and wandered along the railings, booting at pebbles in his path. ‘So how did he know?’
‘Perhaps he was someone who often used the graveyard as a short cut,’ offered Gilmore, pointedly rubbing the back of his head.
Frost chewed his knuckles in thought, then took out his cigarette packet and shook it. One left. He poked it in his mouth and flung the empty packet into the long grass. A blast of cold wind cut across the cemetery, shaking the trees and making him shiver. ‘Let’s go.’
They walked on to the path where the first of the new graves encroached. Frost struck his match on a convenient headstone. The match flared. He saw the wording, but at first didn’t take it in. Then he stared, open-mouthed, until the match burnt his fingers. ‘Where the bloody hell did this come from?’
He struck another match so Gilmore could read the inscription.
In Loving Memory
Of
Rosemary Fleur Bell
April 3 1962 – September 10 1990
Adored Wife Of Edward Bell M.A.
R. I. P.
‘The schoolmaster’s wife! Her grave right on the bloody doorstep of the crypt and we haven’t spotted it. We must be bleeding blind as well as stupid!’
‘It’s probably only just been put up,’ said Gilmore, wondering what all the fuss was about. ‘You have to wait ages for the grave to settle before you can erect a headstone.’
‘That wispy-bearded bastard. I knew it was him all the time.’ He turned and stared at the crypt.
‘I don’t follow you,’ said Gilmore.
‘You could spit on the flaming crypt from here,’ said Frost. ‘At the funeral Bell would have had a grandstand view of that fat-gutted plumber forcing open the door to get inside out of the rain. Later he needed somewhere to hide the kid’s body. A crypt. Who’d look for a body in a Victorian crypt?’
‘You’re saying he killed her the very day of his wife’s funeral?’
‘Yes,’ said Frost.
‘But he was in the house all the time she was doing her paper round.’
‘I don’t know how he did it, I just know he did it.’
Gilmore swivelled his head towards the vault door with its solid brass lock hanging impotently. ‘Even if you are right, how are you going to prove it?’
‘Proof!’ barked Frost. He took a long drag at his last cigarette and dashed it to the ground half-smoked. ‘Everyone’s obsessed with bloody proof.’ Then his shoulders slumped. Gilmore was right. Without proof, the bastard was going to get away with it.
Thursday night shift (2)
The minute hand on the lobby clock was quivering as it gathered its strength to claw up to two o’clock. The damn phones had been ringing non-stop and Wells was finding it hard to keep his voice sounding polite. ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ he told a caller who had phoned previously to complain that her neighbours were having a noisy row and were keeping her awake. ‘We’re short-staffed and we had to divert the car to a more important incident. We’ll get someone there just as soon as we can.’ Hardly had he replaced the phone and logged the call when there was an angry commotion outside, then a scowling, red-faced bull-frog of a man in an expensive black overcoat and a white silk scarf exploded into the lobby, closely followed by an anxious-looking PC Collier.
‘Who’s in charge?’ the man bellowed, dumping a bulky brie-fcase on the floor. He reeked of whisky.
Wells put his pen down and sighed. He could do without this. ‘I am, sir.’
The man looked disdainfully at Wells’ sergeant’s stripes and screwed his face into a sneer. ‘I want someone in authority, not you. Not a bloody sergeant.’
‘What’s this all about?’ Wells asked Collier.
The man barged between the two officers. ‘Don’t you damn well ignore me. I’m talking to you, Sergeant. You ask me, not him. Now get me someone in authority.’ He fumbled in his pocket for a cigar.
‘Would an inspector satisfy you, sir?’ asked Wells, struggling to hold his temper in check.
‘If that’s all you’ve got, then he’ll have to do,’ snapped the man, clicking a gold Dunhill lighter and drawing on the cigar. Wells felt like pointing to the ‘No Smoking’ sign but wasn’t in the mood for any more aggravation and the odds were that Frost would come slommocking out with a cigarette in his mouth. He used the internal phone and whilst the man glowered and puffed cigar smoke and whisky fumes all over him, asked Inspector Frost to come into the lobby.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Frost. What’s up?’
Frost, in his crumpled suit, greasy knotted tie and