Night Frost

Tuesday night shift (2)

‘Woman on the phone for you,’ yelled Wells as they crossed the lobby. ‘A Mrs Compton.’

‘Old Mother Rigid Nipples!’ exclaimed Frost, as Gilmore took the phone.

‘Mr Mullett wasn’t too pleased you’re only charging Hoskins with petty theft,’ Wells told him.

‘Mr Mullett’s happiness is rather low on my list o priorities,’ grunted Frost, pushing through the swing doors and nearly bumping into an irritable-looking Mullett on his way out.

‘Car expenses,’ barked Mullett.

‘Be on your desk first thing tomorrow, Super,’ called Frost, instantly regretting his folly. The expenses, much scribbled on, were still in his pocket and there wasn’t a hope in hell of getting the amended receipts by the morning. Ah well, he philosophized, a lot could happen between now and then. Mullett could get injured in a car crash and break both his legs. But he popped the bubble of this optimistic fantasy. The bastard would hobble in on crutches if it meant catching him out.

A quick look in at his office. Exactly as he had left it, cold and untidy. Protruding from under an empty, unwashed mug was a memo headed From The Office Of The Divisional Commander. It bore the single word Inventory??? ringed in red and underlined several times in Royal Blue by Mullett’s Parker pen. He ferreted through his in-tray and dug out the inventory return, hoping it wouldn’t look so complicated as at first sight. It looked even worse, so he reburied it even deeper.

The door slammed to punctuate an angry Gilmore’s return. ‘That damn Sergeant Wells!’ He flung himself into his chair.

Frost stifled a groan. He had enough troubles of his own. “What’s the matter now, son?’

‘That phone call from Mrs Compton. Her husband’s away and she’s alone in the house.’

‘It sounds a bloody good offer,’ said Frost. ‘We’ll flip a coin to see who has the first nibble.’

Gilmore’s scowl cut even deeper. ‘It’s not funny. She’s had another threatening phone call. The bastard told her tonight will be her last night on earth. She’s frightened out of her wits. I’ve told Sergeant Wells I want a watch kept on the house tonight and he says he can’t spare anyone.’

Frost picked up the internal phone. ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

At first Wells dug his heels in. He wasn’t going to let any jumped-up, know-nothing, aftershave-smelling detective sergeant tell him how to organize his own men. And did the inspector know how many men he had available to cover the whole of Denton — the whole of bloody Denton? Four! Two in cars, two on foot. The others had to be kept in to answer the flaming phones which were ringing non-stop after that stupid Paula Bartlett video on television. Frost put the phone down on the desk and let Wells rant on, while he lit up another cigarette. ‘When the whining from the ear-piece stopped, he picked up the receiver and made a few sympathetic sounds with the result that Wells now grudgingly admitted that perhaps he could spare one man and one car to keep a spasmodic watch on The Old Mill, but he couldn’t guarantee one hundred per cent coverage.

‘You’re a prince, Bill,’ said Frost. ‘Your generosity is exceeded only by the size of your dick.’ He hung up quickly before Wells could change his mind then twisted his chair round to tell his sergeant the good news, but if he expected thanks, he was disappointed.

‘What a bloody way to run a station,’ snarled Gilmore, stamping out of the room.

The office was too cold to stay in for long so Frost sauntered along to the Murder Incident Room where the temperature wasn’t much better. Two WPCs and one uniformed man, all well wrapped up against the cold, were beavering through the senior citizen burglary files and answering the spasmodic phone calls that were still coming in following the TV broadcast. Another WPC was slowly working through the vast computer print-out of light vans and estate cars, either blue or of a colour which could be mistaken for blue under street lamps. ‘Mr Mullett’s orders,’ she explained.

‘You don’t need to tell me,’ sniffed Frost. ‘Anything stupid and useless, it’s always Mr Mullett’s orders.’ Even if a blue van was involved, it could well have been repainted but still be registered under its original colour.

He dipped into the filing tray and read a couple of the messages. Paula was still being sighted. A woman had spotted her in France, and a man was positive that Paula was the same girl who had delivered his paper that very morning.

At a corner desk, DC Burton, a sandwich in his hand, was reading the Sun. He stuffed it away hastily as Frost approached and busied himself with the senior citizen files ‘On my refreshment break, sir,’ he explained. He accepted a cigarette. ‘Hoskins and the girl have been charged. We’re holding them in the cells overnight pending the result of the forensic examination.’

Frost nodded and plonked himself down on a chair. ‘I want to get filled in on the Paula Bartlett case, but I’m too bleeding lazy to read through the file. Start right from the beginning.’

‘September 14th,’ said Burton. ‘She was on her paper round. Left the shop at 7.05.’

‘Hold it,’ interrupted Frost. ‘Five past seven? Her parents said she usually started her round at half-past seven.’

‘That was when her teacher gave her the lift. She would have had to cycle to school that day, so she gave herself more time.’

Frost blew an enormous smoke ring and watched it wriggle lazily around the room. ‘I’m still listening.’

‘At five o’clock her parents are expecting her home from school. By half-past five they’re phoning around and are told she hadn’t been to school at all that day. At ten past six they phone us.’

‘And two months later, we found her,’ commented Frost, wryly.

Burton grinned patiently. ‘Anyway, we sent an area car. They got details of her delivery route from the paper shop and followed it through with the customers. As you know, she never made the last two houses.’ He heaved himself from his chair and crossed to the large-scale wall map. ‘Her last delivery was here at around 8.15.’ His finger jabbed the map. ‘Her next delivery should have been Brook Cottage… here. She never made it,’

Frost joined him at the map which was studded with yellow thumb tacks marking Paula’s progress. ‘She was doing her round half an hour earlier than usual?’

Burton nodded.

‘Then unless the bloke who abducted her knew that, it must have happened by chance — he saw her, acted on impulse and grabbed her.’

Burton destroyed that theory. ‘She’d been doing it half an hour earlier for the previous four days, sir. Mr Bell stayed away from school when his wife died, so Paula didn’t get her lift in.’

'Whoever it was, he must have had a car. He either bundled her in and dumped the bike, or it was someone she knew and trusted. Someone, perhaps, with a wispy beard who offered her a lift. The bike went in the boot and he dumped it later.’

A tolerant smile from Burton. Inspector Allen had reasoned all this out months ago. ‘If she was picked up in a car, sir, it couldn’t have been by Mr Bell. He never left the house before the funeral. His wife’s parents confirm it.’

‘He’s still got a wispy beard,’ said Frost, ‘and I don’t trust the sod.’ He returned to his desk. ‘Right. She’s reported missing. ‘What happened from there?’

‘Mr Allen took over the case at 20.15. The area between Grove Road and Brook Cottage was searched. At 23.32 we found her bike and her newspaper bag with the two undelivered papers, dumped in the ditch. The ditch was dragged in case the girl was there as well. It was then too dark to continue so it was resumed at first light with the search area extended to include part of the woods. Mr Allen had all known sex offenders, child molesters, flashers and the like brought in for questioning.’ He pulled open a filing cabinet drawer jam-packed with bulging file folders — the results of the questionings.

Frost regarded them gloomily. Far too many for him to read through.

‘There’s more,’ said Burton, tugging open a second drawer.

Frost winced and kneed them both shut. ‘Say what you like about Mr Allen, but he’s an industrious bastard. I take it he cleared them all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then that’s good enough for me.’ He struck a match down the side of the filing cabinet and lit up another cigarette. “Where’s the bike?’

Burton led him to the freezing cold evidence shed in the car-park and unlocked the door.

The bike, swathed in dimpled polythene, was leaning against the wall. Burton pulled off the covering and stood back. A neat little foldable bike in light grey stove-enamel with dark grey handle-grips and pedals. Frost stared at it, but it told him nothing. He waited while Burton replaced the dimpled polythene, then followed him back to the Incident Room.

‘Let’s see the physical evidence.’

Unlocking a metal cupboard Burton took out a large cardboard box that had once held a gross of toilet rolls and dumped it on the desk. Then he pulled a bulging box-file down from the shelf and handed it to the inspector. ‘The main file.’

Frost opened it. From the top of a heap of papers a serious-looking Paula Bartlett regarded him solemnly through dark-rimmed glasses. The school photograph provided by the parents when she first went missing, which was used for the ‘Have You Seen This Girl?’ poster. There were many more photographs, including those taken at the crypt and at the post-mortem. Frost shuddered and dug deeper, pausing to examine the flashlight enlargements showing the handlebar of the bike poking through the green scum of the ditch. ‘Any prints on the bike?’

‘You’ve already asked me, sir. Just the girl’s and the schoolmaster’s.’

Frost paused. Why did little buzzes of intuition whisper in his ear every time the schoolmaster was mentioned?

The rest of the file consisted of negative forensic reports on the bike and the canvas newspaper bag, plus statements from Paula’s school friends — no, she had never talked of running away; no, she wasn’t worried or unhappy about any thing no, she had no boyfriends. In the early days of the investigations, as no body was found, it was hoped that she had dumped her bike and, like so many kids of her age, run away from home. There were reports from various police forces who had followed up sightings of Paula look-alikes, teenage girls on the game or sleeping rough. A few missing teenage girls were restored to their families, but the Bartletts just waited, and hoped, and kept her room ready exactly as she left it.

He closed the file and handed it back to Burton, then pulled the cardboard box towards him. Inside it, loosely folded in a large transparent resealable bag, was the black, mould-speckled plastic rubbish sack, Paula’s shroud, ripped where the knife had cut through to reveal her face.

‘A rubbish sack,’ commented Burton. ‘Millions of them made. No clue there.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ gloomed Frost, taking the next item from the box. A canvas bag which had held the newspapers. The stagnant smell of the scummy ditch in which it had been immersed wafted up as he examined it. He slipped his arm through the shoulder strap. The bag was too high and uncomfortable. Paula was much smaller than he was. What the hell does that prove? he thought. He shrugged off the strap and put the bag on top of the rubbish sack. Next were the brown, fiat-heeled shoes, the stained laces still tied in a neat double bow.

‘Naked, raped and murdered, but still wearing shoes,’ muttered Frost. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘What’s going on?’ Gilmore was staring pointedly at Burton. ‘I thought I told you to go through the senior citizen files.’

‘He’s helping me,’ said Frost. He held up the shoes. ‘Why was she wearing shoes and sod all else?’

‘She tried to get away,’ offered Gilmore, not very interested. Mullett had told them to forget the Paula Bartlett case. ‘She put on her shoes so she could make a run for it, but he came back and caught her.’

‘She’d been raped,’ said Frost. ‘She was terrified. If she wanted to run, she’d bloody well run barefoot. She wouldn’t waste time putting on shoes and tying them both with a double bow.’

‘Then I don’t know,’ grunted Gilmore, moving away and busying himself with the senior citizen files, making it clear that he knew where his priorities were, even if others didn’t.

The brown shoes refused to yield up their secrets, so Frost put them to one side and took out the last item in the box, a large plastic envelope which held the two undelivered newspapers, the Sun and the Daily Telegraph, each folded in two so they would fit the canvas bag.

Frost slipped them from the envelope. The same stagnant smell as the bag, both papers yellowed and tinged with green from their immersion. With great care he unfolded the Sun which the soaking in the ditch had made slightly brittle. Scrawled above the masthead in the newsagent’s writing was the customer’s address, Brook Ctg. He turned to page three and studied the nude dispassionately. She too was stained green. ‘There’s a green-tinged pair of nipples to the north of Kathmandu,’ he intoned, closing the paper, careful to ensure it settled along its original folds.

He nearly missed it. It caught the light as he was returning it to the envelope. A quarter of the way down the back page, running across the width of the paper. A roughened, corrugated tongue-shaped tear an eighth of an inch wide and barely a quarter of an inch long. He pulled out the school master’s Telegraph and scrutinized the back and front pages. Nothing on that, so back to the Sun. It was telling him something, but he didn’t know what. ‘What do you make of this, Burton?’

Burton made nothing of it.

‘Come and look at this, Gilmore,’ called Frost.

Making clear his resentment at being dragged away from more important work, Gilmore took the newspaper, gave it a cursory glance and handed it back. ‘A bit of damage in the handling,’ he said.

No, thought Frost. Not damage in the handling. It was more than that. A faint bell began to tinkle right at the back of his brain. The drunken fat woman earlier that day. Her paper was jammed tight in the letter-box. He’d had to pull it out and he’d torn it. A very similar tear to that on the back page of the undelivered Sun. Or was it undelivered? Hands trembling, he took up the newspaper and gave it a second, loose fold. The rough corrugated tongue ran exactly down the line of the new fold.

Frost felt his excitement rising. ‘Did Mr Allen notice this?’

‘I don’t know, sir. ‘Why, is it important?’

‘It could be bloody important, son. The papers are folded once so the girl can fit them in the canvas bag. But they have to be folded again so they can be poked through the letter- box.’ Frost pointed to the tear. ‘I’d stake my virginity that this paper has been pushed through a letter-box and then pulled out again.’

The DC took the paper and twisted it in the light to examine the abrasion. It was possible. Just about possible. ‘But we know it wasn’t delivered,’ he said.

'Who lives at Brook Cottage?’

Burton pulled the details from the folder and read them aloud. ‘Harold Edward Greenway, aged 47. Self-employed van driver. Lives on his own. His wife walked out on him a couple of years ago.’

This was getting better and better. Frost rubbed his hands with delight. ‘Has he got an alibi for the day the girl went missing?’

Burton turned a page. ‘According to his statement he had no jobs lined up, so he stayed in bed until gone eleven, then pottered about the cottage for the rest of the day. He never saw the girl and he didn’t get a paper.’

‘And we believed him?’

‘We had no reason to doubt him, especially when we found her bike and the papers in the ditch.’

Frost sat on the corner of the desk and shook out three cigarettes. ‘OK. Try this out for a scenario. Harry boy lives all on his own. Wife’s been gone for two years and his dick’s getting rusty through lack of use. One morning, what should come cycling up his path but a nice, fresh, unopened packet of 15-year-old nooky with his copy of the Sun. She rolls it up and pokes it through the door. The sexual symbolism of this act hits him smack in the groin. He invites her in, or drags her in, or whatever. She can scream if she wants to, there’s no-one for miles to hear. Afterwards, when all passion’s spent and she’s screaming rape, he panics, and strangles her.’

Burton, caught up with Frost’s enthusiasm, could see where the plot was leading. ‘Greenway puts the newspaper back in the bag, dumps it with the bike in a ditch and we all think she never made the delivery.’

Even Gilmore looked impressed. ‘It’s possible,’ he decided reluctantly, ‘but it still doesn’t explain the shoes.’

‘Sod the shoes,’ said Frost, hopping down from the desk. ‘Let’s get our killer first, then get explanations.’ He stuffed the papers back into the plastic envelope and handed it to Burton. ‘Tell you what you do, son. Send both newspapers over to Forensic. Tell them our brilliant theory and get them to drop everything and make tests.’

‘And then come back and get down to these bloody files,’ called Gilmore. ‘We’re never going to get through them at this rate.’

The stack of folders didn’t seem to be getting any lower. Gilmore ticked off the squares on the roneoed form and dropped it into the filing basket ready for the girl on the computer. Something sailed past his nose. It was a paper aeroplane which attempted to soar upwards before losing heart and nose-diving with a thud to the ground at his feet. He bent down and picked it up. The paper looked familiar. He unfolded it. One of the roneoed forms. He turned suspiciously to Frost who grinned back sheepishly.

‘Sorry, son.’

Frost was bored. He’d been staring at the same robbery folder for the past forty minutes. He was dying for an excuse to get out of the station, but the phone stubbornly remained quiet. ‘About time Forensic came back to us on those news papers.’

‘They’ve only had them five minutes,’ said Gilmore.

‘How long does it bloody take?’ asked Frost peevishly, pulling the phone towards him and dialling the lab.

‘Give us a chance, Inspector,’ replied Forensic testily. ‘We’ve got half our staff down with this flu virus thing. We’re still working on the clothing and other items collected from 44 Manningron Crescent. Negative so far.’

‘That old rubbish can wait,’ said Frost. ‘It’s not important. Get cracking on those newspapers.’

A scowling Gilmore looked up. ‘We’re supposed to be concentrating on the senior citizen murders and you’re telling Forensic it can wait?’

Frost was saved from answering by the phone. WPC Ridley from Intensive Care, Denton Hospital. Alice Ryder, the old lady with the fractured skull, had regained consciousness.

The moon, floating in a clear sky, kept pace with the car as they raced to the hospital. Frost, puffing away nervously in the passenger seat, was willing the old dear to stay alive until they could question her. A detailed description of her attacker would be worth a thousand of those lousy forms they had been filling in for the computer. A detailed description! He was kidding himself. She was eighty-one, concussed and dying. The bastard had attacked her in the dark. The poor cow would tell them sod all.

The dark sprawl of the hospital loomed up ahead. ‘Park there, son.’ He pointed to a ‘Hospital — No Waiting’ sign by the main entrance and was out of the car and charging up the corridor before Gilmore had a chance to switch off the ignition.

Gilmore pushed through the swing doors in time to see the maroon blur of Frost’s scarf as he darted down a side corridor. With a burst of speed, he caught up with him. ‘Straight ahead,’ panted Frost, indicating a small flickering green neon sign reading ‘Intensive Care’.

The night sister looked up angrily and glared them to silence. She nodded grimly at Frost’s warrant card. ‘Mrs Ryder is over there.’ A jerk of her head indicated a curtained-off corner.

‘How is she?’ asked Frost.

‘She’s dying, otherwise I wouldn’t let you near her.’ As they moved across, she added, ‘Not too many of you. Send the WPC out.’

They slipped through the curtains. A concerned WPC Ridley was bending over the bed talking quietly. She looked up with relief at Frost’s appearance. ‘Her eyes are open, sir, but I don’t think she’s really with us.’

‘Take a break, love,’ said Frost flopping down in the chair alongside the bed. Gilmore stood behind him. The old lady, a small frail figure, seemed unaware of their presence. She lay still, her head barely creasing the plumped hospital pillow, an irregular bubbling sob marking her shallow breathing. Her face was a dull grey against the starkness of the turban of bandages around her head. Taped to her cheek, a thin, transparent tube ran into her left nostril. Another tube descended from a half-filled plastic bag on an iron stand and dripped fluids through a hollow needle to a vein on her wrist. Her hand, a yellow claw, was trembling and making tiny scratching noises on the bed-cover.

Everything was clean and white and sterile and Frost felt gritty and dirty and out of place. He leant forward. ‘Mrs Ryder?’

Her red-rimmed eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling. She gave no sign that she had heard him. Her head was twitching slightly as if trying to shake off the tube fastened to her nose which was clearly uncomfortable and worrying her.

Why can’t they let the poor cow die in comfort, thought Frost. He brought his face close to hers. ‘Mrs Ryder, I’m a police officer. If I’m to get the bastard who did this to you, I need your help.’ No response.

‘A description, Mrs Ryder — anything. If you can’t talk, blink. A blink means yes. Do you understand?’

If she understood, she didn’t respond.

Undeterred, Frost plunged on. ‘The man who attacked you. Was he tall?’ He waited. No response. ‘Short? Fat? Thin?’

Her breath bubbled. Her fingers drummed. Her eyes, unblinking, were fixed on the ceiling.

Frost slumped back in his chair. Why was he hassling her? She wasn’t going to tell him anything, so why not let the poor cow die in peace. He dug his hands in his pocket and felt his cigarettes. No chance of a smoke in here. The night sister would have him out on his ear.

‘Let me try,’ said Gilmore, but before Frost could answer the old lady made a choking sound. ‘I’ll get the sister,’ said Gilmore, trying to open the curtains.

‘No!’ hissed Frost, grabbing his arm. ‘Wait!’

The old lady was attempting to raise her head, but the effort was too much. Her eyes fluttered wildly and her lips quivered. She was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Frost brought his ear right down to her mouth and felt the hot rasp of her faint breath on his face.

‘Try again, love. I’m listening.’

One word. Very faint. It sounded like ‘stab’ but he wasn’t sure if he heard it correctly. ‘I know what he did, love. Can you describe him? Did you get a good look at him?’ He kept his voice down. He didn’t want the sister running in to order him out.

She nodded.

‘Was he taller than me?’

Her lips moved, then her eyes widened and there was a choking noise at the back of her throat. And then she was still… dead still, the fingers no longer drumming.

The old girl was dead. Damn and sodding blast. She’d told him nothing, He dragged back the curtains. ‘Nurse!’

He signalled for WPC Ridley to take over and hustled Gilmore out of the ward.

In the corridor outside he fumbled in his inside pocket to make a note of what the old lady had said and found he had pulled out those damn car expenses, the ones he had promised Mullett he would hand in tomorrow morning. Well, he’d have to think of yet another excuse for the Divisional Commander to disbelieve. Something was scribbled on one of the phoney petrol receipts. The name ‘Wardley’. He racked his brains, but it meant nothing. ‘Who’s Wardley?’

Doesn’t the old fool remember anything, thought Gilmore. ‘He’s the old boy who attempted suicide after he got the poison pen letter.’

Frost grinned. Something else to delay their return to the cold, dreary station. ‘I promised the doc I’d have a word with him. Come on, son.’

Gilmore almost lost Frost in the labyrinth of corridors. Denton General Hospital was originally an old Victorian workhouse, but had been added to and rebuilt over the years. Frost darted up dark little passages, across storage areas and up clanking iron staircases to get to the ward where Wardley was lying. The staff nurse in her little cubicle with the shaded lamp greeted Frost as an old friend. She wasn’t too keen on the idea of waking Wardley up, but Frost assured her it was essential.

Wardley, a little man of around seventy-five, his thinning hair snow white, was sleeping uneasily, turning and twitching and muttering. Frost shook his shoulder gently. Wardley woke with a start, mouth agape. He looked concerned as Frost introduced himself.

‘Have you come to arrest me?’ he croaked in a quavering voice.

‘Attempted suicide isn’t a crime any more,’ said Frost, dragging chair over to the bed. ‘Besides, for all we know, it was an accident.’

Wardley frowned. ‘You know it was suicide. I left a note.’

‘Did you? We couldn’t find it.’

The old man pulled himself up. ‘It was on the bedside cabinet. My note… and that letter. How could you miss them?’

Frost scratched his head. ‘They might have fallen under the bed. We’ll look again later. Suppose you tell me what the letter said?’

The old man shook his head and his hands gripped and released the bedclothes. ‘Terrible things. I’m too ashamed.’

‘Blimey,’ said Frost, ‘I hope I can do things I’m ashamed of at your age.’

‘It happened a long time ago, Inspector.’

‘Then it doesn’t bloody matter,’ said Frost. ‘Tell me what it said.’

A long pause. Someone further down the ward moaned in his sleep. A trolley rumbled by outside.

‘All right,’ said Wardley at last. ‘It goes back thirty years — before I came to Denton. I lived in a little village. It was miles away from here, but I’m not telling you its name. I ran one of the classes in the Sunday school.’ He paused.

‘Not much sex and violence, so far,’ murmured Frost. ‘I hope it warms up.’

Wardley pushed out a polite, insincere smile and immediately switched it off. ‘There were these two boys in my class. One was twelve, the other thirteen. After the class they would come back with me to my house. We would chat, watch television. All innocent stuff.’ His voice rose. ‘As God is my witness, Inspector, that’s all it was.’

‘What else would it be?’ soothed Frost, thinking to him self, You dirty old bastard!

‘One of the boys told lies about me. Filthy lies. I was called up before the Sunday school superintendent. I swore my innocence on the Bible, but he didn’t believe me. I was forced to resign.’ He stopped and studied the inspector’s face, trying to read signs that he was being believed now.

‘Go on,’ murmured Frost.

‘I couldn’t stay in the village. People whispered and pointed. I had to move. So I came to Denton. After thirty years I thought it was all over and done with. And then I received that awful letter.’

'What did it say, Mr Wardley?’

‘Something like “What will the church say when I tell them what you did to those boys?” I’m a churchwarden, Inspector. It’s my life. I couldn’t face it happening all over again. If it gets out, I won’t fail next time.’

Gilmore asked, ‘Is there anyone in Denton, or locally, who could have known about your past?’ Wardley shook his head.

‘These two boys you messed about with,’ Frost began, stopping abruptly as Wardley, quivering with rage, thrust his face forward and almost shouted.

‘I never touched them. It was all lies. I swore on the Bible.’ So loud did he protest that the staff nurse hurried anxiously towards the bed, only turning back when Frost gave her a reassuring wave.

He rephrased his question. ‘The boys who lied, Mr Wardley. I want their names. And the name of the Sunday school superintendent, and all the people from your old village who would have known about this. We’ve got to check and see if any of them have moved to Denton.’

He left Gilmore to take down the details and went down to the car where he could smoke and think. Why on earth was he wasting time on this poison pen thing when he was way out of his depth with more important cases?

The car lurched to one side as Gilmore climbed in. ‘Where to?’ he asked, trying to get comfortable in the sagging driving seat.

His reply should have been ‘Back to the station,’ but he couldn’t face going back to that cold Incident Room and wading through those endless, monotonous robbery files. ‘Wardley’s cottage. Let’s have another look for that letter.’

‘We shouldn’t be wasting time on this,’ moaned Gilmore. ‘And how are we going to get in?’

‘Dr Maltby will have a key,’ said Frost, hoping this was true.

Frost was in luck. Maltby did have the key. He sat them in his surgery while he went upstairs to fetch it. ‘Watch the door,’ hissed Frost, darting for the doctor’s desk.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Gilmore, horrified, watching the inspector methodically opening and closing drawers.

‘Looking for something,’ grunted Frost, busily opening a locked drawer with one of his own keys.

A creak of a floorboard above, then footsteps on the stairs.

‘He’s coming,’ croaked Gilmore, wishing he could run and leave Frost to face the music.

‘Got it,’ crowed Frost, waving a blue envelope. He glanced at it and stuffed it back, quickly locked the drawer, then slid back into his seat just as the door opened and Maltby came in with the key to Wardley’s cottage.

‘What the hell was that about?’ asked Gilmore when they were outside.

‘The poison pen letter the doc gave us yesterday. He wouldn’t tell us who it was sent to, so I sneaked a look at the envelope. Sorry to involve you, son, but you’ve got to grab your chances when they come.’

‘So who was it addressed to… anyone we know?’ Frost grinned. ‘Mark Compton. Mr Rigid Nipples.’ Gilmore’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What?’

‘Doesn’t it make you hate the swine even more… married to that cracking wife and having it off every Wednesday with a female contortionist in Denton?’ He halted outside the door of a small, dark cottage, pushed the key in the lock and they went in.

They started in the bedroom, with its iron-framed single bed, and worked downwards. Everything inside the bedside cabinet was taken out. Frost showed mild interest in some loose tablets he found in the drawer, then seemed to lose interest. The cabinet was pulled away from the wall in case the note and the letter had fallen behind it. The bed likewise was moved, exposing a rectangular patch of fluffy dust. Even the bedclothes were stripped and shaken.

Gilmore, watched by Frost from the doorway, crawled all over the room on his hands and knees, looking in corners, behind curtains. He even stood on a chair and looked on top of the wardrobe. ‘Nothing here,’ he said, brushing dust from his jacket.

A quick poke around in the bathroom and then downstairs. Again Frost didn’t seem inclined to join in the search, but let Gilmore do it while he sat on the arm of a chair, smoking and flipping through some bird-watching magazines he’d found in the magazine rack then looking all the way across the room at some nail holes in the wallpaper through a pair of high-powered binoculars he’d taken from a shelf.

‘It would be quicker with two,’ said Gilmore.

'When you get fed up, we’ll go,’ said Frost. ‘The letters aren’t here. I’m only staying because you seem so keen.’

Gilmore glowered. ‘All right,’ he admitted. ‘I’m fed up.’

‘We’ll have a word with Ada next door,’ said Frost.

You’re messing me about, thought Gilmore as he followed the inspector to the adjoining cottage with its black-painted door and shining, well-polished brasswork. A quick rat-tat- tat at the brass knocker and the door was opened by Ada Perkins, her sharp pointed chin thrust forward belligerently. ‘Oh, it’s you, Jack Frost. I thought I could hear heavy feet plonking about next door.’

‘And we thought we could hear the sound of an ear-hole pressed against the wall,’ replied Frost. ‘We’d like a couple of words… preferably not “piss off’.’

With a loud sniff of disapproval she showed them into a spotlessly clean, cosy little room where a coal fire glowed cherry red in a black-leaded grate and where chintz curtains hid the damp and depressing weather outside. In the centre of the room stood a solid oak refectory table draped in a green baize cloth on which was a quantity of different coloured wine bottles bearing white, hand-written labels.

‘Not interrupting an orgy, are we?’ asked Frost.

She ignored the question and pointed to the high-backed wooden chairs by the table. ‘Sit down!’

While Gilmore fidgeted, and kept consulting his watch, anxious to get back to his files, Frost settled down comfort ably and warmed his hands at the fire. He picked up one of the bottles and pretended to read the label. “What’s this? “Cow’s Dung and Dandelion. A thick brown wine, sticky to the palate.” That sounds good, Ada.’

She snatched the bottle. ‘It’s Cowslip and Dandelion, as well you know. I’m sorting out my home-made wine.’ She turned to Gilmore, who was drumming his fingers impatiently. ‘Would you like to try some?’

Gilmore shook his head curtly. ‘We’re not allowed to drink while we’re on duty.’

‘This isn’t alcoholic,’ Frost assured him. ‘This is home made.’ He beamed at Ada. ‘Perhaps just a little sip — to keep out the cold.’

From the top of the matching solid oak sideboard, she produced two of the largest wine glasses Gilmore had ever seen, and after giving them a quick blow inside to shift the dust, banged them down on the green baize. She filled them to the brim, and slid them across. ‘Try that.’

Gilmore lifted his glass and eyed the cloudy contents with apprehension. ‘That’s more than a sip.’

Frost told him, ‘You’ve got to have a lot to get the full benefit,’ and raised his glass in salute to Ada who waited, arms folded, for their verdict. ‘Cheers!’ The wine tiptoed down his throat as smooth as silk, tasting of nothing in particular, then, suddenly, the pin slipped from the hand grenade and something exploded inside him, punching him in the stomach, making him gasp for breath and firing little star shells in front of his eyes. ‘Gawd help us!’ he spluttered as soon as the fit of coughing stopped.

‘What’s it like?’ whispered Gilmore who hadn’t plucked up the courage to try his yet.

‘Delicious,’ croaked Frost, his throat raw and stinging as if he had swallowed a glass of hot creosote. Quickly he covered his glass as Ada offered a second helping. ‘If you’re trying to get us drunk so you can have your way with us, Ada, forget it. I lust after your body, but all I want at the moment is the letters.’

Her expression hardly changed as she rammed the cork home in the bottle. ‘What letters?’

Pausing only to slap the coughing, red-faced Gilmore on the back, Frost said, ‘The poison pen letter and the suicide note.’

She stared blankly, as if mystified.

‘You don’t have to be a bleeding Sherlock Holmes to deduce you’ve got them, Ada. Wardley left them on his bedside cabinet. You were the first one in. They were gone by the time the doc arrived a couple of minutes later. Don’t sod me about. I want them.’

Her lips tightened stubbornly. ‘Did Mr Wardley say you could have them?’

‘Yes, Ada. And he also said if you didn’t hand them over, I was to give you a clout round the ear-hole.’ He held out his hand. She hesitated, then took a folded sheet of notepaper from her apron pocket and thrust it at him.

Frost was slowly becoming aware that he was beginning to feel a trifle light-headed. Everything in the room was starting to blur slightly round the edge. It took a great deal of effort to bring the typed letter into focus. Thank God he’d refused a second glass of Cowslip and Dandelion.

‘Give it to me,’ said Gilmore impatiently. He unfolded the note and read it aloud. ‘“Dear Lecher. What would the church say if I told them about you and the things the boys said you did?”’

‘Is that it?’ asked Frost, sounding disappointed.

Gilmore nodded. ‘Typed on the same machine as the others. The “a” and the “s” are out of alignment.’

‘It all looks out of alignment to me,’ muttered Frost, wishing he hadn’t made such a pig of himself on Ada’s lethal brew. He squinted up at the blurred outline of the woman. ‘And where’s his suicide note, Ada?’

Stubbornly, she folded her arms. ‘I burnt it.’ At Frost’s angry exclamation, she explained, ‘Suicide is a mortal sin. Mr Wardley is a churchwarden. I wanted people to think the overdose was an accident.’

Frost pulled himself to his feet and waited to give the room a chance to steady itself. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that, Ada.’

She walked with them to the front door. ‘Think yourself lucky I kept the poison pen letter. I was in two minds whether to burn that as well.’

‘Thanks for the wine,’ said Frost. ‘I only felt sick for a little while.’ A cold, swirling mist was waiting for them out side. Its chill dampness embraced them, sobering Frost instantly and making him shiver.

Gilmore edged the car out of the village and headed for Denton. Up on the hill, looking down on them, The Old Mill, a dark blur in the mist. No lights showed. ‘Old Mother Rigid Nipples has gone to bed,’ Frost murmured. ‘Her husband’s probably got one of them stuck up his nose right now.’

‘Her husband’s away,’ grunted Gilmore, trying to spot the area car that was supposed to be watching the place, but there was no sign of it.

As they drove back, the radio was pleading for all available patrols to help break up a fight between two gangs of youths outside one of the town’s less reputable pubs. ‘Steer clear of there,’ said Frost, not wanting to get involved.

And then the radio was calling them. ‘Can you get over to The Old Mill right away?’ asked a harassed-sounding Bill Wells. ‘I had to call Charlie Alpha away to help with this pub fight. Mrs Compton’s seen someone prowling about the grounds.’