Night Frost

Thursday afternoon shift (1)

Gilmore spooned sugar into a cup of hot, strong tea and placed it in front of Watson who was still in a state of shock after formally identifying his mother’s body. The cup clattered on the saucer as his shaking hand raised it to his mouth. He tried to concentrate on what the scruffy inspector was saying.

‘I know it’s been an awful shock, sir, but if you could answer one or two questions.’

The cup was rattling against his teeth. He lowered it back to the saucer, the tea untasted, and pushed it away. ‘Yes… anything.’

‘We’ve been listening to a tape from your answering machine, your mother’s last message. You said she made the call at 9.35 p.m. If you weren’t at home, how do you know that?’

‘My answering machine logs the time and date of all calls.’

‘I see, sir. And where were you at 9.35 last night?’

‘Me?’ His head jerked up. ‘You suspect me?’

‘I’d be happy if I had anyone to suspect, sir,’ said Frost, wearily. ‘I just want to eliminate. Your mother was a nervous woman. She kept her front door chained and bolted and yet someone calls at 9.35 at night and she cheerfully lets them in. It had to be someone she knew and trusted… some one like you, sir. So where were you?’

‘I was in Birmingham. The Queensway Hotel.’ He pulled a receipt from his inside pocket and handed it across. ‘You’ll want to check, of course.’

Frost glanced at it and passed it to Gilmore who went out to phone.

‘I’d like it back,’ said Watson. ‘I need it for my expenses claim.’

Frost nodded. He knew all about expenses claims. ‘On the tape, sir, your mother starts by saying, “You needn’t worry any more about..” Any idea what she meant by that?’

‘I think she was referring to a new security chain. The one on her front door was inadequate. After hearing about those burglaries and then those two women killed, I’d been on to her to get a stronger one.’

‘Can you think of anyone your mother would be happy to admit into her flat at 9.35 at night?’

‘No-one. She was a very nervous woman.’ He looked up as Gilmore returned with the receipt and murmured some thing in the inspector’s ear.

‘The hotel confirm your visit, sir.’ Frost handed the receipt back and stood up. ‘Thank you for your help. We’ll let you know how our enquiries progress… and, of course, you have our deepest sympathy.’ As the door closed behind Watson, Frost’s solemn expression changed to a grin. ‘So he had a double room and a woman and he asked the hotel for a single room receipt?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Gilmore.

‘The crafty bastard,’ said Frost, shaking his head in admiration. ‘He gets his firm to pay for his nookie. I wish I could wangle something like that. Anyway, Sonny Boy’s in the clear.’ He picked up the cassette from the answering machine. ‘Let’s find out if this can tell us what we want to know.’

The Murder Incident Room was swirled with a fog of duty-free cigarette smoke. Frost sat on the corner of the front desk watching Gilmore slot the tape into the Yamaha cassette deck. He clapped his hands for silence.

‘Right. As you know, we’ve had another Ripper murder.’ He held aloft some enlarged colour prints where red was the predominant colour. ‘We’ve got photos of the victim, but unless you get a kick out of steaming entrails, I suggest you take them as read. The bastard almost disembowelled her.’ He stood up, the cigarette waggling in his mouth as he spoke. ‘The victim is a Mrs Doris Watson, aged seventy-six, a widow with one son. She rarely went out, except to the twice-weekly senior citizens’ afternoon sessions at the Reef Bingo Club. The poor cow was terrified of being attacked so she had extra bolts, a spy-hole and a security chain fitted to her front door. Last night, at 9.35, she made a telephone call to her son. The son was out, but his answering machine picked up the call. This is it.’ He nodded for Gilmore to start the tape.

A bleep. Then, Hello, son. It’s mother. You needn’t worry anymore about… Just a moment, there’s someone at the door… Vague sounds as the tape continued, then another bleep. Gilmore jammed down the Stop control.

The room was dead quiet.

‘She put down the phone,’ continued Frost, ‘and went to the front door. She squints through the spy-hole, likes what she sees, so this nervous woman undoes the chain, draws the bolts and welcomes in the bastard who’s going to rip out her intestines.’ He took the cigarette from his mouth and spat out a shred of tobacco. ‘You’re all a lot smarter than I am, so let’s have some brilliant suggestions. Come on — you’re a nervous woman of seventy-six. Who would you let into your flat at night — apart from a toy-boy with his own teeth and a big dick?’

Burton raised his hand. ‘Something we’ve never considered, sir. She’d never let in a man — but what if the Ripper was a woman?’

Frost chewed on his lip as he thought this over. ‘It’s possible, son. It would explain a lot, but my gut reaction is against it. We’ll keep it in mind, though.’

WPC Jill Knight raised a hand. ‘If she’d phoned for a doctor, she’d let him in.’

A buzz of excitement.

‘You’re right,’ said Frost. ‘She’d let a doctor in.’

‘Or a priest,’ added Gilmore. Purley was still his number one suspect.

‘Or a priest,’ agreed Frost. ‘OK, son You can check on the curate. We want to know where he was last night. And you, Jill. Find out who her doctor was. See if she asked him to call last night and even if she didn’t, find out where he was at 9.35. Anything else?’

He waited. Nothing. He took out a fresh cigarette then threw the pack to Burton to offer around. ‘I’ll tell you some thing that worries me.’ He struck a match on the table leg. ‘This time he took no money. He didn’t ransack the bed room. Over a hundred quid in her purse in full view on the sideboard and it wasn’t touched. Now Sergeant Gilmore suggests something disturbed the Ripper and he had to hoof it off before he could nick anything.’ He blew out the match and let it drop to the floor. ‘But stupid sod that I am, I can’t buy that. This bloke is icy cold. Nothing panics him. I reckon money’s never been his motive.’

‘So what is his motive?’ asked Gilmore.

‘Killing,’ said Frost. ‘I reckon he gets his kicks out of cold, bloody killing.’

The room went quiet. Chillingly quiet. This had the ring of unpalatable truth.

‘Right.’ Frost slipped down from the desk. ‘Let’s play the tape again.’

It was played again, and again and again. Frost, smoking, chewing his knuckles, hunched in front of the loudspeaker. Just a moment, there’s someone at the door… Vague sounds. A bleep. Gilmore’s voice… Mr Watson, this is Denton Police

‘Again,’ snapped Frost. There was something there. Some thing his subconscious had caught but which kept slipping away. ‘This is no damn good,’ he moaned. ‘I want it louder.’

‘It won’t go any louder,’ said Gilmore.

‘We could use the hi-fl equipment in the rest room,’ suggested Burton.

They crowded into the rest room. Gilmore slotted in the cassette and turned the amplifier up almost to its maximum. He pressed Play and the hiss of raw tape crackled from the twin speakers.

The bleep screamed out like an alarm signal. Tape hiss. Hello, son. It’s mother, shouted the old lady, the sound almost hurting their ears.

‘Leave it,’ ordered Frost as Gilmore’s hand moved to turn down the volume. You needn’t worry any more about… Through the mush, a buzzing vibrating sound. Then an other.

‘The door bell,’ muttered Frost. At ordinary volume level it was inaudible.

Just a moment, there’s someone at the door… A rustling, then an echoing bang as if someone had hit a microphone. She had put the phone down. Fading footsteps as she padded up the hall to the front door, eager to let in her murderer. Now the tape background roar was paramount. Frost pressed his ear to the speaker. ‘Nothing. I imagine she’s giving him the eyeball through the peep-hole. Ah…’ He moved back. Just about audible, the sound of bolts being drawn and the chink of the chain being removed. The lock clicked. The door opened. The woman said something, but it was so faint and the background so loud, they couldn’t distinguish a word. Then a screaming bleep as the automatic cut-off operated.

‘Let me have a go,’ said Burton, elbowing Gilmore away and adjusting various controls on the hi-fl’s graphic equalizer which could cut and boost individual frequencies. ‘Now try it.’

By now, they almost knew every squeak, rustle and click off by heart. When the woman spoke after opening the door it was clearer, but tantalizingly not clear enough for them to make out a single word. ‘Again,’ ordered Frost. But Mrs Watson might have been talking in a foreign language for all the sense it made. God, thought Frost. She could be naming her killer — ‘Come in, Mr Ripper of 19 High Street, Denton’ — yet they couldn’t understand what she was saying.

‘Try the earphones,’ said Burton.

The earphones were better, but still not good enough.

‘Let me have a go,’ said Jill Knight, adjusting the earphones over her tightly curled hair. She listened and frowned. ‘Again,’ she said. The frown was deeper, but this time her lips were moving as if she was repeating what she heard. She took off the earphones. ‘She’s saying, “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you so soon.” ’

They played it again through the speaker. The WPC was right. Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you so soon. Frost’s head bowed. He had been hoping for so much and this was nothing.

‘She knew him,’ said Burton.

‘And he came sooner than expected,’ muttered Frost. ‘I think that’s called premature ejaculation.’ The resulting laughter lifted his depression. ‘Let’s hear it again.’ He waved aside the moans that they knew it off by heart. ‘Indulge an old man’s whim. We might have missed something.’

Again they listened, but only half-heartedly. The tape had told them everything it could. There was nothing they had missed. Oh, it’s you. I didn’t expect you so soon. The thud of the door closing behind him, then the hiss and clanking as raw tape scraped past the replay heads when the automatic cut-out operated. A bleep.

Frost was sitting bolt upright in his chair, an unlit cigarette drooping in his mouth. ‘Again — just the end bit — and the volume as high as you bloody well like.’ Gilmore spun the volume control to its maximum. At first they didn’t spot it. ‘You must be stone bleeding deaf,’ roared Frost. ‘Again… and listen this time… There!’ And this time they heard it. A fraction of a second before the message switched off. The closing of the front door. The hiss, roar and crackle as the tape bumped past the heads then… a boxy, metallic chink.

Burton scratched his head. ‘Could be anything, Inspector. He could have bumped against the table as he came in.’

‘Even if he did,’ said Frost, ‘there was nothing on the hall table that would chink. That is definitely a metallic sound.’

‘There could have been something on the table — some thing valuable — but he took it away with him,’ suggested Gilmore, who was feeling left out of things.

‘I thought I heard something chinking as he came through the door,’ said the WPC.

‘Did you?’ exclaimed Frost excitedly and he was up on his feet, jamming his finger on the Rewind button and playing the tape through again. ‘Yes… there!’ And through the mush, as the man stepped through the door, a faint metallic chinking sound… then another.

They didn’t hear the door open. ‘What’s going on in here?’

‘Piss off!’ said Frost. ‘Oh, sorry, Super… didn’t know it was you.’ He played the tape through yet again for Mullett who tried to look as if he knew what Frost was driving at, but obviously didn’t.

‘That noise, sir. At first we thought he’d bumped into the hall table and jolted something on it, but we now reckon that whatever it was, he brought it in with him and dumped it on the hall table.’

Mullett considered this. ‘It might help if we knew what it was. But we don’t.’

‘I think I do,’ said Frost. He looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “What about a new security chain?’

Mullett frowned. ‘A security chain?’

‘Old Mother Watson had arranged to have a stronger one fitted,’ Frost told him. ‘And that’s who she let in last night with open arms.. the man who was going to fit the new security chain… so she would be safe from attack.’

‘It could be a chain,’ said Mullett doubtfully, ‘but we don’t know for sure.’

‘I know for bloody certain,’ announced Frost. ‘I’ve got a hunch.’

A thin smile from Mullett. ‘Hunches are all very well,’ he began, but Frost wasn’t listening, he was giving instructions to his team.

‘Knock on doors again. Go round to all the neighbours of the victims. Did the victims talk of having chains fitted? Has anyone been canvassing before, or since, offering to fit security chains? Don’t cause a panic, but get what gen you can. I want someone to contact all the local security system firms. Do they send salesmen around canvassing? Have their salesmen found that some bloody amateur has been undercutting their prices? Mrs Watson was supposed to be a tight old sod, so this would have to be a cheap job. One last thing — Burton. Mrs Watson talked to the old biddy in the next-door flat about having a new security chain. Chat her up, see if she can come up with names. OK — on your bikes, everyone. Chop chop.’

As the team scurried out he flipped a cigarette from his packet and tried to catch it in his mouth. It missed. Scooping it up from the floor, he lit up and inhaled deeply He felt happy. Things were now on the move. They were on the track of the killer, he felt sure of it.

The phone rang. Detective Sergeant Hanlon from the mortuary. ‘The pathologist has completed the autopsy on Mark Compton, Jack. Definitely murder. A heavy blow to the head from behind. That didn’t kill him, but the fire and the fumes finished him off — death from asphyxiation.’ Frost pushed Mullett to one side so he could yell for Gilmore, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.

Mullett cleared his throat pointedly. He wasn’t used to being ignored.

‘Sorry, Super,’ grunted Frost. ‘Be with you in a minute.’ As Gilmore appeared in the doorway, he told him about the autopsy findings.

Gilmore checked his watch. He’d forgotten all about the damn autopsy. Frost’s bad habits were contagious. ‘How come Hanlon attended it?’

‘I told him to, son. We’re far too busy.’

‘But it’s my case.’

‘Sorry, son, but we’ve too much work and not enough men to be able to specialize. It’s everyone’s case.’

But if I crack it, it’s my bloody case, thought Gilmore. ‘I want to see the woman that Compton was knocking off. She might know something.’

‘Right, son. We’ll do it now. Bring the car round to the front.’ Back to Mullett. ‘Anything I can do, Super… as long as it’s quick?’

Huffily, the Divisional Commander produced the curt memo he had received from County. ‘Still some discrepancy with your car expenses, Inspector. County are furious. They want an immediate reply.’

‘They want stuffing,’ corrected Frost, his mind elsewhere. ‘Stick it on my desk as you go out, would you, sir? I’ll deal with it later.’ And he dashed out of the rest room to the car.

Mullett was halfway down the corridor before he realized that Frost had ordered him about like an office boy. But it was too late to go back and protest.

The flats behind the supermarket were owned by a firm of property agents and were usually let out on short leases. The Denton Echo, in one of its bouts of outraged crusading, had exposed several of these tenancies as being taken up by high-class call girls and for a while many of the apartments remained empty, but slowly, and more discreetly, many of the old tenants returned.

In the carpeted foyer a lift purred down and the door opened with a barely audible hiss. They stepped inside and Gilmore pressed the button for the third floor. So different from the disinfectant-masking urine smell of the lift in the senior citizens’ flats, this lift was heady with the perfume of its previous passenger.

They walked over thick footstep-muffling grey carpet to the end flat. There was something outside the door. Four bulging rubbish sacks. Black plastic sacks, the sort Paula Bartlett’s body was in. Frost peeped inside one. Assorted packets, cartons and jars as if someone had been clearing out a cupboard. He fished out a detergent packet. It had been opened, but was almost brim-full. ‘The cow’s done a bunk,’ he said, jamming his thumb in the bell-push. He was surprised to hear footsteps from inside.

The woman who opened the door was around twenty-six years of age, and wore a tightly fitting knitted dress in emerald green. She was slightly plump, with red hennaed hair and breasts that could best be described as ample. Admiring their generosity, Frost had difficulty in locating his warrant card. Gilmore produced his.

‘Police. May we come in?’

She stared at Gilmore’s warrant card wide-eyed. ‘Police? What’s it about? That nosy old bitch downstairs hasn’t been complaining again, has she?’

‘Not to us,’ answered Gilmore curtly. ‘Can we come in?’ Pre-empting her reply he pushed forward into the hall.

Bristling slightly at his tone, she led them through to the lounge, a comfortable room with pale blue carpeting and dark blue upholstered furniture. The light grey walls were hung with aluminium-framed abstract prints. Frost shuffled across to the large picture window and looked down on to the sprawl of the supermarket. ‘Very nice,’ he murmured. ‘I bet you get a good view of the multi-storey car-park from your bedroom.’

Her lips shaped a brief, flat, non-understanding smile. ‘This won’t take long, will it? I’m in a hurry.’

‘Mind if I sit down?’ said Frost, sinking into one of the blue armchairs. He dug deep into his pocket for his cigarettes and frowned with disappointment. The packet was empty. He had been too generous in the Murder Incident Room. ‘Do you mind telling us your name?’

‘East. Jean East.’ She studied her watch. ‘Look — what is this all about?’

‘A few questions,’ said Frost, letting his eyes wander around the room. He imagined this was where clients waited while the bedroom was occupied. He straightened up. Two bulging suitcases stood side by side to the left of the lounge door. ‘Moving out?’

‘The lease is up. I can’t afford to renew it. I’m going back to London.’

‘Then we caught you just in time,’ beamed Frost. ‘Do you know a gentleman called Mark Compton?’

A barely perceptible pause. ‘No. Why — what is this about?’

‘He might not have told you his real name,’ said Gilmore, moving in front of Frost to remind him that this was his case. He showed her a photograph.

She studied the colour print briefly, shook her head, and handed it back. ‘Sorry. Never seen him before.’

‘Perhaps you don’t recognize him with his clothes on,’ Frost suggested.

Her face tightened and her eyes blazed. ‘You can get out right now.’ She flung open the door dramatically, her breasts heaving, straining the woollen dress to the limits.

Frost heaved himself from the chair. ‘We’re going, love, but you’re coming with us. Get her coat, Sergeant.’

She hesitated. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the station. I want a policewoman to examine you.’

‘Examine me? Why?’

‘If you haven’t got a little strawberry birthmark on your lower stomach, my apologies will bring tears to your eyes.’

She closed the door and turned slowly. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘You should keep your blinds closed when you’re entertaining,’ sneered Gilmore.

‘You had an audience,’ added Frost. ‘An old boy with field-glasses watching from the car-park.’

Her hand covered her mouth. She looked horrified. ‘Watching us?’

‘From start to finish. And then he sent a poison pen letter to your client. It described you in graphic detail.’

Her face crimsoned to match her hair. ‘Let’s get one bloody thing straight. I’m not a tart. Yes, I knew Mark Compton. We were lovers. He came here and we made love and it was wonderful and if some dirty little snivelling shit in a filthy raincoat was watching, then sod him. I’m ashamed of nothing.’

‘Eat your heart out, Mills and Boon,’ said Frost. ‘But you said you knew him. You were lovers. Past tense?’

‘Yes — past tense, because the bastard threw me up last week. Came here, made love, then calmly told me it was all over. Look — what the hell is this all about?’

Gilmore raised his head from his notebook. He was content to let Frost ask the preliminary questions, but he would step in when the time was ripe. So she was a discarded lover. Not an uncommon motive for murder.

But Frost, digging fruitlessly through his pockets in the hope of finding a pinched-out butt, didn’t seem to have realized the significance. ‘Why did he chuck you?’ He watched enviously as she took a cigarette from a black lacquered box on a side table and lit it with a tiny, initialled, blue and gold enamelled lighter.

‘He was afraid his wife might find out.’ She flung her head back and laughed bitterly. ‘His bloody wife! He always told me he was going to divorce her and marry me… and like a fool I bloody believed him. Even when the bastard’s cheques bounced, I believed him.’

‘Cheques?’ queried Frost, tapping his empty Lambert and Butler packet hopefully, but she didn’t take the hint.

‘He was always borrowing money, and when I asked him to pay me back, his cheques bounced.’

‘How much money are we talking about?’

‘Getting on for?500, which I could ill afford.’

Frost scratched his chin. ‘He sounds a right charmer. How long have you known him?’

‘A couple of months. We met in London.’ She dropped down into the other chair and her breasts bounced like Mark Compton’s cheques. Do that again, Frost pleaded silently.

‘Does your husband know of this association?’ asked Gilmore who, unlike Frost whose gaze was directed higher, had noticed the wedding ring on her finger.

She gave a tight smile and shook her head. ‘No.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘My husband is a very violent and jealous man. That’s why I left him.’ Her hands travelled over her body and she winced in remembrance. ‘I could show you bruises…’ Yes please, pleaded Frost, again silently. ‘I changed my name so he couldn’t trace me. If he ever found out that Mark had been my lover, he would have killed us both.’

Frost’s head jerked up. ‘Changed your name?’

‘East is my maiden name. My married name is Bradbury. Mrs Jean Bradbury.’

Behind her, Gilmore choked back a gasp and slowly expelled air. He felt a warm glow inside. The equation was almost too good to be true… an unfaithful wife plus a violent husband equals one dead lover. Now was the time for him to take over. ‘Are you aware that your lover, Mark Compton, and his wife have been subjected to verbal and written threats over the past few weeks and that their property has been maliciously damaged?’

She seemed genuinely surprised. ‘No, Sergeant. I was not aware of that.’

‘Are you aware there was a fire at The Old Mill last night? The place was gutted.’

She couldn’t disguise a malicious smile. ‘I didn’t know that either, but serve the bastard right.’

‘The bastard’s dead, Mrs Bradbury,’ said Frost, bluntly. ‘He died in the fire. We think it was murder.’

The cigarette dropped from her fingers and she stared unbelieving at the inspector. ‘No! Oh no!’ Then her eyes widened in horror. ‘And you think my husband killed him…? Oh my God!’ Her hands covered her face.

‘We’ve got to find him,’ said Gilmore.

‘If he’s killed Mark, he’ll kill me,’ she said, scrabbling for the cigarette which had burnt a black mark into the landlord’s carpet.

‘We won’t let that happen,’ Frost assured her. ‘Any idea where he is?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ She studied the end of her cigarette, her full, pursed lips blowing it back to life.

God, thought Frost, squirming in his chair, you can blow me back to life any time you like, love. A muffled voice calling his name slowly caught his attention. His personal radio. He tugged it from his pocket. Johnny Johnson with some news. He moved away so the woman couldn’t hear.

‘We’ve located Simon Bradbury, Inspector.’

‘Then grab him where it hurts and hold him,’ said Frost, signalling for Gilmore to come over.

‘No need, Jack. He’s not going anywhere. He’s at Risley Remand Centre… drunken driving, malicious damage and assaulting a police officer. He’s been in custody for the past two weeks.’

‘Damn!’ Gilmore’s foot lashed out at the waste bin in anger, spilling the contents over the floor. His one and only suspect now had a cast-iron alibi. They were back to square one.

There was no further point in staying. Frost rewound his scarf and began to button up his coat while Gilmore, on his knees, stuffed the spilt papers back into the bin.

‘One last question,’ said Gilmore. ‘Do you own a car, Mrs Bradbury?’ She nodded. ‘And where were you last night?’

‘Here. I did my packing and went to bed early.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ smirked Gilmore. ‘You drove over to Lexing to get your own back on your ex-boyfriend.’

She stared at him as if he were mad. ‘I don’t know what the hell you are talking about.’

‘Don’t you? Then I’ll spell it out for you. Mark Compton chucked you up. You weren’t going to let the bastard get away with it, so you made abusive phone calls and sent death threats.’

Her head moved slowly from side to side in disbelief. ‘Death threats? I’d scratch his bleeding eyes out, but I wouldn’t make threats.’

‘You did more than scratch his eyes out,’ continued Gilmore. ‘You burnt his house down. But he caught you in the act, so you smashed his skull in and left him to burn to death.’

She looked in appeal to Frost who stared stoically back, hoping his own mystification didn’t show.

‘The death threat letters were made up of words cut from this month’s Reader’s Digest,’ Gilmore continued. ‘And what have we here?’ With a triumphant flourish he waved under her nose a magazine he had retrieved from the waste bin. The current copy of Reader’s Digest.

Frost slumped on to the arm of his chair. He thought Gilmore might have been on to something, but this was grabbing at straws.

‘I’ve got news for you,’ said the woman. ‘They don’t only print one copy. Lots of people buy it.’

‘Oh, I agree, madam,’ purred Gilmore. ‘Lots of people read it. But how many people cut words out?’ He thrust a scissor-slashed page under her nose, then flipped through and found another, and another.

Frost took the magazine. Gilmore was right. The death threat letters had been from this copy of the magazine. He looked up at the woman. ‘Have you got anything to say?’

She stared at him, then at Gilmore, her face white. ‘You’re framing me, you bastards! I want a solicitor.’

‘You can phone from the station,’ said Gilmore. At the door holding her tightly by the arm, he called to Frost, ‘You’d better bring her suitcases down. Forensic will want to examine her clothes.’ He waited while she put on her coat before leading her out to the lift.

With a distinct feeling of being upstaged, Frost gathered up the cases. At the side table he paused and hopefully looked inside the black lacquered cigarette box. It was disappointingly empty. Not his lucky day. Shoulders drooped in resignation, he picked up the cases, kicked the door shut behind him, and left the flat.

The lift taking him down now smelt fleetingly of plump, jolly, hennaed-haired murderess, Jean Bradbury. Frost was vaguely worried. He had his own theories on the Compton killing and the woman didn’t figure in them. But downstairs, with the woman locked safely in the car and glaring poisoned darts at them a smirking Gilmore called to him from one of the residents’ garages.

‘This is her garage,’ said Gilmore as he squeezed past a beige-coloured Mini Cooper and pointed to patches of damp on the concrete floor. The pervading smell was petrol. ‘This must be where she stored the petrol cans.’

Frost nodded gloomily. ‘Well done, son.’ He was forced to admit it. Gilmore was right and he was wrong.

‘I’d better get my prisoner back to the station,’ said Gilmore, leaving his inspector to close the garage doors.

The significance of ‘my prisoner’ instead of ‘our prisoner’ was not lost on Frost.

Police Superintendent Mullett sat to attention in his chair. He was on the phone to the Chief Constable. Opposite the satin mahogany desk stood a self-satisfied Detective Sergeant Gilmore, and a pale-looking Police Sergeant Wells who clutched a sodden handkerchief and kept interrupting the phone call by coughing and spluttering and noisily blowing his nose. If Wells thought he could wheedle his way on to the sick list, when they needed every man they could lay their hands on, he could think again.

‘We’re very much below strength,’ he told the Chief Constable, staring at Wells as he said it, ‘but I think you can rely on the Denton team to turn up trumps on Friday night.’

The door clicked open and Mullett looked up in annoyance as Frost shuffled in. Late again. ‘Ah, Frost,’ he said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘The Chief Constable wishes to know what progress you have made with the Paula Bartlett case.’

‘Bugger all,’ said Frost, dragging a chair over to the desk and sitting down wearily. ‘You told me to leave it for Wonder Boy’s return.’

Mullett’s smile flickered on and off like a dying neon tube. He held it unsteadily in place as he spoke into the phone. ‘Detective Inspector Frost reports no further progress at present, sir. However things should improve when Mr Allen returns from the sick list.’ He glared at Frost who unabashed, seemed more intent on trying to read, upside down, a private and confidential memo in the superintendent’s out-tray. Mullett pulled the tray towards him and turned the memo face down, then he flashed his gleaming white teeth into the receiver’s mouthpiece. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. You can depend on me, sir.’ He grovelled his good- byes, then replaced the phone.

He smoothed down his moustache. ‘Trouble, gentlemen. County have been hearing rumours that those gypsies — or travellers as they prefer to be called — who were involved in the fighting in the town centre last Friday are out to seek their revenge on our Denton lager louts. The Chief Constable wishes us to ensure that we have a sufficiently large police presence here on Friday night to nip any such trouble in the bud.’

‘How many men is he sending us, then?’ asked Wells between coughs.

Mullett treated the sergeant to one of his thin, superior smiles. ‘County are stretched to the limit, Wells.’

‘And we’re not, I suppose?’ said Frost, flicking ash all over the carpet.

‘Everyone’s in the same boat,’ snapped Mullett. ‘I am not giving County the impression that we will go whining to them each time we have a minor problem. I want them to see that Denton can cope. So tomorrow, all leave will be cancelled. All off-duty men will be called in. And the sick list is closed.’ He stared hard at Wells, letting him know that the last comment included him. ‘I have assured the Chief Constable that the maintenance of public order will be our number one priority.’

‘Priority even over our murder investigations?’ asked Frost in his deceptively innocent voice.

‘Of course a murder case takes precedence,’ barked Mullett, ‘but you will manage with the barest minimum.’ He jerked his head away from Frost and gave Gilmore the full benefit of his white flashing smile. ‘The Chief Constable was delighted when I told him of your success in the Compton case, Sergeant.’ He beamed. ‘There was some mention of him writing you a personal letter of commendation.’ He noticed that Frost looked unhappy at this. Jealousy, of course. His assistant had succeeded where he had failed. ‘That will be all, gentlemen.’

In the corridor outside, Frost grabbed Gilmore’s arm. ‘Has the Bradbury bird confessed yet, son?’

‘No,’ Gilmore told him. ‘But we don’t need a confession. The forensic evidence is overwhelming. The death threat letters definitely came from that magazine… they even confirm they were cut out by her own scissors. We’ve found identical notepaper and envelopes in her flat and the marks on the garage floor are definitely consistent with cans of petrol being stored there. We’ve got motive, opportunity and strong evidence. What more do we want

‘I’m not happy about this one,’ said Frost.

Gilmore bit back the urge to say ‘tough’. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Inspector, I’m on my way to see Mrs Compton. I want to tell her the good news.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Frost.

‘Why?’ asked Gilmore, icily. It was his case. He didn’t want Frost along.

‘Just for the ride, son. I haven’t seen a decent pair of nipples all day.’

Ada Perkins wasn’t very welcoming. Her vinegar expression and sharp sniff of disapproval showed them exactly what she thought of them barging in on her patient. She marched them into the living-room where a washed-out-looking Jill Compton in a thick towelling dressing gown sat staring into, a roaring fire.

‘Good to see you up and about,’ said Frost, sinking into the other comfortable chair.

Gilmore dragged a hard kitchen chair over and sat opposite her. ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Compton?’

‘It hasn’t really sunk in yet. Everyone’s being so kind.’

Gilmore moved his chair closer. ‘I’ve some news for you. We’ve arrested Mrs Jean Bradbury for the murder of your husband.’

She stared at him in total disbelief. ‘Bradbury? You mean the wife of that man who tried to pick that fight with Mark?”

‘Yes. She moved into Denton some weeks ago.’

‘But why should she want to harm Mark?’

Gilmore looked at Frost, hoping the inspector would want to tell her of her late husband’s infidelity, but, for a change, Frost seemed content to lean back and listen. He took a deep breath. ‘Your husband was having an affair with her.’

She shrank back as if he had struck her, and stared wide-eyed, uncomprehending. ‘No,’ she whispered at last. ‘Oh no!’

‘I’m afraid it’s a fact,’ continued Gilmore doggedly. ‘He even promised her he would divorce you and marry her. When he broke off the relationship, she began this hate campaign. Jean Bradbury started the fire last night. She killed your husband.’

Jill Compton shivered even though the room was sweltering. ‘No,’ she said firmly, as if trying to convince herself. ‘I don’t believe you. My husband would never look at another woman.’ Then she covered her face with her hands and hers body shook. ‘This is more than I can stand. I’ve lost every thing… my home… my husband … and now you tell me he was unfaithful.’

Gilmore turned his head away in embarrassment. He didn’t know how to handle crying women. Frost leant forward to pat her arm sympathetically. ‘There were lots of, things your husband didn’t tell you, Mrs Compton. This may come as a bit of a shock to you, but did he tell you that your business was bankrupt?’

Her expression was one of utter bewilderment. ‘Bankrupt? That’s nonsense. We had a thriving business.’

‘It was thriving so much,’ Frost told her, ‘that your husband had to borrow small sums of money from his mistress… and then paid her back, with cheques that bounced.’

She shook her head defiantly. ‘You’re wrong. We had no secrets. Mark would have told me.’

‘I’m afraid I’m right.’ Frost patted her arm again. ‘I was in Bennington’s Bank today. One of the cashiers there owes me a favour and he accidentally left your business file on his desk and then went out for a few minutes. He must have completely forgotten what a nosy bastard I am.’ He dug deep in his pocket and fished out a crumpled scrap of paper. ‘I’ve scribbled down the details. The Old Mill is in hock to the bank as security for unpaid loans, your current account is?17,000 in the red and creditors galore are breathing down your neck.’ He stuffed the paper back in his pocket. ‘My friend in the bank is a bit of a cynic. He said the only thing that could have saved your bacon was an insurance policy and a bloody good fire. Well, we’ve had the fire. Do you know the details of your insurance, Mrs Compton?’ He offered her his cigarette packet.

‘I know nothing of the financial side of the business. Mark handled all that.’ Distractedly, she accepted a cigarette, looked at it in puzzlement and pushed it back in the packet.

‘Then I can enlighten you,’ said Frost, striking a match against the fire surround. ‘A mate of mine works for your insurance company. He tells me that the building and the contents are insured against fire, theft, explosion, earthquakes and stampeding cattle for the sum of?350,000.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Neither could I,’ said Frost. ‘I doubt if there was more than a couple of thousand pounds’ worth of stock in the entire house… and, even that wasn’t paid for.’ Again he patted her hand. ‘You’re a very lucky woman, Mrs Compton.’

‘Do you think I give a damn about the money?’ she asked incredulously. ‘I want my husband. I want my home. That spiteful bitch of a woman…’

‘I’ve got more bad news for you,’ said Frost. ‘That spiteful bitch had nothing to do with the fire.’

Jill Compton shifted her gaze from Frost to Gilmore who was seething in his chair. Why the hell was the swine undermining him like this?

‘Your husband started the fire,’ continued Frost. ‘It was an insurance fiddle. One last throw to clear all the debts and make a dirty great profit. It was your husband who was sending all the death threats and the wreath and doing all the damage.’

‘This is ridiculous. Why would he do that?’

‘A providential fire, your business on the rocks and the sprinkler system turned off at the mains. No insurance company is going to pay out on that. So your husband had to invent this imaginary nutter who makes weird phone calls and death threats. He even involved the police to give it authenticity.’ Frost shook his head in grudging admiration. ‘Bloody clever. He almost deserved to get away with it.’

An ingenious theory, thought Gilmore, but where’s your proof?

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jill, her chin thrust forward defiantly, ‘but I won’t believe a word against my husband. It was that damn woman.. ’

‘We’ve got proof coming out of our ear-holes,’ said Frost. ‘He had the key to the girl’s flat. The magazines he cut the messages from … his fingerprints are all over them…’

Gilmore stared down at the floor and tried to keep hi expression impassive. He wanted no part of this. Forensic had found no prints other than the Bradbury woman’s.

‘Secondly,’ Frost continued, ‘we’ve a witness who saw your husband stacking petrol cans in Jean Bradbury’s garage. But the clincher, the absolute clincher…’ He scrabbled around in his mac pocket. ‘I found these in the boot of your husband’s car.’ He opened his hand to show some bright green leaves nestling in his palm. ‘Three different sorts of leaf. And not any old leaf. According to our Forensic Department they are identical to the leaves on that wreath which we found in your lounge. We’ve even traced the grave where your husband pinched it, haven’t we, Sergeant?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Gilmore, curtly. That was the only part of Frost’s tissue of lies that he was prepared to endorse.

She stared at the leaves and shook her head. ‘This is too much. I just can’t believe it.’

Carefully, Frost replaced the leaves in his pocket then gave her one of his disarming smiles. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to believe, Mrs Compton. It wouldn’t have worked if you weren’t in it with him.’

She jerked back, her face white. ‘How dare you!’

Ignoring her, Frost continued. ‘You were his alibi, he was yours. When he was away, you vandalized the garden. You each claimed to have received the phone calls in the other’s presence… and when the wreath was chucked through the window, you both claimed to have seen someone running away. Which was impossible, because your husband planted the wreath. Even a dim sod like me can see that you were in the fiddle with him.’

Her mouth opened and shut, then she thought for a while and finally took a deep breath. ‘I was hoping this would never have to come out, Inspector. Everything you say is true. It was Mark’s idea. I didn’t want to go along with him, but he said things were desperate and this was the only way out. He was my husband and I loved him. I did what he asked. Any wife would have done the same.’

Frost nodded. ‘But that still makes you an accessory, Mrs Compton.’

She gave the secret smile of a poker player holding a royal flush. ‘An accessory to what, Inspector? I have no intention of making a claim on the insurance policy, and if I don’t claim, then there is no conspiricy to defraud.’

Frost looked deflated. ‘Law isn’t my strong point, Mrs Compton. I suppose there’s no law that says you can’t destroy your own property. So who burnt it down — you or your husband?’

‘Mark. I tried to stop him, but he did it.’

A match flared. Frost sucked at his cigarette. ‘That only leaves one problem.’ He flicked the match in the fire and slowly expelled a lungful of smoke. ‘Who killed him?’

She frowned.

‘I may be a bit slow on the uptake, Mrs Compton, but there was no mysterious nutter with a grudge… you and your husband invented him, so you couldn’t have heard him breaking in last night. You must have gone downstairs with your husband… you wouldn’t lie in bed while he was splashing petrol about. Only two people in the house and one of them is murdered. So who did it, Mrs Compton?’

Gilmore was watching the woman. God knows how Frost had stumbled on to the truth, but her expression was as good as a signed and sealed confession.

‘Why did you do it, love?’ asked Frost, his voice softening. ‘Did you find out about him and the Bradbury woman?’ Her reaction was barely perceptible, but he saw it.

She stared at him unblinking. ‘I had no motive to kill my husband. I never knew about Mark and her.’

Frost pushed himself out of his chair. ‘I think you did love. You probably got a poison pen letter telling you all about it, but we can check on that.’ He jerked his sleeve back to consult his wrist-watch. ‘But here am I rambling away and it isn’t even my case.’ He gave an apologetic grin to Gilmore as he shuffled out. ‘Sorry, son. I’ll leave you to get on with it.’

Gilmore stood up and opened the bedroom door. ‘Would you please get dressed, Mrs Compton. I’d like you to come to the station with me.’ While he waited he was irritated to hear Ada’s startled shriek from the kitchen, followed by the raucous roar of Frost’s laughter and his cry of ‘How’s that for centre, Ada?’ Stupid childish bloody fool, he thought.

Outside, Frost pulled the handful of leaves from his pocket and hurled them into the wind. There were plenty more on Ada’s privet hedge where he had plucked them on his way in.