Night Frost

Wednesday night shift (2)

Gilmore drew up outside the house and checked the windows. Despite the hour he half expected to see all the lights blazing and a still-smouldering Liz waiting for him. But the house seemed to be in darkness and he sighed with relief. He wasn’t ready for another slanging match. But as he quietly clicked the front door shut behind him he heard mumbled voices and a slit of light showed from under the lounge door.

He tiptoed down the hall and turned the handle. An old black and white film was playing on the television and Liz was curled up in the armchair, a couple of empty tonic water bottles on the table and a bottle of vodka on the floor by her side. She turned and held up a brim-full glass in a mock toast. ‘Home is the hunter!’ In one gulp she swigged it down, waving the empty glass triumphantly aloft.

‘It’s gone four o’clock,’ he said. ‘What are you doing up?’

She pouted. ‘You said you’d be in early. You promised me you’d be in bloody early.’

He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie and took a clean glass from the display cabinet. ‘I said I’d try. It just wasn’t possible.’ He flopped wearily into the other armchair and reached for the vodka bottle. It was empty. He held it up accusingly. ‘This was a full bottle on Saturday!’

‘So I bloody drank it. What else is there to do in this stinking town, sitting in this lousy room, waiting for you and you never bloody come.’

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. ‘It won’t be long.’ None too hopefully he pushed himself from the chair and foraged through the display cabinet, looking for something alcoholic amongst the half-empty bitter lemon and Coke bottles. Defeated, he poured himself a glass of Coke. It was warm and flat. On the television screen Humphrey Bogart was slapping Peter Lorre around. He relaxed, rested his head against the back of the armchair and tried to fight off sleep.

‘You know what I thought,’ slurred Liz in a husky whisper, putting her empty glass on the table. ‘I thought I’d wait up for my randy, rampant, lover-boy husband and I thought we’d have some randy, rampant sex. How does that grab you, superstud?’

He was too tired. He wasn’t in the mood and he didn’t even think he was capable of making love. But he forced a grin. He didn’t want a row, a hurtful, scratching row, all in hoarse angry whispers to avoid disturbing the neighbours. ‘You’re on,’ he said, and held out his arms.

She slunk over and nestled in his lap. He kissed her. She tasted of vodka. Her body was hot and burning and her perfume was heady and erotic. Her hand crawled over him, tugging the shirt free from his trousers, her fingers exploring, caressing and lightly scratching his lower stomach. Then he wasn’t faking any more. Then he was unbuttoning and easing off her dress. Then he was biting and licking and groaning.

And then, jarring like a dentist’s drill, the door bell. A long, persistent ring. And someone banging on the door. And Frost’s voice yelling for him to open up. This is a nightmare, he thought. A bloody nightmare.

‘Sorry, son,’ said Frost, barging in as he opened the front door. ‘An emergency…’ He stopped dead as he saw Liz smouldering in the armchair, her dress unbuttoned down to the waist, making no attempt to cover her naked breasts. Frost made no attempt to hide his gaping admiration.

Gilmore made the unnecessary introduction. ‘My wife Liz.’

‘Sorry about this, love,’ apologized Frost. ‘You must hate my guts.’

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

‘I’m known as Coitus Interruptus in the trade,’ added Frost, hoping to warm up the atmosphere, but neither of them responded.

‘What do you want?’ asked Gilmore curtly.

‘Another arson attack at the Comptons’. I know it’s your case, but I’ll attend to it if you like.’

Gilmore hesitated.

‘Bloody go,’ snapped Liz. ‘Bugger off and go!’ The door slammed as she stormed out of the room.

‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Frost. ‘Be quick.’

‘I’m coming now,’ said Gilmore, grabbing his coat.

The rain had stopped, but a cold wind chased them to the car. ‘Sorry if I sodded things up for you, son,’ said Frost, settling into the passenger seat. Gilmore gave a noncommital grunt and slammed the car into gear. He looked back at the house, half hoping Liz would be at the window so he could give her a wave. A forlorn hope.

The road was clear so Gilmore was able to ignore traffic signals and speed limits and drove with his foot jammed down hard while Frost briefly outlined what he knew. ‘Compton phoned the station about half an hour ago. Someone was prowling about outside. A couple of minutes later the station alarm went off, so the prowler must have broken a window or forced a lock or something. Control sent an area car. It found the place in flames. The fire brigade’s on its way. That’s all I know so far.’ As they left the town and climbed the hill to skirt the woods an orange glow throbbed in the sky ahead. ‘Bloody hell, son,’ said Frost. ‘That’s one hell of a fire.’

Soon they could see the flashing electric-blue beacons of the fire trucks and hear the deep-throated roar of the burning wooden structure fanned to a frenzy by the wind. The scorching heat hit them as they climbed out of the car and stumbled over a spaghetti confusion of hoses.

‘Look out!’ someone yelled.

A long-drawn-out creaking screech of agony as the supporting timbers of the mill gave way, then a slow rumbling as the roof collapsed and whooshed up a tongue of flame which licked the night sky with thousands of red, dancing sequins. Firemen in yellow oilskins turned their backs as the dragon’s breath of scorched air and smoke blasted out at them.

With the roof down and the building open to the sky, the firemen were able to direct their hoses into the seething heart of the fire gradually damping down the flames and sending up clouds of steam and oily smoke.

‘Inspector! Over here.’ PC Jordan was waving to them from the side of a fire truck. There was something on the grass by his feet. Something covered by a crumpled sheet of grey plastic, dripping wet from the back-spray of the hoses.

‘Shit,’ said Frost. The plastic was draped over a dead body.

‘The firemen found him in the lounge,’ Jordan told them. ‘He’s burnt to buggery.’

Frost bent and carefully lifted the sheet, then turned his head away, but not before he had breathed in the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Gilmore, watching, felt his stomach start to churn. The dead face gawping up at him was blistered red raw and distorted by intense heat. ‘Where the hair should have been was grey powdery ash.

‘The firemen reckon he must have fallen into a pool of blazing petrol,’ explained Jordan, staring straight ahead, determined not to look down. ‘They dragged him out of the lounge.’

‘Poor bastard,’ muttered Frost. He pulled the plastic sheeting down further to see better. Welded into the bubbling black flesh, pieces of charred material. ‘Looks like pyjamas.’

‘Yes, sir. We presume he’s the householder.’

Frost forced himself to bend again and study the face closer. If it was Mark Compton it would require medical and dental records for a positive identification. Slowly, he straightened up. ‘So what happened?’

‘The place was well alight when we got here. Simms radioed for the fire brigade. No way of getting in at the front, so I tried the rear and found Mrs Compton, in her night clothes, unconscious on the lawn just outside the back door.’

'Where is she now?’

‘She’s with someone in the village, I think.’

Frost nodded for him to continue.

‘When the fire brigade got here they sent a couple of men with breathing apparatus into the house. The body was in the lounge. They dragged him out but he was already dead.’

‘I thought the sprinklers were supposed to stop this sort of fire,’ said Frost.

‘They’d been put out of action, Inspector. The water supply was turned of at the mains.’

Gilmore thought it was about time he reminded everyone that this was his case. ‘Radio through to Control,’ he snapped. ‘Tell all patrols that anyone out and about at this time of the morning, on foot or in a car, is a suspect and is to be detained for questioning.’

‘And advise all hospitals, chemists and doctors that we want to know immediately about anyone requesting treatment for burns,’ added Frost.

A car horn sounded and Dr Maltby’s Vauxhall crept into the side road. Maltby, wrapped up against the cold in a thick overcoat, climbed out and surveyed the smouldering wreck age of the once beautiful house. He spotted Frost and made his way across, stepping with exaggerated care over the hose-pipes.

‘He’s drunk again,’ hissed Gilmore.

‘Then arrest him,’ snapped Frost. ‘We need the extra work. Over here, doc!’

The doctor lurched over. ‘Terrible business, Jack.’ He nodded at the sheeted shape. ‘The husband?’

‘All that’s left of him, doc. He fell face first in some four star. What I want to know is, did he fall or was he pushed?’

Maltby pulled the sheet completely away from the body and arranged it over the wet grass so he could kneel down. He shook his head testily. ‘He’s too badly burnt. You’ll need a proper post-mortem.’ He lifted the head slightly, his fingers exploring the skull. ‘Hello…’ Carefully he moved the head so he could examine it more easily. ‘The back of the skull’s caved in.’

‘Where?’ asked Frost, squatting down beside the doctor. His nicotine-stained fingers probed. Yes, he could feel the pulpy fracture where the skull gave way under pressure. He wiped his hand on his mac and straightened up. ‘Damn, damn and double damn!’

‘Could it have happened when he fell?’ asked Gilmore.

Frost shook his head. ‘He fell face down, son… straight into the burning petrol.’

Maltby nodded his agreement. ‘I’d say he was struck from behind

… a heavy blow from a blunt instrument. If the blow didn’t kill him outright, then the fire finished him off.’

Frost’s shoulders sagged wearily. ‘It’s murder whichever way you look at it, doc.’ He shook water from the plastic sheeting and jerked it back over the body. ‘Where’s the poor sod’s wife?’

‘Ada’s looking after her,’ said Maltby. He turned to watch the firemen. The Old Mill was now a skeleton of blackened, smoking timbers which had to be continually dampened down as a malevolent wind kept fanning sparks into flames. ‘Get the bastard, Jack,’ he said, as he stumbled back to his car.

‘I’ll try,’ called Frost. He turned to Gilmore. ‘Come on, son. Let’s go and have a word with Old Mother Rigid Nipples.’

Gilmore exploded. He had had just about enough of Frost’s callous crudeness for one day. ‘Haven’t you got any bloody feeling? A man’s dead. His wife is a widow. Must everything be a cheap joke?’

Frost accepted the rebuke with a half-hearted shrug. ‘I see so many rotten things, son. If I dwelt on them, I’d probably go and chuck myself under a bus, which might make Mullett happy, but wouldn’t do the victim any good… so I joke. It makes the job a bit more tolerable… sorry if it upsets you, though.’

A concerned-looking Ada, a thick mouse-grey dressing gown over flannelette pyjamas, a man’s cap covering her curlers, led them through to the bedroom where Jill Compton, all respectable in one of Ada’s passion-killing high-necked winceyette nightdresses, lay with eyes closed, on Ada’s iron-framed single bed. Frost thought it was the most erotic sight he had ever seen and wished he wouldn’t keep thinking dirty thoughts at inopportune moments. Jill’s eyes fluttered, then opened wide in startled anxiety as Frost gently called her name She sat up Where s Mark? Is he all right?

Frost groaned inwardly. He hadn’t realized she hadn’t been told. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid, Mrs Compton.’

She stared at him, then at Gilmore, her eyes pleading to be told that what she feared, what she dreaded, wasn’t so. ‘No… no.. please…’ And her head shook, rejecting what she knew they would tell her.

Frost knew of no way to deaden the hurt other than killing hope quickly. ‘Your husband is dead, Mrs Compton. The firemen got him out, but it was too late.’

At first she looked angry, as if her refusal to accept what they were telling her would make it untrue. Then her body shook as she buried her face in her hands, tears streaming between her fingers. ‘No …’

Ada pushed forward to comfort her. ‘You’d better, go now,’ she ordered the two detectives.

‘No,’ said Frost, firmly. ‘She’s the only witness. The only person who can help us.’

Ada stood her ground, chin jutting defiantly, one arm protectively around her charge. ‘I’ve told you to go. This is neither the time nor the place.’

But, sniffing back her tears and biting hard on her lower lip, Jill spoke quietly. ‘It’s all right. I want to help. What do you want to know?’

Signalling Gilmore to get out his notebook, Frost dragged a wicker-seated chair to the side of the bed. ‘Tell us what happened.’

The detective sergeant gave a sharp cough and glared angrily. ‘This is my case,’ he reminded the inspector.

‘Sorry son,’ said Frost mildly, moving his chair back a little.

Gilmore gave the woman a sympathetic smile. ‘Tell us what happened, Mrs Compton.’

She fumbled under the pillow for a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, then, twisting the tiny scrap of cloth in her hands, related the course of events. ‘We went to bed just before midnight. I woke up suddenly. Mark was using the phone by the bed. He was calling the police. He had heard someone prowling about outside.’

‘Did you see who it was?’ asked Gilmore.

‘Not clearly. We looked out of the window and could see a shadow of someone moving about. Mark was angry. He grabbed a heavy torch and said he was going to teach who ever it was a lesson.’

‘He was going to use the torch as a weapon?’

She nodded. ‘I imagine so.’

‘You didn’t go downstairs with him?’

‘No. He insisted I stayed in the bedroom with the door locked. I waited. Suddenly I heard shouting and crashing, as if there was a fight. Then it went quiet. I waited, hoping Mark would come back I called him. No answer. Then I smelt burning so I unlocked the bedroom door. Thick black smoke. I could hardly see. I had to feel my way down the stairs. When I opened the lounge door, flames and smoke roared out. I could see Mark, face down on the floor. But the heat was intense. I couldn’t get to him.’

She paused, her face drawn and pained as she relived the moment. Frost started to say something, but Gilmore brusquely signalled him to be quiet.

‘I saw the lounge window was open, so I tried to get out into the garden through the back door. But the smoke was so thick. I was choking. When I found the bolts, they wouldn’t undo. I struggled and finally got them undone…’ She looked at her broken nails, then hid her hands under the bedclothes. ‘… but I must have passed out. That’s all I remember. There was a fireman… and then there was Ada.’ The effort of talking had exhausted her. Her eyes closed and her head dropped back on the pillow. ‘That’s all I remember,’ she repeated in a whisper.

‘The firemen found you collapsed just outside the back door,’ Gilmore told her. ‘Did you see anything more of the person who broke in?’

Eyes still closed, she shook her head. ‘No.’ Her body trembled with the reaction and she tried to sit up. ‘If only I could have got to Mark. He was so close. But the flames…’

Gilmore patted her arm. ‘There was nothing you have done, Mrs Compton. He was already dead when first saw him.’

She raised her face to the sergeant. ‘I pleaded with him to wait for the police. If only he had stayed with me…’ And then she threw back her head and howled in anguish, her sobs racking her body.

With a belligerent stride Ada pushed in front of Gilmore. ‘No more. She’s had enough.

Gilmore replaced the chair up against the forget-me-not patterned wallpaper. ‘Thanks for your help, Mrs Compton. And I really am most sorry.’

Ada wrapped her dressing gown around her spare frame. ‘I’ll stay with her for a while. There’s tea and biscuits in the kitchen if you want some.’

The kitchen, with the coal fire roaring away, was almost overpoweringly warm and Gilmore had to fight hard to keep his eyes open as he sipped Ada’s hot, sweet tea. Frost had twitched back the curtains to reveal the early morning sky, part-streaked with smudges of smoke from the lire. He was sprawled in the chair by the kitchen table, using a saucer as an ashtray. He too was tired. He’d have given anything to be able to climb into bed, preferably with the naked Jill Compton whose tear-stained, unmade-up face seemed to hold an erotic attraction.

His foot twitched and made contact with something under the table, something that swayed, then toppled heavily with a glassy clunk. Yawning, he lifted the tablecloth. Nudging his foot lay a wine bottle on its side. One of Ada’s home made brews. There were about twenty or so more bottles of wine bunched together under the table. ‘The stingy cow’s hiding it from us,’ he said, pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a swig. The room shimmered, then jerked still. He replaced the cork and pushed the bottle back with the others under the table.

‘You know what I’ve been thinking?’ said Gilmore.

Frost shook his head to stop the fuzziness. ‘If it’s some thing rude, I’m all ears, son.’

‘If that poison pen letter was sent to Mark Compton, then who is the woman he’s been knocking off?’

‘I wish I knew,’ replied Frost. ‘I’d love to get some of what he’s been getting.’

‘He’s been going with another woman,’ said Gilmore. ‘There could be a jealous husband, or boyfriend.’

‘A good point, son,’ began Frost, then he stopped dead and looked under the table again as a nagging thought struck him. ‘Why has she dumped the bottles there? She’s usually so neat and tidy… everything in its place.’

‘I don’t know,’ muttered Gilmore, his tone implying he didn’t care either.

A wall cupboard in the corner caught Frost’s eye. ‘That’s where she usually keeps her wine. Quick, son. Take a look inside.’ Gilmore showed his astonishment. ‘It could be important, son.’

Anything to humour the old fool, thought Gilmore as he tugged at the handle. ‘It’s locked!’

‘Catch!’ Frost tossed him a bunch of keys. ‘Try one of these.’

The first key didn’t fit, so he tried another. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this without a search warrant.’

Frost raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. ‘You learn something new in this job every day. Someone was telling me you can’t plant false evidence any more, but I’m not that gullible.’ He lit up another cigarette. ‘Hurry it up, son.’

Another key. Still no joy. But the next glided in smooth as silk and the lock clicked. Gilmore pulled open the door then whistled softly. Inside the cupboard was a battered old Olympia typewriter. He was carrying it over to the table when a door slammed and an angry voice shrilled, ‘And just what do you think you’re doing?’

‘I tried to stop him, Ada,’ said Frost, ‘but he wouldn’t take any notice.’

‘I let you into my house. I give you tea. I give you biscuits..’

‘But you don’t give us your body, Ada. The one thing I’ve been lusting after.’

She wasn’t listening to Frost. Angry eyes stabbed at Gilmore who was ripping a blank page from the back of his notebook and feeding it into the roller. Her voice, shaking with rage, rose an octave. ‘Don’t you dare touch that!’ She plunged forward but Frost’s arm shot out to restrain her.

‘We’ve got to check it to make sure he hasn’t broken it, Ada. I want you to get every penny of compensation.’

The page in to his satisfaction, Gilmore pecked out a test sentence. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. He snatched the paper from the machine and studied it carefully, a grin of triumph creeping across his face. ‘The “s” and the “a” are out of alignment, Inspector. We’ve found the poison pen typewriter.’

Frost took the page from him and nodded. ‘He’s right, Ada. But I bet you’ve got a perfectly plausible explanation?’ He waited expectantly.

She folded her arms stubbornly and compressed her lips.

‘Can’t quite hear you, Ada,’ said Frost, cupping his hand to his ear.

Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.

Gilmore pushed himself between her and Frost. He was barely in control of himself. He kept seeing Susan Bicknell in her Mickey Mouse nightdress, stretched lifeless on the bed. ‘You don’t need to say anything, you evil-minded bitch. Because of you an old man tried to kill himself. Because of you a fifteen-year-old kid took her own life.’

She stared back at him, her eyes unflinching. ‘Then you’d better arrest me, hadn’t you?’

‘Stop fighting, you two,’ said Frost, flopping back in his chair. ‘You never wrote those bloody letters, Ada. The longest note you ever wrote said “No milk today, please, the cat’s got diarrhoea.”’ He shook an export Benson and Hedges from the packet. ‘That’s old Mr Wardley’s typewriter, isn’t it? He’s the sod who’s been sending the letters.’

Her expression didn’t change.

‘Wardley?’ exclaimed Gilmore. ‘That’s impossible. He got one of the letters. He tried to kill himself.’

‘He didn’t try very hard, did he, son? He didn’t try as hard as that poor cow Susan Bicknell.’ He folded the piece of paper into a spill and lit his cigarette from the fire. ‘I reckon Wardley didn’t swallow more than a couple of those tablets.’

‘The bottle was nearly empty,’ said Gilmore.

‘Only because he’d tipped most of the tablets out into the drawer of his bedside cabinet. He sent the poison pen letter to himself, then faked the suicide.’ He puffed smoke towards the woman. ‘I’m right, aren’t I, Ada? You can caress any part of my body if I’m wrong.’

Her lips twisted into a tight, bitter smile then she moved across to the table and started stacking the dirty cups and saucers on a tray. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Guesswork mainly, Ada. But I was bloody suspicious of that unfranked poison pen letter Wardley was supposed to have received. Everyone else’s letter went into juicy detail… every thrust, every withdrawal, each nibble of naked ear-hole all lovingly described. But there weren’t any juicy bits at all in his own letter. It was almost polite. “What would the church say if I told them what you did to those boys!” Not a mention of dick anywhere.’ He dragged hard at the cigarette. ‘And then there was the missing suicide note. It didn’t make sense you should destroy it. There was no point.’

Ada crossed the room to the sideboard. ‘I didn’t destroy it. I just didn’t want you to see it.’ From the drawer she took a sheet of blue notepaper. Frost glanced at it, then passed it over to Gilmore. ‘“A”s and “s”s out of line, son. The silly sod used the same machine for the suicide note and the poison pen letters.’

‘He thinks himself so clever, but he’s not all there,’ said Ada. ‘I found out about him last year. I went in to do his cleaning and there he was, bashing away at the typewriter, so engrossed in one of his nasty letters he never heard me.’

‘Then why didn’t you inform the police?’ asked Gilmore.

She dragged a chair to the fire and sat down. ‘He’s lived next door to me for years. I didn’t want to get him into trouble.’

‘So you just let him carry on writing his dirty letters?’

‘I made him promise he’d stop. I thought he had stopped.’ She stared into the fire then picked up the poker and shattered a lump of coal sending sparks shooting up the chimney.

‘What brought things to a head?’ asked Gilmore. ‘Why the letter to himself and the faked suicide attempt?’

She rubbed her hands as if she was cold and held them to the fire to warm them. ‘I was working up at The Mill when the post came. There was a letter addressed to Mr Compton. I recognized the blue envelope and the wonky typing right away, so I hid it in my pocket. I wasn’t going to let him cause trouble with the Comptons.’

‘Did you confront Wardley?’ Frost asked.

‘As soon as I finished work. I charged over to his cottage and told him I was going straight to the police. He said the police would never believe me. It would be his word against mine and he was a churchwarden and I was a charlady. Just then, in comes Dr Maltby with the sleeping tablets. I took the letter from my pocket and said, “Can I talk to you in private, doctor. I’ve got something to show you.” Mr Wardley went as white as a sheet. Of course, when we got outside, I gave the doctor the letter and explained how I’d got hold of it, but I didn’t tell him anything about Mr Wardley writing it. I only meant to frighten him. I can’t tell you how I felt when I went back later and it looked as if he’d killed himself.’

‘Like I said, he faked it to make you out a liar, Ada,’ said Frost, pushing himself out of his chair.

Gilmore gathered up the typewriter and followed Frost out into the cold, damp morning air where the smell of smoke and burning clung to the wind.

The Old Mill was a depressing blackened shell, dripping water which plopped mournfully into soot-filmed, debris-choked pools. The ground squelched under foot as firemen in yellow oilskins and blackened faces rolled up hoses and stowed away equipment while others, helped by members of the Forensic team, were picking through the sodden wreck age. DC Burton in an anorak over a polo-necked sweater spotted their car as they pulled up and hurried to meet them. ‘The pathologist has examined the body, Inspector. He thinks the blow on the head knocked Compton unconscious and death was due to smoke suffocation. He’ll be doing the autopsy at eleven this morning.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Gilmore to remind everyone once again that this was his case.

‘Any joy with petrol- and smoke-smelling suspects?’ asked Frost.

‘No, sir. Charlie Alpha picked up a tramp on the Bath Road, but what he smelt of isn’t nice to say.’

‘Forensic turned anything up?’

‘Yes — those.’ Burton pointed to three heat-distorted metal petrol cans, bagged up for laboratory examination. ‘And this…’ He picked up a plastic bag containing a blackened cylinder of metal, caved in at one end. ‘They think this is the murder weapon.’

‘Compton’s torch!’ said Frost. He told Gilmore to get Mrs Compton to identify it as soon as Forensic had finished their tests.

‘That’s what I intended doing,’ hissed Gilmore through clenched teeth.

‘What’s the name of our one bloody suspect?’ asked Frost. ‘The one who picked the fight?’

‘Bradbury,’ Gilmore reminded him. The fool had a memory like a sieve.

‘That’s him! There’s an all-forces bulletin out on him. Find out if he’s been located yet.’

While Gilmore radioed through to the station, Frost peered through a smashed window at the remains of the lounge, which was now a miniature indoor lake of greasy water dotted with islands of ash and charred wood. He lit a cigarette, took one deep drag, then hurled it away. The smoke had the greasy taint of burnt flesh.

Gilmore returned, shaking his head. No joy yet on Bradbury. Frost took one last look round. Everyone seemed to be coping quite well without him. ‘We’re doing no good here, son,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s go to the hospital.’

‘The hospital?’ echoed Gilmore. ‘Why?’ Now that he had committed himself to attending the autopsy in six hours’ time, all he wanted to do was go home and get some sleep.

‘To question Wardley,’ explained Frost. ‘You said Mark Compton’s bit of spare might provide the motive for his death and Wardley knows who she is. I’ll do it on my own if you like.’

No way! thought Gilmore, slamming the car into gear. No bloody way.

At that hour of the morning Denton Hospital was a place of uneasy, muffled noises, whispers, coughs and groans. The very young probationer nurse in sole charge of the wheezing, snuffling ward wasn’t at all happy about Frost waking up one of the patients, but Frost breezily assured her that he had permission.

Wardley, deep in a trouble-free sleep, was rudely awakened by a rough shaking of his shoulder. His eyes flickered open as he tried to focus on the two strangers looking grimly down at him. One of them he recognized immediately and his heart-beat faltered before thudding away. It was that detective inspector, back again, in the middle of the night. And the look on his face. God, they knew. They had found out. He closed his eyes tightly and feigned sleep, but the renewed shaking of his shoulder nearly jerked him out of bed. ‘Yes?’ he asked in a quavery, weak, old man’s voice.

‘Get dressed,’ said Frost. ‘I’m arresting you.’

‘Arresting me?’ He pulled himself up. ‘It’s that woman next door telling lies about me, isn’t it? Don’t you believe her… she’s evil. She hates me.’

‘Not as much as I bloody hate you,’ said Frost. ‘And the only lies Ada told us was when she was covering up for you, you sod. She even hid your typewriter — the one you used for your suicide note — and for your poison pen letters.’

‘Poison pen?’ He tried to sound indignant. ‘The intention was to make people stop their filthy practices.’

‘You made Susan Bicknell stop hers,’ said Frost. ‘The poor cow killed herself.’

The skin on the old man’s knuckles stretched almost to blue transparency as he clutched at the sheet. ‘I didn’t mean that to happen. She over-reacted. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, you’re sorry?’ hissed Frost. ‘That makes it all right. We’ll dig the poor bitch up so you can apologize.’ He dragged a chair across the floor with such a loud, teeth-setting squeak that half the ward stirred uneasily. ‘Right,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m tired, my sergeant is tired, and we haven’t got time to sod about. I’m going to ask you questions, and I want answers.’

‘I’m saying nothing,’ whimpered Wardley. ‘I’m a sick man.’

The chair squeaked again as Frost stood up. ‘Arrest the bastard, Sergeant.’

‘Wait,’ said Wardley. ‘What do you want to know?’

Another squeak from the chair. Frost made himself comfortable, then shook the last export cigarette from the packet and lit up. ‘Let’s start with the pornographic video. Who’s been making them?’

‘A purveyor of filth. If I knew his name I’d tell you. I bought the video, Inspector. It wasn’t for enjoyment. I have to do these things to ferret out evil. When I screened it, I recognized the girl. Her mother goes to our church. I’ve no idea who makes and distributes them.’

‘Where did you buy it?’ Gilmore asked.

‘A newsagent’s in Catherine Street. I don’t know the name.’

‘We do,’ said Frost. ‘We’ve already arrested him.’ That part of Wardley’s story checked out anyway. ‘We’ll leave that for the moment. You sent one of your well-meaning letters to Mark Compton?’

The old man pulled himself upright, his eyes wild, his expression intense. ‘That lecher. All smug and high and mighty, but sneaking off behind his wife’s back for disgusting perversions with a prostitute.’

‘A prostitute?’ said Gilmore, glumly. This ruined his theory. If Compton’s bit of spare was a prostitute, a vengeful boyfriend or husband would have his work cut out.

‘Never mind, son,’ said Frost. ‘We’ll check her out any way.’ He asked Wardley where she lived.

‘Where all these high-priced harlots live. In Queen’s Court — those new flats at the back of the big supermarket… end flat, third floor.’

‘If they were up on the third floor, how could you see through the bedroom window?’

Wardley smiled. ‘The multi-storey car-park overlooks her flat. All you need is a strong pair of field-glasses.’

‘And a dirty vicious bastard to use them,’ said Frost.

PC Dave Simms tucked the area car into the lay-by off the Bath Road and reached for the thermos flask. His observer, PC Jordan, yawned and stretched his arms. ‘I’ll be damn glad when this shift is over,’ he sniffed. ‘I’m sure I’ve got this flu bug coming on.’

‘Don’t breathe over me then,’ replied Simms, slopping steaming hot coffee into a plastic cup and passing it over.

Jordan sipped at the cup, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Hello. What’s this?’

Headlights approaching. Coming from the opposite direction to the fire, but they had been given instructions to stop everyone. Anyone out and about at this time of the morning was a potential suspect.

It was a small black van which slowed down and stopped as they sounded the siren and cut in front of it. The driver, a short, sharp-featured man with long greasy hair, in his late forties, eyed them warily. ‘What’s the trouble, officer?’

Simms asked to see the man’s driving licence, his nose twitching, trying to detect the smell of smoke, or petrol, but smelling only fresh paint.

‘I haven’t got my licence with me. What’s this all about?’

‘Just routine, sir. Do you mind telling us what you are doing out at this time of night?’

Jordan was checking the van. The smell of new paint was strong. The vehicle had been freshly painted. A pretty ropey job, done with a paint brush, not a spray gun. He tried the rear doors. They opened.

‘Leave them alone!’ yelled the man, reaching forward to switch on the engine, but Simms’ hand clamped round his wrist.

The beam of Jordan’s torch found a stack of cardboard boxes. He pulled one forward and looked inside. Jewellery. Lots of jewellery. Mainly old-fashioned, but good quality — brooches, lockets, bangles, rings.

‘Well, well, well,’ smirked Jordan. ‘And what is your perfectly reasonable explanation for these, sir?’

The hospital was slowly waking up as they clattered down the stone stairs past the first shift of cleaners with mops and buckets. They could hear the car radio as they crossed the pavement.

‘Frost,’ he yawned into the handset.

‘We’ve got him, Jack,’ reported Sergeant Wells triumphantly.

‘You’ve got Bradbury?’ asked Frost, unable to believe his luck. ‘Is he dripping with petrol, smothered in blood and carrying a blunt instrument?’

‘Not Bradbury,’ replied Wells, testily. Frost was always joking at the wrong moment. ‘No joy with him yet. But we’ve got Wally Manson. Jordan and Simms picked him up. His van’s a bloody treasure trove — full of stolen gear from the senior citizen break-ins. Mr Mullett is cock-a-hoop.’

'What’s that about Mr Mullet’s cock?’ asked Frost innocently. ‘This is a very bad line.’ He replaced the handset. ‘The station, son.’

But Gilmore was already on the way.

Frost sank down in his seat again. He dug down in his pocket, but the Benson and Hedges packet was empty.