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 . . . someone 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 something 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