while Gilmore brought down the verified curate, who was vigorously rubbing his freed wrists, and who declined the offer of a doctor to look at his head on which a lump had formed nicely.
They sat round the kitchen table where the plates were already laid for the breakfast the old lady hadn’t lived to enjoy. Frost utilized the egg cup as an ashtray. A rap at the door as PC Jordan entered.
‘We’ve been all over the house, Inspector. No sign of forced entry anywhere. The back door’s locked and bolted and all windows are secure. He came in through the front door.’
Frost nodded, then turned to Purley. ‘Who else knew about instant entry with the old dear’s piece of string?’
‘Very few people, I should imagine. She wasn’t a very friendly or communicative woman.’
‘So how did you know her?’
‘She used to be a member of our church senior citizens’ club until her legs got too bad. I like to keep in touch.’
‘Anything about her that would make her attractive to a burglar, padre? Was she supposed to have money, or valuables in the house?’
Purley shook his head. ‘Not as far as I know.’
Frost scratched his chin. ‘Was Mrs Haynes a member of your church club?’
‘Yes, but an infrequent attender. She hasn’t been for months.’
‘What about a Mrs Alice Ryder?’
‘Ryder?’ His brow furrowed, then he shook his head. ‘No. I don’t recall the name.’
‘We believe the same bastard killed them all,’ said Frost. ‘There’s got to be a link.’
Purley gave a sad, apologetic smile. ‘Then I’m afraid I don’t know it.’
On the way back to the station they detoured to drop off the curate at the vicarage. As the car passed the churchyard Frost was reminded of the wreath dumped in the Comptons’ lounge. He couldn’t remember picking it up and was relieved when Gilmore jerked a thumb to the back seat where the wreath lay between a pair of mud-caked wellington boots.
‘You might as well take the Compton case over, son. I’m not going to have much time for it.’
‘Right,’ said Gilmore, trying to keep the delight from his voice. A case of his own. He’d show these yokels how to get a result.
‘You don’t buy wreaths off the peg – they have to be ordered specially,’ continued Frost. ‘If I were you I’d get Burton to check with every florist in Denton.’
‘That’s what I intend to do,’ said Gilmore.
As they crossed the lobby with the wreath, Sergeant Wells looked up from his log book. ‘Who’s dead?’ he asked.
‘Glenn Miller,’ grunted Frost. ‘It just came over on the radio.’ He was in no mood for Wells’ jokes.
‘I’ll tell you who is dead,’ said Wells, anxious to impart his news.
Frost groaned, and walked reluctantly across to the desk. More cheer from Wells. The man was a walking bloody obituary column. ‘If it isn’t Mullett, I don’t want to know.’
Wells paused for dramatic effect, then solemnly intoned, ‘George Harrison! Heart attack as he was going downstairs. Dead before he hit the bottom.’ He leant forward to observe the effect this had on the inspector.
Frost’s jaw dropped. Police Inspector George Harrison had only retired a few weeks ago after twenty-four years service. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘First you come round with the list for their retirement present,’ said Wells, dolefully, ‘next thing you know you’re going round with the list for their wreath. You might as well collect both at once and be done with it.’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Frost again. The force was his life and retirement was the one thing he dreaded. The thought made him depressed. He jerked his head to Gilmore and headed for the stairs. ‘Come on, son, let’s get something to eat.’
‘If you’re going to the canteen, don’t bother,’ said Wells, happy to be the bearer of more bad news. ‘It’s shut.’
‘Shut?’ echoed Frost in dismay.
‘The night staff are still down with flu. If you want anything, you’ve got to bring it in from outside.’
‘And eat it in this ice-box?’ moaned Frost, giving the dead radiator a kick. ‘Sod that for a lark!’ Then a slow grin crawled across his face. Somewhere in the building there was a room with comfortable chairs, a carpet and a 3-kilowatt heater. He pulled the car expense sheet from his jacket pocket and licked the tip of a stubby pencil. ‘I’m taking orders for the all-night Chinky. Who wants curried chicken and chips?’
‘I don’t like this, Jack,’ said Wells. ‘If Mullett finds out . . .’
‘He’s not going to find out.’ retorted Frost, peeping inside a