R. Wingfield - Night Frost

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Frost, gloomily. ‘That’s narrowed it down to the whole of bleeding Denton.’

‘Actually it doesn’t,’ said Forensic. ‘Nearly all the councils in this part of England use an identical sack.’

‘Just when I thought it was going to be easy,’ Frost said, hanging up. ‘I’ll be in the Murder Incident Room,’ he yelled to Gilmore who was doing a lot of listening on the phone and didn’t appear to be saying much.

Two people only in the Murder Incident Room. DC Burton, a phone pressed tightly to his ear, his pen scribbling furiously, and WPC Jean Knight, a redhead in her mid-twenties who was waiting for the computer to finish a print-out.

‘Couple of odds and ends from Forensic,’ called Burton, waving his sheet of paper.

Frost ambled over and poked a cigarette into Burton’s mouth, then offered the pack to the redhead who declined with a smile. ‘I know all about the dustbin sacks, son. I’m applying for two million search warrants.’

Burton grinned. ‘We can do a bit better than that, sir. Firstly, the padlock. Forensic reckon those screws were prised out at least twice before within the past couple of months and then hammered back.’

Frost’s cigarette drooped as his mouth fell open. ‘Twice before?’

‘Yes, sir. Someone could have got in on two or more different occasions, or it could even have been twice on the same day.’

‘Forensic always seem to think they’re being bloody helpful,’ said Frost. ‘Now I’m more mystified than ever.’ He looked up as Gilmore came in. ‘Did you hear that, son? The padlock to the crypt had been forced at least twice.’

‘Oh?’ said Gilmore, not really taking it in. His ear was still sore from the phone and his mind was full of Liz’s moans and complaints.

‘There’s more,’ announced Burton. ‘Forensic found a footprint.’

‘Ah,’ said Frost. ‘So we’re looking for a one-legged man.’

‘It wasn’t exactly a footprint,’ continued Burton patiently. ‘It was more a clump of mud that had fallen from the sole of a shoe.’

‘Where did they find it?’ asked Gilmore, stifling a yawn.

‘Top step, just inside the crypt door. Forensic reckon it was some eight weeks old which makes it round about the time the body was dumped.’

‘How the hell can they tell it’s eight weeks old?’ asked Gilmore.

‘Don’t ask!’ pleaded Frost. ‘Just accept it. You’ll be none the wiser if they explain. OK, Burton. We’ve got a bit of mud. How does that help?’

Burton pulled his notes towards him. ‘There were traces of copper filings and lead solder in the mud.’

Frost worried away at his scar with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘Copper filings and solder?’ If it had any significance, he couldn’t see it.

‘A plumber!’ called WPC Jean Knight from the computer. ‘They put central heating in my flat last week. They were forever sawing up lengths of copper tubing.’

‘A homicidal plumber!’ said Frost doubtfully. He ambled across to the shelf of telephone directories — pulled out the Yellow Pages for Denton and district There were some fifteen pages of plumbers — nearly three hundred firms. ‘At least it’s less than two million,’ he observed.

‘There’ll be more names under “Central Heating”,’ Burton reminded him.

There were nearly two hundred entries under ‘Central Heating’, although some of these were also entered ‘Plumbers’.

‘The gas company does central heating,’ added Jean Knight. ‘They’d employ plumbers as well.’

‘I’m losing interest already,’ said Frost.

‘It might not be a plumber at all,’ added Gilmore. ‘It could be someone, like Jean, who’s had central heating installed and that’s how the filings and solder got on their shoes.’

‘It might be a man with a length of copper tubing soldered on the end of his dick who’d popped into the crypt for a Jimmy Riddle,’ said Frost unhelpfully. Then he stopped dead and a smile crept over his face. ‘Or it might be a lot easier than we think.’ Excitedly he expounded his theory, the cigarette in his mouth waggling as he spoke. ‘We’re not looking for any old plumber. Our killer didn’t stagger into the cemetery with a gift-wrapped body just on the off-chance he’d find somewhere to hide it. He knew the crypt was there and he knew he could get into it. Now I’ve lived in Denton most of my life and I never knew we had a Victorian crypt in the churchyard… did any of you?’

Burton and the WPC shook their heads. ‘I visit cemeteries as infrequently as possible,’ said Burton.

‘Me too,’ said Frost. ‘I only go in one if I can’t find anywhere else to have a pee. But our plumber knew where to find it and knew he could get in it.’ He jabbed a finger at Gilmore. ‘How?’

Gilmore shook his head. He had no idea.

‘Right, son, let me mark your card. What was alongside the crypt, by the broken railings?’

‘A stand-pipe and a tap,’ said Gilmore, beginning to see what the old fool was getting at.

‘Exactly, sergeant. And they looked fairly new. So who would have installed them?’

‘A plumber,’ said Gilmore, ‘and he’d know how to get in through the broken railings.’

‘And he’d know how to use a blow-lamp,’ added Burton.

Frost chucked an empty cigarette packet into the air and headed it against the wall. ‘Another case solved. Get in touch with the vicar, find out who did the work, then bring him in for routine questioning and beating up.’ He yawned and looked at his watch. Nearly an hour to kill before the post-mortem. He was about to suggest sending out for some Chinese takeaway when the phone rang. Control for the inspector. Another burglary at a senior citizen’s home — old lady of eighty-one.

‘Damn!’ muttered Frost. He could have done without this tonight.

‘There’s worse to come,’ said Control. ‘The intruder beat her up. She’s not expected to live.’

Clarendon Street. Lights blinked out from quite a few of the houses where the occupants had been wakened by the police activity. Outside number 11 was an empty area car, its radio droning and no-one to listen, and behind that, an ambulance, engine running, rear doors open. As Gilmore parked the Cortina on the opposite side of the street, two ambulance men carrying a stretcher emerged from the house, closely followed by a uniformed constable. By the time they crossed the road the ambulance was speeding on its way to the hospital.

‘Anyone at home?’ yelled Frost down the passage.

A door at the head of the stairs opened. ‘Up here, Inspector.’ Tubby Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon beckoned them in.

A bedroom, its bed askew in the middle of the floor, the sash window open and Roberts, the Scene of Crime Officer, bending, engrossed in dusting the bottom edge of the frame for fingerprints. There were fragments of a smashed blue and white vase on the floor and the top centre dressing table drawer gaped open, its riffled contents spewing out.

By the dressing table a hooked-nosed woman in her mid-forties wearing a quilted dressing gown was talking earnestly to PC Jordan.

The scene was familiar. This burglar seldom varied his technique. A quick in and out job. Straight for the dressing table to grab indiscriminately whatever jewellery was instantly available, then, starting with the top centre drawer, he looked for the ‘cleverly hidden’ cache of notes which couldn’t be trusted to the bank and which were nearly always at the back of the top centre drawer. Then out again, the whole operation lasting a maximum of five minutes. A familiar scene, but this time with a difference. There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on the bedding and on the curtains.

‘How’s the old girl?’ asked Frost.