the bed and the carpet and underfelt removed for examination.
He stubbed out his cigarette in one of the little glass dishes on the dressing table. The young bride in the photograph, her face wreathed in smiles, beamed down happily through the shower of confetti to the stripped, bleak room where she died, alone and terrified.
He wandered downstairs, his feet clattering on the bare wood where the stair carpet had been taken away for examination. Gilmore and Burton and two of the uniformed men were in the kitchen drinking tea. ‘Any joy with the neighbours?’
‘No reply from most of the houses,’ said Burton, handing him a mug. ‘Probably gone to work. We’ll have to try again tonight. Three people saw someone suspicious hanging around yesterday afternoon.’
Frost’s head came up hopefully. ‘Did you get a description?’
‘I got three descriptions,’ Burton ruefully admitted. ‘All different. One medium build, darkish hair who may or may not have a beard aged between thirty and fifty. He was walking up and down the street just after two, staring at windows. The next was a skinhead on a motor bike who kept going round and round the block and the third was a West Indian in a dark suit.’
‘And what did the West Indian do to arouse suspicion?’ asked Gilmore.
‘He just walked by, Sarge, minding his own business. I don’t think the lady I spoke to liked West Indians.’
Frost sipped his tea. It was lukewarm. ‘It’ll be a waste of time, but check them out anyway. Have we traced any relatives, or anyone who might be able to tell us if anything’s been pinched apart from her purse money?’
‘Not yet,’ answered Gilmore. ‘I’ll check with that senior citizens’ club she belonged to. They might be able to help.’
‘Good. What sort of woman was she? Did she get on well with the neighbours?’
Burton shook his head. ‘A cantankerous old biddy by all accounts, always finding something to complain about. No-one liked her much.’
‘We’ll have to find out what she’s been complaining about recently. Perhaps someone resented it enough to kill her.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the moggie?’
‘The RSPCA bloke has taken it away,’ Gilmore told him.
‘I expect the little bleeder will have to be put down,’ gloomed Frost, swilling down the dregs of tea and pulling a face as if it were bitter medicine. ‘Tell me something to cheer me up.’
‘Forensic found a few alien prints dotted about,’ offered Gilmore. ‘One looked very hopeful.’
‘It’ll be from the sanitary inspector or her family planning adviser, anyone but the killer.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘I’m too tired to think straight.’ He glanced across to Gilmore who was grey with fatigue. ‘Let’s call it a day. We’ll have a couple of hours’ kip, then back to the station at noon.’
Noon! The detective sergeant sneaked a look at his watch. That would give him about three hours’ sleep if he was lucky. He hoped Liz wouldn’t be awake, waiting up for him, spoiling for a row.
He sat tense in the car as Frost drove him back after dropping off Burton, expecting every radio message to be the one sending them out on yet another case. But none of its messages were for them, although one call rang a familiar bell. ‘Neighbours complaining of strange smells coming from 76 Jubilee Terrace.’
‘Must have been your aftershave,’ muttered Frost as the tyres scraped the kerb outside 42 Merchant Street. He had to shake Gilmore awake.
The house was quiet when Gilmore got in. A plate of cold, congealed food stood accusingly on the dining room table. His supper. He scraped the food into the waste bin and dropped the plate in the sink.
Upstairs, Liz was sleeping. Even in repose her face was angry. He undressed and crawled into bed beside her, moving carefully for fear he would wake her and the row would start. Almost immediately he plunged into an uneasy sleep, full of dreams of bodies bleeding from knife wounds and all looking like Liz.
Frost slammed the car into gear and headed for home and bed. He nearly made it.
‘Control to Mr Frost. Come in, please!’
The plumber. The suspect in the Paula Bartlett case. Able Baker had picked him up. They were holding him at the station.
‘On my way,’ said Frost, spinning the wheel for an illegal U-turn, deaf to the shouts from a minicab driver who had to brake violently to avoid a collision.
Tuesday morning shift (2)
Superintendent Mullett strode briskly into the station, pausing only to remove and shake the rain from his