‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Hoskins muttered to the floor.
‘You stupid little git. You’re going to talk yourself into a life sentence.’ He stood up and started to button his mac. ‘I don’t think you killed her, but if you’re sticking to that story I’m charging you with murder and your girlfriend as an accessory.’
Hoskins, his face set, stared stubbornly down at the ground.
‘If you don’t tell them the bleeding truth, then I will,’ said the girl. ‘They’re not nicking me for something I didn’t do.’
Hoskins took a deep breath. ‘All right . . . scrub everything I said. This is now the gospel . . .’
Frost sat down again and waited. Gilmore was scowling, arms folded, itching to take over the reins of the questioning.
‘Yes, I was going to do the place over – nip in, grab what I could and get out quick. I knew where the spare key was, so I waited until eleven o’clock when I thought the old girl would be asleep. I let myself in. Her bag was on the hall table, so I nicked the money from her purse. Then I crept upstairs. The first door I tried was her bedroom. Christ, when I saw her smothered in blood, it frightened the shit out of me. My feet never touched the flaming stairs as I came down. I took the money, but I never bleeding killed her.’
‘I believe him,’ said Frost when they were back in the office.
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Gilmore. He was furious. He’d have got a bloody confession to murder if the old fool hadn’t butted in.
‘Mind you,’ added Frost, ‘if Forensic find her blood all over his clothes, I’m prepared to change my mind.’
Tuesday night shift (2)
‘Woman on the phone for you,’ yelled Wells as they crossed the lobby. ‘A Mrs Compton.’
‘Old Mother Rigid Nipples!’ exclaimed Frost, as Gilmore took the phone.
‘Mr Mullett wasn’t too pleased you’re only charging Hoskins with petty theft,’ Wells told him.
‘Mr Mullett’s happiness is rather low on my list of priorities,’ grunted Frost, pushing through the swing doors and nearly bumping into an irritable-looking Mullett on his way out.
‘Car expenses,’ barked Mullett.
‘Be on your desk first thing tomorrow, Super,’ called Frost, instantly regretting his folly. The expenses, much scribbled on, were still in his pocket and there wasn’t a hope in hell of getting the amended receipts by the morning. Ah well, he philosophized, a lot could happen between now and then. Mullett could get injured in a car crash and break both his legs. But he popped the bubble of this optimistic fantasy. The bastard would hobble in on crutches if it meant catching him out.
A quick look in at his office. Exactly as he had left it, cold and untidy. Protruding from under an empty, unwashed mug was a memo headed From The Office Of The Divisional Commander. It bore the single word Inventory??? ringed in red and underlined several times in Royal Blue by Mullett’s Parker pen. He ferreted through his in-tray and dug out the inventory return, hoping it wouldn’t look so complicated as at first sight. It looked even worse, so he reburied it even deeper.
The door slammed to punctuate an angry Gilmore’s return. ‘That damn Sergeant Wells!’ He flung himself into his chair.
Frost stifled a groan. He had enough troubles of his own. ‘What’s the matter now, son?’
‘That phone call from Mrs Compton. Her husband’s away and she’s alone in the house.’
‘It sounds a bloody good offer,’ said Frost. ‘We’ll flip a coin to see who has the first nibble.’
Gilmore’s scowl cut even deeper. ‘It’s not funny. She’s had another threatening phone call. The bastard told her tonight will be her last night on earth. She’s frightened out of her wits. I’ve told Sergeant Wells I want a watch kept on the house tonight and he says he can’t spare anyone.’
Frost picked up the internal phone. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’
At first Wells dug his heels in. He wasn’t going to let any jumped-up, know-nothing, aftershave-smelling detective sergeant tell him how to organize his own men. And did the inspector know how many men he had available to cover the whole of Denton – the whole of bloody Denton? Four! Two in cars, two on foot. The others had to be kept in to answer the flaming phones which were ringing non-stop after that stupid Paula Bartlett video on television. Frost put the phone down on the desk and let Wells rant on, while he