. another murder solved within twenty-four hours . . . watertight case . . . prints . . . full confession . . .’
His soaring flights of fancy were abruptly grounded by Frost who had rudely snatched the file and was now staring at it, a cigarette sagging from his mouth. ‘Bloody hell! He didn’t have to travel far to kill her. He lives next door.’
‘I interviewed him,’ said Burton. ‘It was Hoskins who told us about the key under the mat.’
Mullett was now bubbling with excitement. ‘Bring him in. Take all the men you need.’ He pulled open the door. ‘I want a result on this one, Inspector. Let’s see if we can’t give the Chief Constable some good news for a change.’
The patrol car followed Frost’s Cortina as far as the road adjoining Mannington Crescent. Two uniformed men got out and sprinted to the rear of number 44 where they climbed the back fence into the garden, blocking Hoskins’ retreat that way.
Gilmore coasted the Cortina around the corner, parking it at the end of the street where he switched off the lights and waited for the uniformed men to radio that they were in position. Next to Gilmore sat Burton. In the rear seat were Frost and WPC Helen Ridley, the beefy little blonde, who had changed into plain clothes and was spoiling for a fight.
Most houses in the street showed lights, the exception being number 46, the murder house with its drawn curtains and a heavy padlock securing the front door. From next door, number 44, an overloud hi-fi belted out heavy metal.
‘Jordan to Inspector Frost,’ whispered the radio. ‘We are in position – over.’
‘Right,’ grunted Frost. ‘We’re moving in.’
They climbed out of the car and casually sauntered up to the front door of number 44 which seemed to be pulsating as the wham of an electronic bass boomed from inside. Frost lifted the knocker and beat out a rhythmic rat-tat-tat. The others pressed tight against the shadow of the porch. The music blared out louder as an inside door was opened. Footsteps along the passage and a man’s shadow against the frosted glass of the front door.
‘Yeah? Who is it?’
Frost muttered something unintelligible.
‘What?’ yelled the voice from inside.
Frost muttered again.
‘Just a minute . . . can’t hear a bloody word you’re saying.’ The latch clicked. As the front door opened, Frost moved quickly out of the way and Gilmore pounced, pinning to the wall a man in patched jeans and a washed-out red vest. A potted plant on a stand toppled and crashed to the floor, spilling earth all over the lino. Gilmore tried to yell ‘Police!’, but the man suddenly sprang forward, his palm clamped under the detective’s chin, fingers clawing for his eyes. Gilmore swung him round and crashed him against the opposite wall.
‘Let him go, you bastard.’ A girl wearing a black T-shirt and very little else raced down the passage slashing at the air with a kitchen knife.
‘Police,’ spluttered Gilmore, trying to hold Hoskins with one hand and ward the girl off with the other. He had done it all wrong. The knife blade was whistling perilously close to his ear, but the hallway was so narrow, it prevented Burton and the WPC getting past to the girl.
Snorting like a stallion on heat, the little WPC charged into the fray, sending the men crashing to the floor and leaping over them to grab the girl, spin her round and jerk her wrist up high into the small of her back. The WPC’s foot hooked round the girl’s ankle and sent her toppling.
Frost stepped back and lit a cigarette. As usual, he was superfluous.
‘Get this bloody dyke off of me,’ screamed the girl, face down in earth and potted plant with the WPC kneeling on her back and twisting her knife arm to near breaking point.
‘Drop the knife,’ hissed the WPC.
‘I’ve dropped, it, I’ve dropped it,’ screeched the girl.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Frost, picking it up.
Reluctantly, the WPC relaxed her grip and dragged the girl to her feet. Gilmore, panting away, now had Hoskins facing the wall in an arm lock. With his free hand he fumbled in his pocket for his warrant card. He stuck it under the man’s nose. ‘Police. Are you Dean Ronald Hoskins?’
‘Yes. How many of you are there?’
‘There’s two more of the sods in the garden,’ the girl told him. ‘Who are we supposed to be – Bonnie and bleeding Clyde?’
‘Well, you’re certainly not Di and bleeding Charles,’