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 O, 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