patient for surgery. Through the open door Frost suddenly spotted Detective Inspector Allen, with Sergeant Ingram at his side, purposefully advancing toward the ward. He had no wish to be around when Allen learned of his foul-up with the victim’s age, so he quickly looked for a way of escape. With a quick wave to Sue, he hustled Webster through a rear door, down some dimly lit stone stairs, then along another empty, winding corridor.
“You seem to know your way about,” commented Webster.
“My wife was in here,” explained Frost. “I used to come every day.”
The detective constable remembered being told that Frost’s wife had died recently and thought it best not to ask further questions. They turned right into the main causeway, which had wards leading off from either side.
Frost stopped and pointed. “Look! The place is crawling with filth tonight.”
Webster saw a young police constable, dark curly hair, small moustache, leaning against the wall, engaged in animated conversation with a ridiculously young night nurse who had a wisp of stray hair escaping from her cap. Webster scratched his memory for the man’s name; he had been introduced to so many people. Then he remembered. Dave Shelby, married with two young children but with the reputation of being woman-mad, or “crumpet-happy,” as Frost had crudely termed it.
Catching sight of the inspector bearing down on him, Shelby quickly whispered something to the girl, making her blush, then in a loud voice, said, “Thank you very much, Nurse.” She hurried off, giving an apologetic smile to Frost as she passed.
“Stay away from him, love,” Frost called after her. “He meets men in toilets after dark.” To Shelby, he said, “You want to try and stay off it for five minutes, son—it can make you go blind.”
Shelby grinned nervously. “Just passing the time, sir. I’m a respectable married man.”
“So was Dr Crippen,” sniffed Frost. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”
Shelby jerked his thumb at the glass-ported swing doors behind him. “I’m with the hit-and-run victim. They’re operating on him now.”
Frost squinted through one of the portholes. Not much to see. A huddle of green-robed figures, working silently. One of the robes was smeared with blood.
“Rather him than me. It looks like an abattoir in there.”
He looked over Shelby’s shoulder. Farther down the corridor all alone, an old lady was sitting. She looked bewildered and frightened.
“That’s the victim’s wife,” whispered Shelby. “She slept through it all. Didn’t even know her husband had got out of bed until a neighbour knocked to tell her he’d been run over.”
“Poor old cow,” muttered Frost. “What are his chances?”
Shelby gave a hopeless shrug. “His skull is smashed, he’s hemorrhaging internally, and he’s seventy-eight years old.”
“The car that hit him was supposed to have shed its licence plate,” said Frost. “Have we traced the driver yet?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m not really on this one. Mr Allen pulled the area car off to help with the search for the rapist.”
“That reminds me—” said Frost, staring closely at him “—have you been up to your larks tonight?”
Shelby started visibly. “What do you mean, sir?”
“The woman who was attacked. You haven’t been in Denton Woods tonight with your little truncheon at the ready?”
A wave, of relief seemed to wash over the constable. “No, sir,” he said, forcing a smile. “It wasn’t me.”
But you have been up to something, my lad, thought Frost, and for a minute you thought I was on to it. Well, I’m not on to it. I’m not that clever . . . I can’t even tell the difference between a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl and a thirty-year-old woman.
They had to pass the old lady on their way out to the car. She reached up and clutched at Frost’s arm. “My husband—” she said “—they’re operating on him. He is going to be all right, isn’t
“You seem to know your way about,” commented Webster.
“My wife was in here,” explained Frost. “I used to come every day.”
The detective constable remembered being told that Frost’s wife had died recently and thought it best not to ask further questions. They turned right into the main causeway, which had wards leading off from either side.
Frost stopped and pointed. “Look! The place is crawling with filth tonight.”
Webster saw a young police constable, dark curly hair, small moustache, leaning against the wall, engaged in animated conversation with a ridiculously young night nurse who had a wisp of stray hair escaping from her cap. Webster scratched his memory for the man’s name; he had been introduced to so many people. Then he remembered. Dave Shelby, married with two young children but with the reputation of being woman-mad, or “crumpet-happy,” as Frost had crudely termed it.
Catching sight of the inspector bearing down on him, Shelby quickly whispered something to the girl, making her blush, then in a loud voice, said, “Thank you very much, Nurse.” She hurried off, giving an apologetic smile to Frost as she passed.
“Stay away from him, love,” Frost called after her. “He meets men in toilets after dark.” To Shelby, he said, “You want to try and stay off it for five minutes, son—it can make you go blind.”
Shelby grinned nervously. “Just passing the time, sir. I’m a respectable married man.”
“So was Dr Crippen,” sniffed Frost. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”
Shelby jerked his thumb at the glass-ported swing doors behind him. “I’m with the hit-and-run victim. They’re operating on him now.”
Frost squinted through one of the portholes. Not much to see. A huddle of green-robed figures, working silently. One of the robes was smeared with blood.
“Rather him than me. It looks like an abattoir in there.”
He looked over Shelby’s shoulder. Farther down the corridor all alone, an old lady was sitting. She looked bewildered and frightened.
“That’s the victim’s wife,” whispered Shelby. “She slept through it all. Didn’t even know her husband had got out of bed until a neighbour knocked to tell her he’d been run over.”
“Poor old cow,” muttered Frost. “What are his chances?”
Shelby gave a hopeless shrug. “His skull is smashed, he’s hemorrhaging internally, and he’s seventy-eight years old.”
“The car that hit him was supposed to have shed its licence plate,” said Frost. “Have we traced the driver yet?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m not really on this one. Mr Allen pulled the area car off to help with the search for the rapist.”
“That reminds me—” said Frost, staring closely at him “—have you been up to your larks tonight?”
Shelby started visibly. “What do you mean, sir?”
“The woman who was attacked. You haven’t been in Denton Woods tonight with your little truncheon at the ready?”
A wave, of relief seemed to wash over the constable. “No, sir,” he said, forcing a smile. “It wasn’t me.”
But you have been up to something, my lad, thought Frost, and for a minute you thought I was on to it. Well, I’m not on to it. I’m not that clever . . . I can’t even tell the difference between a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl and a thirty-year-old woman.
They had to pass the old lady on their way out to the car. She reached up and clutched at Frost’s arm. “My husband—” she said “—they’re operating on him. He is going to be all right, isn’t
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