pointing to a thin corrugated tongue of paper that had caught on the side of the letter-box.
‘If she’s dead, she won’t mind,’ said Frost, peering through the flap. All he could see was solid dark. He sent Burton for the torch.
‘I’ve got a torch,’ said the neighbour, ‘but it doesn’t work.’
Burton returned from the car with the flashlight. Frost shone it through the letter-box. He caught his breath. The beam had picked out a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs. A woman. And there seemed to be blood. Lots of blood.
‘Kick the door in, son . . . quick!’
At the second kick there was a pistol shot of splintering wood and the door crashed inwards. Frost found the light switch as they charged in. She was lying face down, her head in a pool of blood. He touched her neck. There was a pulse. She was still alive. Burton dashed back to the car to radio for an ambulance. Gilmore helped Frost turn her on her back, while the neighbour brought a blanket from the upstairs bedroom to cover her.
Her eyes fluttered, then opened. She seemed unable to focus. Frost knelt beside her. ‘What happened, love? Who did it?’ He turned his head away as the stale gin fumes hit him.
‘I fell down the bleeding stairs,’ she said.
Tuesday night shift (1)
Liz was in bed asleep when Gilmore arrived home late in the afternoon and was still asleep at eight o’clock when he staggered out of bed, tired and irritable, ready for the evening shift of Mullett’s revised rota. He was clattering about in the kitchen, frying himself an egg and Liz came eagerly downstairs. She thought he had just come home and was furious to learn he’d been working when he should have been off duty and was now starting on another night shift.
‘You said it would all be different when they made you a sergeant. You said you’d be able to spend more time with me. It’s Cressford all over again.’
‘It won’t always be like this,’ said Gilmore, wearily, cursing as the yolk broke and spread itself all over the frying pan.
‘How many times have I heard that before? It’s never been any damn different.’ She moved out of the way so he could reach a plate, not helping him by passing one over.
Gilmore buttered a slice of bread. ‘Could you give it a rest? I’ve had a lousy day.’
‘And what sort of a day do you think I’ve had? Stuck in this stinking little room.’
‘You can always go out.’
She gave a mocking laugh. ‘Where to? What is there to do in this one-eyed morgue of a town?’
‘You could mix . . . make friends.’
‘Who with?’
‘Well – some of the other police wives . . .’
‘Like his wife . . . that old tramp – the one who’s supposed to be an inspector?’
‘His wife is dead.’
‘What did she die of – boredom?’
Gilmore rubbed a weary hand over his face. ‘That old tramp, as you call him, has got the George Cross.’
‘So he should. You deserve strings of bloody medals for living in this dump!’
He opened his mouth to reply, but the door slammed and she was back in the bedroom. He pushed the egg to one side, he couldn’t eat it. He was pouring his tea when a horn sounded outside. Frost had arrived to pick him up.
Outside the rain had stopped and a diamond-hard moon shone down from a clear sky. Frost shivered as Gilmore opened the car door to enter. ‘It’s going to be a cold night tonight, son.’ He turned the heater up full blast and checked that all the windows were tightly closed.
‘Yes,’ agreed Gilmore. ‘A bloody cold night.’
Bill Wells tugged another tissue from the Kleenex box and blew his sore, streaming nose. His throat was raw and he kept having shivering and sweating fits. And the damn doctor had the gall to say it was just a cold and he hadn’t got the flu virus. A couple of aspirins and a hot drink and he’d be as right as rain in a day or so. His pen crawled over the page as he logged the last trivial phone call which was from a woman who had nothing better to do than to report two strange cats in her garden.
The log book page fluttered as the main door opened. Without raising his eyes, Wells finished the entry, blotted it, then forced a polite expression to greet the caller. Then his jaw dropped. ‘Bleeding