tell him to go home. He wouldn’t refuse. He turned his attention to Gilmore who was waiting to speak.
‘I’ve checked her purse,’ Gilmore told him. ‘Empty except for a membership card for All Saints Church Senior Citizens’ Club and a hospital appointment card. Nothing else in the house appears to be disturbed or taken.’
‘A few quid,’ said Frost. ‘I can’t believe the bastard ripped her up for the few quid in her purse.’ He let his gaze wander around the bedroom, which smelt stalely of blood and lavender furniture polish. He lit a cigarette and added the smell of tobacco smoke. On the wall above the veneered walnut dressing table hung a framed black and white wedding photograph, the bride in white and the groom in morning dress amidst a snow shower of confetti. That same bride was now in funeral black, eyes wide open and staring up at the yellowing ceiling. Her dress and the bed-cover were rusted with gummy gouts of dried blood.
‘That must be her grave-visiting dress,’ muttered Frost. Something brushed against his legs. The cat. He leant down and scratched its neck, then put it outside. Crossing to the window he twitched aside the curtain and looked down on the empty street where black clouds kept the morning dark. His head was buzzing. So much to do and he didn’t really feel he was capable of handling it.
An area car nosed into the street and stopped outside the house. PC Jordan and two disgruntled-looking detective constables who had thought their shift was over climbed out. A second car brought Roberts, the SOC officer, with his cameras and flash-guns, and hardly had this pulled up when a green Honda Accord brought the two men from Forensic. Gilmore led them all up to take turns to view the body before sending the constables to join Burton, knocking at doors.
‘Find out if anyone saw a blue van,’ bellowed Frost as they left.
‘You haven’t touched anything?’ asked one of the Forensic men.
‘I haven’t even touched my dick,’ said Frost, giving his well-worn, stock reply.
The door knocker thudded. ‘The doctor’s here,’ called Gilmore, pushing Maltby up the stairs.
‘Bit of fresher meat for you this time, doc,’ said Frost as a bleary-eyed Maltby, his face flushed, squeezed between the Forensic men into the tiny bedroom.
‘I might have guessed it would be you again,’ growled Maltby, who seemed to be in a sour mood.
‘Three bodies in one shift,’ agreed Frost. ‘I’m beginning to suspect I’m on Candid Camera.’
The doctor grunted and bent over the body. His examination was brief.
‘She’s dead.’
‘I worked that out myself,’ said Frost. ‘I offered her a fag and she wouldn’t reply. When did she die?’
Maltby took a pad from his bag and scribbled something down. ‘You’ve sent for the pathologist, I understand?’
‘That’s right, doc.’
‘Then let him answer your questions. He gets paid a lot more than I do. Found out who’s been sending those poison pen letters yet?’
‘Blimey, doc,’ moaned Frost. ‘It was only six hours ago when you last asked me. I haven’t even had a pee since then.’
Maltby blinked at the inspector. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing properly. ‘Hours ago? Is that all?’ He felt for a chair and sat down heavily.
‘Are you all right, doc?’ asked Frost with concern.
‘Yes, yes, of course I’m all right.’ He grabbed the inspector’s arm and pulled him down, dropping his voice and engulfing Frost in Johnnie Walker fumes. ‘Did you know Drysdale’s put in a complaint about me, just because I examined that body in the crypt before he did? He phoned me especially to tell me.’
‘The man’s a bastard, doc,’ soothed Frost. He nodded towards the bed. ‘How long has she been dead?’
Maltby lurched over to the corpse and prodded the flesh. ‘Rigor mortis has come and just about gone. Some time Sunday evening, say. Anything else you want to know, ask Drysdale.’ With a sharp snap he closed his bag and bustled off. ‘God’s here,’ he bellowed from half-way down the stairs. A burble of exchanged frigid conversation and the pathologist swept into the bedroom accompanied by his secretary. He stared pointedly at the Forensic men who took the hint and retired downstairs.
‘Was that Dr Maltby who just brushed past me?’ he sniffed.
Frost nodded.
‘And he’s been mauling the body about, I suppose?’
‘He never touched it,’ said Frost. ‘He didn’t want to spoil your pleasure. If you could speed it up, doc.’
Drysdale gritted his teeth at the ‘doc’, but his eyes gleamed when he saw the body.