Frost took one last bite, then hurled the remains of his sandwich in the general direction of the waste bin. It missed by a foot. He ambled over and tried to boot it in, but missed again. He picked it up and dropped it in. ‘Who’s next?’
The next was Thomas Riley, the photograph showing a thin, sharp-featured man, light hair plastered well back and well-spaced teeth. ‘Riley runs a one-man business – Riley’s Coaches,’ said Burton. ‘Forty-one years old, married, no children. Does the odd bingo and theatre run, but nowhere as many as Hardwicke.’
Frost drained his tea. He couldn’t work up any enthusiasm about Riley.
‘And he’s got form,’ announced Burton, waiting for the reaction.
‘Form?’ Frost snatched Riley’s details and studied them again.
Burton’s finger pointed out the information. ‘Receiving stolen goods. Video recorders, TV sets, electronic gear.’
‘Hmm.’ Frost dumped his mug on a stack of computer print-outs and fished out his cigarettes.
Burton took one. ‘And he beat up a night-watchman once.’
‘Hardly beat him up,’ corrected Frost, scraping a match down the side of the computer casing. ‘Knocked the old boy over when he tried to stop him.’ He turned to the continuation page. ‘Anyway, Riley was out on a job last night. Didn’t get back in until after the time of the murder.’
‘He dropped his last passenger off at 9.15,’ said Burton, leaning forward to share Frost’s match, ‘but didn’t garage the coach until 9.45. Mrs Watson was killed around 9.35. He could just have done it.’
Frost snorted smoke. ‘He’d have had to rush, and I can’t see our Ripper rushing things. He likes to take his time.’ He handed back the details. ‘Next.’
Burton passed across another page and waited expectantly. If he had to put money on it, this was his nap selection. Robert Jefferson, thirty-three, married, one teenaged daughter. A thickset man with close-cropped black hair, he stared morosely from his photograph like a criminal having his mug-shot taken. Jefferson drove for Superswift Coaches, mainly long-distance and Continental work, but had done a couple of bingo runs from time to time. His off-duty schedule put him in Denton for every one of the Ripper killings. A man of violent temper, he had broken his wife’s jaw and she was instigating divorce proceedings because of his cruelty.
Frost seemed unimpressed. ‘I don’t think so, son. I can’t see Old Mother Watson inviting that thug into her flat. Bung him at the bottom of the pile.’
‘You’d better like this one,’ said Burton. ‘He’s the last. Ronald William Gauld, twenty-five, single, lives with his widowed mother. Does casual work as a relief driver for Clarke’s Coaches – mainly bingo and old people’s outings. He’s supposed to be a ball of fun on the coach trips. All the old dears love him.’
‘I’m beginning to hate him already,’ said Frost, extending his hand for the details.
‘He’s only employed as a casual by Clarke’s, so he could well work for other firms we haven’t checked on yet . . . but Clarke’s time-sheets have him off-duty on all the times and days of the Ripper killings.’
Frost glanced at the colour photo clipped to the sheet. Gauld, grinning with well-spaced teeth into the camera, looked more a boy than a man. His expression was frank and open, his brown eyes twinkled and his thick, light brown hair hung boyishly over his forehead. Excitement like static electricity crackled through Frost. Instinct. Gut reaction. He knew. He just knew. ‘Bingo!’ he yelled.
Everyone in the room looked up.
Frost waggled the photograph, then held it aloft. ‘This is him. This is the Granny Ripper!’
Burton could only look puzzled. ‘Why, sir?’
‘Gut reaction, son. I’m very rarely right, but I am this time. Forget the rest . . . We go nap on Laughing Boy Gauld.’ He slid down from the desk, rubbing his hands together and pacing backwards and forwards to discharge his nervous excitement. ‘Put every available man on him. I want him watched twenty-four hours a day.’
Burton urged caution. ‘Don’t you think we should hedge our bets, sir?’
‘No,’ said Frost firmly. ‘We go for broke.’
‘He’s only a possible suspect. We’ve got nothing on him.’
‘So we find something on him. Show copies of his photograph to the victims’ neighbours. Do they remember seeing this roguish little bastard hanging around? Find out if he’s been offering to fit new security chains for any of the old dears who find him such a scream. Go back to Old Mother Proctor and ask her if Gauld was the name of the man who