solid devoted team work under my supervision.’ He lowered himself down into his chair and swung from side to side in smug satisfaction. Frost thought this was a good time to hand over the forged car expenses.
‘Excellent,’ said Mullett, giving them barely a glance as he signed them with a flourish of his Parker and tossed them into his out-tray. ‘Things are really moving our way at last. How’s the inventory going?’
‘Almost finished it, Super,’ said Frost, trying to remember where he had hidden the damn thing.
‘Good,’ beamed Mullett. ‘I want this man Greenway picked up and brought in right now. How many men will you need?’
‘The fewer the better, Super. He lives out in the wilds. If he spots half the Denton police force converging on his cottage, he might do a runner.’
‘Very well, but don’t let there be any foul-ups.’ He was itching for Frost to go so he could pick up the phone and casually let drop to the Chief Constable that, despite the appalling manpower shortage, Denton Division had once again come up trumps. Then his euphoria crash-dived as he remembered what he had originally wanted to see Frost about. He snatched up the Denton Echo and jabbed at the headlines. ‘Have you seen this? “Granny Ripper! Town of Terror!” What are we doing about it? The press are screaming for our blood and County are breathing down our necks.’
‘I might be able to give you a quick result,’ Frost said, filling him in on Wally Manson. ‘We’ve sent the jeans over to Forensic.’
Mullett could hardly contain himself. Wait until the Chief Constable heard about this. ‘I want Manson picked up and brought in,’ said Mullett, scooping up the telephone and dialling.
‘I’ll make a note of it,’ said Frost solemnly.
‘Chief Constable, please,’ said Mullett. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘That will be all, Inspector.’ As the door closed behind Frost, he straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. ‘Oh, hello, sir.’ He put on his weary voice. ‘Sorry if I don’t sound all that brilliant . . . lack of sleep, you know . . .’ He gave a modest laugh. ‘Someone’s got to keep an eye on things, sir . . . Some double good news on the Paula Bartlett case and the senior citizen killings that I thought you should have right away . . .’
Wednesday afternoon shift
Harry Greenway dropped a tea-bag into a mug and drowned it with boiling water from the kettle. He felt uneasy. He didn’t know why. On top of the fridge the portable radio was tuned into the local station where The Beatles were singing ‘Eleanor Rigby’. Greenway pulled a face and switched it off. A miserable, lonely song about death. He wasn’t in the mood for it. He was raising the mug to his mouth when his ears picked up the soft gentle click of a car door being carefully closed. Instantly, his hand shot out to the light switch. From the darkened kitchen he twitched back the curtains.
Two men were walking up the path, one middle-aged and scruffy, the other in his late twenties with the look of a thug. Greenway cupped his hand to the window pane to see better. The older man, a maroon scarf hanging unevenly round his neck had a scar of some kind on his cheek. He didn’t recognize either of them, but they spelled trouble.
A half-hearted knock at the front door which sounded almost too deliberately reassuring. The dog at his feet, a nine-month-old Dobermann, sprang up and started to growl, then to bark. He grabbed its collar and shut it in the lounge where it barked even louder. Another knock, a little stronger this time. Greenway reached for the heavy walking stick he kept on the hall table as he cautiously opened up. The scruffy man was smiling apologetically.
‘Mr Greenway? Sorry to bother you so late, sir. We called earlier, but you were out.’ He held something up. Greenway’s heart faltered and skipped a beat. It was a police warrant card.
‘Police?’ he stammered. God, how had they found out?
‘Routine enquiry,’ purred the man who he noted from the warrant card was Detective Inspector Frost. ‘All right if we come in?’ And without waiting to be asked, they were in the hall.
Routine enquiry? They don’t send detective inspectors on routine enquiries, not even rag-bags like this one. He felt his hands trembling. He forced a smile of unconcern. ‘I was just going to cook my dinner.’