Mullett was feeling feverish. This wretched business with Gauld’s mother couldn’t have come at a worse time. The smoke from Frost’s cigarette wafted across and made him cough, and when he coughed, his head ached. He fanned the smoke away pointedly. Frost took the cigarette from his mouth, flicked ash all over the carpet, then replaced it. The phone rang. Mullett snatched it up, his expression hardly changing as he listened. ‘Thank you.’ He hung up, then stared grimly across to Frost. ‘That was the hospital. A very mild attack. They’re keeping her in overnight for observation, but will probably send her home in the morning.’
Frost dropped down in the chair, almost sweating with relief. ‘Thank God for that. I’ll try her again tomorrow. I think I can bust the alibi story.’
Mullett took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re going nowhere near her. You’ve caused enough trouble. You knew she had a heart condition, yet you showed her those horrific photographs.’
‘Of people butchered by her son. Don’t worry, Super. I’ll be gentle with her next time.’
‘There’s not going to be a next time,’ said Mullett emphatically, thumping the desk and wincing as it made his head ache.
‘I need to break his alibi,’ insisted Frost.
‘Even if you broke his alibi. Even if his mother confirmed he was out on each and every one of the murder nights, that simply means he could have killed the victims… you still don’t have a shred of proof which says that he did kill them. I want proof, Frost, not suspicion, not gut reaction — good, old-fashioned solid proof.’
‘Let me talk to her and I’ll get your proof.’
‘No!’ Mullett’s head was now throbbing constantly and he wished the inspector would accept the position and leave him alone.
‘Without proof, I’ll have to let Gauld go,’ said Frost despairingly.
‘That’, said Mullett curtly, ‘is your problem.’ He winced as the door slammed behind Frost and set his headache roaring off again. He could feel the sweat beading his brow as he tugged open the drawer for the aspirins. It was this wretched virus, he knew it, but if he went down, then that would leave Frost as the senior officer. And there was no way he was letting Frost run the division.
Gilmore was waiting for him outside the interview room. ‘Gauld’s shut up like a clam. He’s going to sue us for what we did to his mother and he’s not saying another word unless we get him a solicitor.’
‘We’re letting him go,’ said Frost. He filled the sergeant in on his interview with Mullett. ‘But I still want him tailed twenty-four hours a day. At best we might get the bloody proof we want. At worst we can probably stop him killing another poor sod until Mr Allen returns on Monday and takes over the case.’
‘Will I be transferring to him?’ asked Gilmore, hopefully.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Frost.
Gilmore tried to look disappointed.
‘We haven’t got the men to carry out a twenty-four hour surveillance,’ said Johnny Johnson.
‘You’ll have to find them,’ said Frost. ‘Plain-clothes, uniformed, dog-handlers, walking wounded… I don’t care. The important thing is we don’t let the bastard out of our sight even for a second.’
‘Are you sure he’s the Ripper?’ asked Johnson. ‘A fine lot of fools we’d look with the entire force following the wrong man while the Ripper kills someone else.’
‘Trust me,’ said Frost.
‘I’ve trusted you before, Jack, and you’ve dropped me right in the muck.’ He sighed. ‘But I’ll see what I can do.’
The phone rang. Burton from the Oxfam shop. ‘Can you come over, Inspector? There’s a locked cupboard here full of stuff belonging to Gauld, and I can’t get it open.’
‘We’re off to the Oxfam shop,’ Frost called to Johnson.
‘Buying another suit?’ called Johnson after them.
The Oxfam shop used to be a carpeting and furniture retailers until the firm went broke. Pushing past racks of used clothing and stacks of kitchen utensils, Frost and Gilmore, hastily pursued by the manageress, a thin, angular woman in a green overall, followed Burton to the rear of the shop where he led them down a short flight of stone steps to the basement. There, Burton clicked a switch and an unshaded bulb lit up a small, stone-flagged room in which an old-fashioned solid fuel boiler, belching sulphurous fumes, clanked away, a heap of anthracite glittering at its side. To the left of the boiler was another door which took them into a narrow passage where six metal lockers, painted light grey, backed against one wall.
‘That one is Gauld’s.’ Burton indicated the last locker in the row.
Frost examined the solid-looking padlock and fumbled in his pocket for his bunch of keys.
The manageress looked uneasy. ‘I presume you’ve got a warrant?’
‘Yes,’ said Frost, curtly, staring back at her, defying her to ask to see it. The second key did the trick He turned the handle. The manageress pushed forward, eyes goggling. ‘You’d better keep back, madam. It might be a body.’ Alarmed, she hopped back, stepping on Gilmore’s toe as she did so.
‘Abracadabra,’ said Frost and pulled open the door.
The locker was crammed tight with men’s clothing; jackets, trousers, shirts, assorted styles and colours. Some of the clothing was old and threadbare, some in reasonable condition, all second-hand.
The manageress gasped and stared open-mouthed.
‘Looks as if he’s been nicking your stock, madam,’ suggested Frost.
‘I can’t understand it. Ronnie seemed such a nice. boy. I’d have trusted him with my life.’
‘Lots of people thought the same,’ smiled Frost. “What exactly did he do here?’
‘He drove our little van — collected items that people wanted to give to Oxfam. And he would deliver some of the larger items that people bought. Oh, and he helped with the boiler… keeping it well stoked.’
‘Sounds a little treasure,’ said Frost. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about the clothes. I’m sure he’s got a good explanation.’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘I think I can hear a customer in the shop.’ As soon as she had left he began examining the clothing. ‘It’s all about Gauld’s size — he was taking it for himself.’
‘So he’s been pinching the stock,’ sniffed Gilmore. ‘Big deal.’
‘You’re missing the point, son.’ Frost was getting excited. He held up a pair of torn and paint-splattered jeans. ‘Much of this is rubbish. So why did he nick it?’
‘I give up,’ shrugged Gilmore, not sounding very inteested.
‘None of his own clothes were bloodstained. Supposing he kept a supply of old clothes that he could change into just for his Ripper jobs?’
Gilmore’s eyes widened. ‘And after each job he disposed of them in the boiler! It’s so simple, it’s almost brilliant.’
They went back to the boiler room. ‘Any point shutting this thing down?’ Gilmore asked. ‘We could rake through the ashes. There’ll be bits that don’t burn… buckles… clips… zips.’
‘It wouldn’t prove anything,’ said Burton. ‘I was talking to the manageress before you arrived. They get lots of clothes offered to them that are verminous, or too dirty to sell… so they shove them in the boiler.’
‘Damn.’ Frost gave the boiler a kick. ‘This bastard is either too clever or too lucky. If we want proof, we’re going to have to catch him in the act.’ He stretched his arms and yawned loudly. ‘Come on, Gilmore, let’s get some kip. I get the feeling we’re going to have a busy night.’
The house was strangely still and quiet when Gilmore closed the front door behind him. Liz was either out, or had gone back to bed. He tiptoed up the passage so he wouldn’t disturb the dormant fury. In the living-room the ticking of the clock seemed unnaturally loud. Or was it because the rest of the house was so quiet?
Her farewell note was tucked into the frame of the mirror above the mantelpiece. She’d used the expensive blue monogrammed notepaper he’d bought for her birthday, his name scrawled across the envelope in green ink. He read it, then dashed up to the bedroom to make sure. The unmade bed was empty her clothes gone from the wardrobe. He crossed the passage. Her toilet things had been removed from the bathroom.