lives all on his own. Wife’s been gone for two years and his dick’s getting rusty through lack of use. One morning, what should come cycling up his path but a nice, fresh, unopened packet of 15-year-old nooky with his copy of the Sun. She rolls it up and pokes it through the door. The sexual symbolism of this act hits him smack in the groin. He invites her in, or drags her in, or whatever. She can scream if she wants to, there’s no-one for miles to hear. Afterwards, when all passion’s spent and she’s screaming rape, he panics, and strangles her.’
Burton, caught up with Frost’s enthusiasm, could see where the plot was leading. ‘Greenway puts the newspaper back in the bag, dumps it with the bike in a ditch and we all think she never made the delivery.’
Even Gilmore looked impressed. ‘It’s possible,’ he decided reluctantly, ‘but it still doesn’t explain the shoes.’
‘Sod the shoes,’ said Frost, hopping down from the desk. ‘Let’s get our killer first, then get explanations.’ He stuffed the papers back into the plastic envelope and handed it to Burton. ‘Tell you what you do, son. Send both newspapers over to Forensic. Tell them our brilliant theory and get them to drop everything and make tests.’
‘And then come back and get down to these bloody files,’ called Gilmore. ‘We’re never going to get through them at this rate.’
The stack of folders didn’t seem to be getting any lower. Gilmore ticked off the squares on the roneoed form and dropped it into the filing basket ready for the girl on the computer. Something sailed past his nose. It was a paper aeroplane which attempted to soar upwards before losing heart and nose-diving with a thud to the ground at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. The paper looked familiar. He unfolded it. One of the roneoed forms. He turned suspiciously to Frost who grinned back sheepishly.
‘Sorry, son.’
Frost was bored. He’d been staring at the same robbery folder for the past forty minutes. He was dying for an excuse to get out of the station, but the phone stubbornly remained quiet. ‘About time Forensic came back to us on those newspapers.’
‘They’ve only had them five minutes,’ said Gilmore.
‘How long does it bloody take?’ asked Frost peevishly, pulling the phone towards him and dialling the lab.
‘Give us a chance, Inspector,’ replied Forensic testily. ‘We’ve got half our staff down with this flu virus thing. We’re still working on the clothing and other items collected from 44 Mannington Crescent. Negative so far.’
‘That old rubbish can wait,’ said Frost. ‘It’s not important. Get cracking on those newspapers.’
A scowling Gilmore looked up. ‘We’re supposed to be concentrating on the senior citizen murders and you’re telling Forensic it can wait?’
Frost was saved from answering by the phone. WPC Ridley from Intensive Care, Denton Hospital. Alice Ryder, the old lady with the fractured skull, had regained consciousness.
The moon, floating in a clear sky, kept pace with the car as they raced to the hospital. Frost, puffing away nervously in the passenger seat, was willing the old dear to stay alive until they could question her. A detailed description of her attacker would be worth a thousand of those lousy forms they had been filling in for the computer. A detailed description! He was kidding himself. She was eighty-one, concussed and dying. The bastard had attacked her in the dark. The poor cow would tell them sod all.
The dark sprawl of the hospital loomed up ahead. ‘Park there, son.’ He pointed to a ‘Hospital – No Waiting’ sign by the main entrance and was out of the car and charging up the corridor before Gilmore had a chance to switch off the ignition.
Gilmore pushed through the swing doors in time to see the maroon blur of Frost’s scarf as he darted down a side corridor. With a burst of speed, he caught up with him. ‘Straight ahead,’ panted Frost, indicating a small flickering green neon sign reading ‘Intensive Care’.
The night sister looked up angrily and glared them to silence. She nodded grimly at Frost’s warrant card. ‘Mrs Ryder is over there.’ A jerk of her head indicated a curtained-off corner.
‘How is she?’ asked Frost.
‘She’s dying, otherwise I wouldn’t let you near her.’ As they moved across, she added, ‘Not too many of you. Send the WPC out.’
They slipped through the curtains. A concerned WPC Ridley was bending over the bed talking quietly. She looked up with relief at Frost’s appearance.