sergeant. ‘Mr Frost has commandeered most of my men for house-to-house enquiries – another old lady stabbed to death last night.’
‘I know,’ said Mullett bitterly. ‘The press phoned me at three o’clock in the morning to tell me – and Mr Frost kindly scribbled a note for my in-tray.’ He held aloft the piece of paper. ‘County want us to tread very carefully with this one, Sergeant. A serial killer at large in Denton – could cause panic. It’s vital I see the inspector the minute he comes in.’
‘Sir,’ said Johnson, taking the signed report.
The office door opened. Mullett hoped it was Frost, but it was his gum-chewing temporary secretary in a disturbing polo-necked sweater who wiggled in with the correspondence he had dictated yesterday. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, dumping the poorly typed, heavily corrected letters on his desk, ‘but we’ve run out of Snowpake. I had to buy some more. Oh – and this has just come.’ She dropped the Denton Echo in front of him.
He snatched up the paper from her and stared goggle-eyed, mouth dropping with dismay at the screaming banner headlines. Town of Terror – Granny Ripper Claims Third Victim!!! Terror spread like wild-fire amongst the senior citizens of Denton today as news of yet another brutal murder . . . The phone rang. Still staring at the paper he groped for it. ‘Yes?’ he croaked. He jerked to attention. ‘Good morning, sir . . . Yes, I’ve just seen the paper.’ He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece and bellowed at Johnson, ‘Find Frost. I want him here, now!’
To Johnson’s surprise, Frost was already in his office, a wad of blank petrol receipts in front of him which he was filling in with different coloured pens. Sitting in the other desk was the new detective sergeant, looking disgruntled and also scribbling out petrol receipts.
‘Hello, Johnny,’ greeted Frost. ‘Welcome back. We thought you were dying. We’ll have to send the bloody wreath back now.’ He indicated the withering floral tribute in his in-tray. ‘Talking of wreaths reminds me of a joke.’
‘Never mind jokes,’ said Johnson, ‘Mr Mullett wants to see you.’
‘Sod Mullett,’ said Frost. ‘There was this woman . . .’ He paused as DC Burton came in.
‘Got a minute, sir?’
‘Sure, son, but I’ve got a joke first. There was this woman . . .’ He paused again as Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon, nose red and sore, poked his head round the door.
‘Oh, if you’re busy, Jack . . .’
‘No – come in, Arthur. I’ve got a joke for you.’
Hanlon pulled a face. ‘If it’s the one about the man drinking the spittoon for a bet, you’ve told it to me.’
‘A different one,’ said Frost, beckoning him in. ‘It’s about the funeral of a woman who’s had fifteen kids.’ He frowned as the phone rang. Burton answered it.
‘Forensic for you, Inspector. They say it’s urgent.’
‘Everything’s bloody urgent!’ He took the phone and in a strangulated voice said, ‘Mr Frost will be with you in a moment.’ He pressed the mouthpiece to his jacket. ‘Where was I?’
‘Fifteen kids,’ reminded Johnson, anxious to get the story over so Frost could report to Mullett.
‘Right. Funeral. Woman who’d had fifteen kids being buried. As the coffin’s being lowered down into the grave, the vicar turns to the husband and says, “Together at last!” The husband says, “What do you mean, together at last? I’m still alive.” “I wasn’t referring to you,” says the vicar. “I meant her legs.”’
Gilmore sat stone-faced as Frost’s raucous roar of mirth almost drowned the others. Old women butchered and the fool was cracking jokes! Frost raised the phone, poking his finger in his ear to shut out the laughter. ‘Hello. Frost here. Sorry, I can’t hear you. I think the Divisional Commander’s throwing a party.’ He flapped a hand for silence. ‘That’s better, I’ve shut the door. You were saying?’ He listened. ‘That’s bloody marvellous. Check it out and let me know.’ He hung up and beamed happily at Gilmore and Burton. ‘Those newspapers we sent to Forensic. Nothing on the Daily Telegraph, but when they shoved the Sun under the microscope, not only were the Page Three girl’s tits enormous, but they spotted tiny flakes of black paint and rust on the outside page.’
‘Black paint and rust?’ frowned Burton.
‘If our luck’s in, it’s from Greenway’s letter-box,’ explained Frost. ‘It could have rubbed off as the paper went in and out. Forensic are sneaking someone round to his house to check. If the paint