with her next time."

   "There’s not going to be a next time," said Mullett emphatically, thumping the desk and wincing as it made his head ache.

   "I need to break his alibi," insisted Frost.

   "Even if you broke his alibi. Even if his mother confirmed he was out on each and every one of the murder nights, that simply means he
could
have killed the victims . . . you still don’t have a shred of proof which says that he
did
kill them. I want proof, Frost, not suspicion, not gut reaction—good, old-fashioned solid proof."

   "Let me talk to her and I’ll get your proof."

   "No!" Mullett’s head was now throbbing constantly and he wished the inspector would accept the position and leave him alone.

   "Without proof, I’ll have to let Gauld go," said Frost despairingly.

   "That", said Mullett curtly, "is your problem." He winced as the door slammed behind Frost and set his headache roaring off again. He could feel the sweat beading his brow as he tugged open the drawer for the aspirins. It was this wretched virus, he knew it, but if he went down, then that would leave Frost as the senior officer. And there was no way he was letting Frost run the division.

Gilmore was waiting for him outside the interview room. "Gauld’s shut up like a clam. He’s going to sue us for what we did to his mother and he’s not saying another word unless we get him a solicitor."

   "We’re letting him go," said Frost. He filled the sergeant in on his interview with Mullett. "But I still want him tailed twenty-four hours a day. At best we might get the bloody proof we want. At worst we can probably stop him killing another poor sod until Mr. Allen returns on Monday and takes over the case."

   "Will I be transferring to him?" asked Gilmore, hopefully. 

   "I’m afraid so," said Frost.

   Gilmore tried to look disappointed.

"We haven’t got the men to carry out a twenty-four hour surveillance," said Johnny Johnson.

   "You’ll have to find them," said Frost. "Plain-clothes, uniformed, dog-handlers, walking wounded . . . I don’t care. The important thing is we don’t let the bastard out of our sight even for a second."

   "Are you sure he’s the Ripper?" asked Johnson. "A fine lot of fools we’d look with the entire force following the wrong man while the Ripper kills someone else."

   "Trust me," said Frost.

   "I’ve trusted you before, Jack, and you’ve dropped me right in the muck." He sighed. "But I’ll see what I can do."

   The phone rang. Burton from the Oxfam shop. "Can you come over, Inspector? There’s a locked cupboard here full of stuff belonging to Gauld, and I can’t get it open."

   "We’re off to the Oxfam shop," Frost called to Johnson. 

   "Buying another suit?" called Johnson after them.

The Oxfam shop used to be a carpeting and furniture retailers until the firm went broke. Pushing past racks of used clothing and stacks of kitchen utensils, Frost and Gilmore, hastily pursued by the manageress, a thin, angular woman in a green overall, followed Burton to the rear of the shop where he led them down a short flight of stone steps to the basement. There, Burton clicked a switch and an unshaded bulb lit up a small, stone-flagged room in which an old-fashioned solid fuel boiler, belching sulphurous fumes, clanked away, a heap of anthracite glittering at its side. To the left of the boiler was another door which took them into a narrow passage where six metal lockers, painted light grey, backed against one wall.

   "That one is Gauld’s." Burton indicated the last locker in the row.

   Frost examined the solid-looking padlock and fumbled in his pocket for his bunch of keys.

   The manageress looked uneasy. "I presume you’ve got a warrant?"

   "Yes," said Frost, curtly, staring back at her, defying her to ask to see it. The second key did the trick He turned the handle. The manageress pushed forward, eyes goggling. "You’d better keep back, madam. It might be a body." Alarmed, she hopped back, stepping on Gilmore’s toe as she did so.

   "Abracadabra," said Frost and pulled open the door.

   The locker was crammed tight with men’s clothing; jackets, trousers, shirts, assorted styles and colours. Some of the clothing was old and threadbare, some in reasonable condition, all second-hand.

   The manageress gasped and stared open-mouthed.

   "Looks as if he’s been nicking your stock, madam," suggested Frost.

   "I can’t understand it. Ronnie seemed such a nice boy. I’d have trusted him with my life."

   "Lots of people thought the same," smiled Frost. “What exactly did he do here?"

   "He drove our little van—collected items that people wanted to give to Oxfam. And he would deliver some of the larger items that people bought. Oh, and he helped with the boiler . . . keeping it well stoked."

   "Sounds a little treasure," said Frost. "I wouldn’t worry too much about the clothes. I’m sure he’s got a good explanation." He cocked his head to one side. "I think I can hear a customer in the shop." As soon as she had left he began examining the clothing. "It’s all about Gauld’s size—he was taking it for himself."

   "So he’s been pinching the stock," sniffed Gilmore. "Big deal."