As he turned into Eagle Lane he noticed in his rear-view mirror a police car close behind him. When he pulled up outside the police station, the car stopped even though it had plenty of room to pass. His passenger shuffled out, squeezing past two uniformed policemen who suddenly appeared at the coach door. ‘Mr Ronald Gauld?’ asked one of them. ‘I wonder if you’d mind popping into the station for a couple of minutes.’ The other policeman leant across and switched off the ignition.
They took him through to a small, functional room, sparsely furnished with a plain light oak table and three chairs. In the corner of the room a young thickset chap in a grey suit was sitting, a notebook open on his knee. Another man, whose scowl seemed permanent, was standing, leaning up against the wall. He pointed to a chair for Gauld to sit. The door opened as a third man came in. Gauld blinked in surprise. It was the scruffy passenger from his coach. ‘Frost,’ announced the man, ‘Detective Inspector Jack Frost.’
The lino squealed as Frost dragged a chair over to sit opposite Gauld. He then laid out on the table a green folder, a pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and the large manila envelope containing the possessions the station sergeant had asked Gauld to empty from his pockets. This done, Frost smiled benevolently and helped himself to a cigarette.
Gauld wriggled in his chair. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. ‘What’s this all about?’
Frost frowned. ‘Haven’t you been told?’ He swung round to the man with the notebook. ‘Didn’t you tell him?’ A headshake. Frost tutted with mock exasperation, then slowly took a match from the box and struck it on the table. ‘It’s about Mrs Fussell.’
Gauld frowned as if trying to remember. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Oh dear,’ exclaimed Frost, looking worried. He turned to the scowler. ‘We might have the wrong man, Sergeant.’ Looking puzzled, he scrabbled through the green folder and plucked out some typed pages. ‘All these witnesses must be lying.’ Back to Gauld. ‘You’d swear on oath you don’t know her, sir?’ Before Gauld had a chance to answer, he added, ‘What about Mrs Elizabeth Winters, Roman Road, Denton? Surely you’re not going to tell us you don’t know her?’
‘I know lots of people. I’m a coach driver. I drive people about all the time. I don’t necessarily know their names.’
‘Then here’s an easy one – Mary Haynes.’
‘I’ve just told . . .’ He blinked and stopped dead, his expression freezing as if he had just realized what the inspector was on about. ‘Wait a minute! I’ve just twigged. Haynes . . . Winters! They were both murdered! Are you trying to pin them on me?’
‘Yes,’ replied Frost, simply. ‘That’s exactly what we’re trying to do.’ He shook out the contents of the manila envelope and raked through Gauld’s possessions. There was a colour photograph of a grey-haired lady smiling doubtfully at the camera. He picked it up and studied it carefully. ‘I don’t recognize this one. When did you murder her?’
Gauld snatched up the photograph. ‘That’s my mother, you bastard!’
‘Ah!’ said Frost with an enlightened nod. He studied his notes. ‘Father died when you were three, mother alive and well.’
‘She’s not well!’ retorted Gauld. ‘She’s got a bad heart.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Frost. ‘Still, better a bad heart than having your throat cut. Any objection to our taking your fingerprints?’
‘What happens if I object?’
‘We’ll take them anyway, so why cause bad feeling?’
A young uniformed officer was summoned to take the prints. Frost waited patiently until the task was completed, then whispered something to the officer who nodded and left.
‘I ought to have a solicitor,’ said Gauld.
Frost seemed astonished. ‘You’re innocent! What do you want a solicitor for?’
‘Because I think you bastards are trying to frame me for something I haven’t done, that’s why.’
‘Oh no.’ Frost sounded hurt. ‘I might frame you for something you had done, but not otherwise.’
The scowler moved forward. ‘All the murder victims travelled on your coach.’
Gauld twisted in his chair to face the questioner. ‘So what? Hundreds of people travel on my coach.’
‘Where were you last Sunday afternoon?’ barked the detective sergeant.
‘I don’t know,’ smirked Gauld. ‘Where were you?’
The door opened and the fingerprint man returned to murmur in the inspector’s ear. Frost’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. ‘All right, Gauld. You can stop the pretence. We’ve got you.’
‘Have you really? he said cockily. ‘I’m shaking with