a tough chunk of meat which squeaked across the plate and defied all efforts to cut it. Liz returned with his tea. ‘Anything wrong with the food?’ she snapped.
‘No, no – it’s fine,’ he lied. ‘I’m not very hungry.’ He risked a sip of the tea. Near-cold and milky when he liked it hot and strong. He replaced the cup on the saucer and made one more effort to restore peaceful relations. ‘Look, Liz, I’m sorry.’
This was her chance. ‘Sorry! I’m left on my own all night. You come in hours late, too tired to talk or do any bloody thing, then you tell me you’ve got to be out again. I never bloody see you.’
‘It won’t be for long, love, then things will be different.’ He reached for her, but she shook him off.
‘It’s always going to be different, but it never bloody well is. I’m sick of your job, I’m sick of this dead and alive town, I’m sick of everything.’ The door slammed in an angry explosion behind her.
Gilmore sighed and took his plate to the kitchen where he emptied it into the pedal bin. He hated to admit it to himself, but he was getting sick of Liz.
Frost wasn’t feeling very happy either. That damn inventory form had reappeared. Mullett must have quarried deep into the filing tray in Allen’s office where Frost had buried it and had transferred it to the top of his in-tray with a large, block-capitalled inscription in red felt-tip yelling WHY HASN’T THIS GONE OFF? Because I haven’t bleeding sent it off, thought Frost, reading on. MUST GO OFF TODAY WITHOUT FAIL. SCM – the OR ELSE was implied.
Gilmore came in carrying a thick bacon sandwich and a mug of tea from the canteen. Frost brightened up until he realized Gilmore intended it for himself. ‘Doesn’t that wife of yours feed you?’ he growled and was quite unprepared for Gilmore’s slashing expression of vehemence.
Burton broke the tension by coming in to report.
‘What’s the position with Gauld?’
‘He left home at 8.56,’ Burton told him, ‘and drove straight to Denton Hospital. He’s been ferrying outpatients backwards and forwards. We’re keeping him under surveillance.’
‘Good,’ nodded Frost. ‘What have you found out about him?’
‘Not much. He lives with his widowed mother. They moved to Denton some ten years ago from Birmingham. He’s never had a permanent job – just temporary work, mainly driving. The neighbours like him. Apart from his hospital work, he helps out at the local Oxfam shop in his spare time.’
Frost gave a derisory snort. ‘What else does he do? Cure the sick and raise the dead?’ He thought for a while. ‘Do the neighbours see him coming and going late at night?’
‘Sometimes, sir. But you’d expect that with all the late-night coaches he drives.’ Burton paused. ‘I know you want to go for broke on him, Inspector, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep a watch on some of the other coach drivers.’
‘Then do it, son. As long as you don’t let up on Gauld.’
‘We could do with more men.’
‘I could do with a new dick,’ said Frost, ‘but I’ve got to manage with what I’ve got.’ He stared miserably at the inventory. ‘You busy, son?’ he asked Gilmore.
Gilmore backed towards the door. ‘I’m due in court with Mrs Compton in twenty minutes.’
Frost flicked through the wad of information-demanding pages and shuddered. He chucked it back in his intray and reburied it. His internal phone buzzed. He scooped his mac from the hat-stand. ‘Tell him I’m out,’ he yelled from the corridor.
Burton picked up the phone. ‘I’m afraid Mr Frost isn’t here, sir,’ he told the Divisional Commander.
The sound of the Westminster chimes reverberated inside the flat. A fat, motherly little woman in a green overall waddled into the hallway and opened the door. A shabbily dressed man twitched a shy smile. Not one of the regulars. She hadn’t seen him before. ‘I phoned,’ he said.
She gave a welcoming smile to put him at ease. He looked so nervous. ‘French lesson, isn’t it? Miss Désirée’s expecting you.’ She led him through the hall into a dimly lit room with the curtains drawn. ‘The gentleman who phoned,’ she announced, then retired discreetly, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.
The woman sitting on the bed was in her late thirties and looked like a young Mae West. The loose-fitting red dressing gown she wore was carefully flapped open to display black bra, black knickers and black stockings which were held up by