Night Frost Read online

  Compton’s voice rose to a shout. ‘Bloody marvellous! Well, let’s make one thing clear. If the police won’t do anything, then I will. If he lays one finger on my wife, and I catch the bastard, I’ll kill him with my bare hands, and that’s a bloody promise.’

  The Fire Investigations Officer was sitting in the back seat of the Cortina waiting for them. He declined a cigarette, pleading a sore throat. ‘I think I’m coming down with flu, Jack. Half the watch are off with it.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ve found and then push off,’ said Frost. ‘I don’t want to catch it from you.’

  The fireman passed across a plastic envelope. Inside was a chunk of burnt wood with a snail’s trail of a dirty grey waxy substance dribbled over it. ‘Candle grease from an ordinary household candle. And I’ve found several scraps of burnt cloth. My guess is that the fire was set off by a stump of candle burning down to some inflammable material – possibly rags soaked in petrol.’

  Frost handed the envelope back. ‘How long would a fuse like that take to burn down?’

  The fireman scratched his chin. ‘Depends on the length of the candle, but I shouldn’t think they’d use a full one, not in that situation. Too much risk of it toppling over or getting blown out. The more reliable way is just to use a stump, the shorter the better and then you’re talking an hour – maybe a lot less.’

  ‘But if they did use a full-length one?’

  ‘Four and a half hours top whack.’

  Frost chewed this over and stared up at the black-clouded sky through the windscreen. ‘How good is that sprinkler system in The Mill?’

  ‘Damn good.’

  ‘Even if petrol was used again?’

  ‘It would definitely keep it under control until we got here.’ His nose wrinkled and his eyes widened as he dived into his pocket for his handkerchief, but too late. His violent sneeze rocked the car.

  ‘Thanks a bunch,’ grunted Frost. ‘Flu germs are all we bleeding need.’

  The Cortina bumped down the puddled lane on its way back to Denton. An agitated Gilmore, concerned about his delayed meeting with the Divisional Commander, was fidgeting impatiently, willing the inspector to drive faster. Frost seemed to be driving by remote control, his mind elsewhere, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his lip. They were approaching the gloomy Denton Woods before Frost spoke. ‘What did you think of Jill Compton?’

  ‘A knock-out,’ admitted Gilmore.

  Frost wound down the window and spat out his cigarette. ‘Did you see how he was groping her? I thought she was going to get his dick out any minute.’ He shook another cigarette from the packet straight into his mouth. ‘When you get a chance, son, find out where Compton was last night and if there’s any way he could have started that fire.’

  ‘Compton?’ Gilmore was incredulous. ‘Why should he destroy his own property?’

  ‘I don’t know, son. I don’t like the sod. He’s a bit too bloody lovey-dovey with Miss Wonder-bum for my taste – almost as if he wants to shout out for our benefit how devoted he is.’

  Gilmore was unimpressed. ‘I thought he was genuinely devoted.’

  ‘Maybe so, son. I’m probably way off course as usual, but check anyway.’ The car was now speeding down the hill leading to the Market Square. ‘I’ll drop you off at the station. If Mullett asks, you don’t know where I am.’

  The radio belched static, then Control asked for Mr Frost to come in please. ‘What’s your position, Inspector?’

  Frost looked through the window at the row of shops and the turning just ahead leading to the police station. A bit too close to Mullett for comfort. ‘Still at The Mill, Lexing, investigating arson attack.’

  ‘Would you call on Dr Maltby, The Surgery, Lexing. One of his patients received a poison pen letter this morning and tried to kill himself.’

  ‘On my way,’ replied Frost, spinning the car into a U-turn.

  ‘Is Detective Sergeant Gilmore with you?’ asked Control. ‘Mr Mullett wants to see him right away.’

  ‘Roger,’ said Frost.

  ‘He also wants to see you this morning without fail,’ added Control.

  ‘Didn’t get that last bit,’ said Frost. ‘Over and out.’ He slammed down the handset and turned off the radio.

  Lexing was a small cluster of unspoilt houses and cottages, nothing later than Victorian. Perched on the hill to the north was the mill they had just visited and leaning against the front door of Dr Maltby’s cottage was the same bike they had seen outside the Comptons’. And, sure enough, it was Ada Perkins who let them in.

  ‘What did the doctor say, Ada?’ asked Frost confidentially. ‘Are you pregnant or is it just wind?’

  ‘Not funny,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just done the hall so wipe your muddy boots.’

  She ushered them into the surgery. Maltby, a grey-haired, tired-looking man in his late sixties, wearing a crumpled brown suit, was seated at an old-fashioned desk and was furtively stuffing something that chinked into his top drawer and slamming it shut as he popped a Polo mint in his mouth. The waft of peppermint-tinted whisky fumes hit Gilmore as Frost introduced him.

  ‘This is Dr Maltby, son. He’s got the steadiest hands in the business. He can take a urine sample and hardly spill a drop.’ In spite of this build-up the hand that Gilmore shook didn’t seem at all steady.

  Maltby squeezed out a token smile. ‘I’m not much fun this morning, Jack. I’ve been up half the night – patients are dropping like flies from this damned flu epidemic. And now this. I said someone would kill themselves if you didn’t stop these poison pen letters and now it’s happened.’

  ‘Calm down, doc,’ said Frost, scraping a match down the wooden wall panelling. ‘Just give me the facts, and slowly – you know what a dim old sod I am.’ He slumped down in the lumpy chair reserved for patients and wearily stretched his legs, puffing smoke at the ‘Smoking Can Kill’ poster.

  ‘Ada found him,’ said Maltby.

  ‘Found who, doc? Don’t forget I’ve come in in the middle of the picture.’

  ‘Old Mr Wardley,’ said Ada. ‘He lives next door to me. I do his cleaning once a week when I’ve finished at The Mill. I got no reply when I knocked so I used the spare key he gave me. No sign of him downstairs. “That’s strange,” I thought. “That’s very strange.” So I called out, “Mr Wardley, are you there?” No answer.’

  ‘Get to the punchline, Ada,’ prompted Frost, impatiently.

  ‘I went upstairs and there he was on the bed, fully dressed.’

  ‘I’m glad his dick wasn’t exposed,’ said Frost.

  She glowered, but carried on doggedly. ‘His face was deadly white, his flesh icy cold, just like a corpse. So I dashed straight over to the doctor’s and he came back with me.’

  Frost cut in quickly and poked a finger at Maltby. ‘Now your big scene, doc.’

  The doctor rubbed his eyes and took over the narrative. ‘He’d swallowed all the sleeping tablets in his bottle. He was unconscious, but still alive. I phoned for an ambulance and got him into Denton General Hospital. I think he’ll pull through.’

  ‘Good,’ nodded Frost. ‘I like happy endings. So, in spite of your big build-up, no one’s actually killed themselves?’

  ‘Not for the want of trying,’ said Maltby.

  ‘Was there a suicide note?’ asked Gilmore.

  ‘I didn’t see one,’ said the doctor.

  ‘So why did you say it was suicide? It could have been accidental.’

  ‘You don’t accidentally take an overdose of sleeping tablets at nine o’clock in the morning with all your clothes on,’ Maltby snapped irritably.

  ‘All right,’ murmured Frost. ‘Show me the poison pen letter that made him do it.’

  ‘We couldn’t find the letter,’ said Maltby, ‘but this was on his kitchen table.’

  He handed the inspector a light blue envelope bearing a first-class stamp which had missed the franking machine and had been hand-cancelled by the postman. The name and address were typewri
tten. Frost checked that the envelope was empty before passing it over to Gilmore who compared the typing with that on the envelope received that morning by Mrs Compton. Gilmore shook his head. ‘Different typewriter.’ Frost nodded. He knew that already. He also knew that the envelope and the typing were identical to the two poison pen letters in the file in his office. ‘An empty envelope, doc. Why should you think it was a poison pen letter? Why not a letter from the sanitary inspector about the smell on the landing?’

  A pause. But it was Ada who broke the silence. ‘If you don’t want me any more, doctor, I’ve got lots to do.’ She clomped out of the room.

  As the door closed behind her, Maltby unlocked the middle drawer of his desk and took out a sheet of white A4 typescript. ‘This came in an identical envelope.’

  He handed it to Frost who read it aloud. ‘“Dear Lecher. Does your sweet wife know what filthy and perverted practices you and that shameless bitch in Denton get up to? I was watching again last Wednesday. I saw every disgusting perversion. She didn’t even draw the bedroom curtains . . .” Bleeding hell, this is sizzling stuff,’ gasped Frost. He read the rest to himself before chucking the letter across to Gilmore. ‘What’s cunnilinctus, doc – sounds like a patent cough syrup.’

  ‘You know damn well what it is,’ grunted the doctor. He looked across at Gilmore who was comparing the typing with that on the envelope addressed to Wardley. ‘The same typewriter, isn’t it, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Gilmore. ‘The “a” and the “s” are both out of alignment. How did you come by it, doctor? It wasn’t addressed to you, was it?’

  ‘I should be so bloody lucky,’ said Maltby. ‘One of the villagers received it and asked me to pass it on to the police. For obvious reasons he doesn’t want me to tell you his name.’

  ‘We’ve got to talk to him,’ insisted Frost. ‘We need to find out how the letter writer discovered these details.’

  Maltby shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. There’s no way I can tell you.’

  Frost stood up and adjusted his scarf. ‘Well, we’ll let our Forensic whizz kids have a sniff at the letter and envelope, but unless people are prepared to co-operate, there’s not a lot we can do.’

  ‘You’re going to do something, though?’ insisted Maltby.

  ‘We’ll have a look through Wardley’s cottage and try and find the letter. I’ll have a word with him in the hospital. How old is he?’

  Maltby flicked through some dog-eared record cards. ‘Seventy-two.’

  ‘I wonder what he’s been up to that made him try to kill himself.’ At the door he paused. ‘What do you know about the Comptons, doc?’

  ‘Seem a loving couple,’ said Maltby, guardedly.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Frost, ‘too bloody loving. They were nearly having it away on the dining table while we were there. Know anyone who might have a grudge against them?’

  Maltby shook his head. ‘Ada told me what’s been happening. I can’t think of anyone.’ The phone rang. He lifted the receiver and listened, wearily. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Keep her in bed. I’ll be right over.’

  Back in the car Frost gave the volume control on the radio a tentative tweak. ‘. . . Mr Frost report to Mr Mullett urgently.’ Hastily he turned it down again. ‘I get the feeling its going to be a sod of a day, son.’

  Monday afternoon shift

  Police Superintendent Mullett, Commander of Denton Division, gave his welcoming smile and nodded towards a chair for Gilmore to sit down. They were in Mullett’s spacious office with its blue Wilton carpet and the walls, with their concealed cupboards, panelled in real wood veneer. A striking contrast to the dark green paint and beige emulsion decor of the rest of the station.

  He turned the pages of Gilmore’s personal file and nodded his approval. This was exactly the sort of man they wanted in the division, young, efficient and ambitious. He looked up as Station Sergeant Bill Wells tapped on the door and walked briskly in.

  ‘Mr Frost has gone home, sir,’ Wells announced. ‘I phoned his house, but there was no answer.’

  Mullett tugged the duty roster from his middle drawer. Just as he thought, Frost was clearly marked down for afternoon duty.

  ‘He was on duty all last night and most of this morning, sir,’ explained Wells. ‘He’s probably grabbing some sleep.’

  Mullett sniffed his disapproval. What was the point of having duty rosters if they were blatantly ignored? The envelope from County marked Strictly Confidential glowered up at him from his drawer as he replaced the roster. Frost was really in trouble this time.

  ‘I want to see the inspector the minute he gets in, Sergeant . . . the very minute.’ Let Frost try to wriggle out of this one.

  ‘I’ve left instructions, sir. I’m off home myself now.’ Wells yawned loudly and rubbed his eyes to show how tired he was.

  Again Mullett snatched up the roster and jabbed his finger on the afternoon shift which showed that Wells was the station sergeant on duty until six o’clock. He studiously consulted his gold Rolex wrist-watch. Half-past three!

  ‘I’m on again at eight o’clock tonight, sir,’ explained Wells. ‘I’m filling in for Sergeant Mason. He’s down with the flu.’

  Mullett flapped a hand impatiently. He didn’t want all the fiddling details. ‘If you must alter all the shifts around, Sergeant, do me the courtesy of letting me know.’ He grunted peevishly as his red biro neatly amended the roster. ‘I can’t run a station in this slipshod fashion.’

  Wells bristled. There he was, working all the hours God sent, doing double shifts, and all this idiot was concerned with was his lousy duty roster. ‘This virus thing is making it impossible, sir. We need more men.’

  ‘We have one extra man,’ beamed Mullett, nodding towards Gilmore. ‘And I’m sure, like me, he would like a cup of tea.’ He flashed his teeth expectantly.

  ‘Tea?’ spluttered Wells. ‘I’ve got no-one I can spare to make tea, sir. As you know, the canteen’s closed . . .’

  Mullett didn’t know the canteen was closed and he wasn’t interested. ‘Two teas,’ he said firmly, ‘and if you can find some biscuits . . . custard creams would be nice.’ What a sullen look the man gave him as he left. He would have to speak to him about it. He swivelled his chair to face Gilmore. ‘I’m having to plunge you straight in at the deep end, Sergeant. You’ll be working split shifts with Mr Frost, so you’re on again tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’ echoed Gilmore in dismay.

  ‘That presents no difficulties, I hope?’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not.’ God, Liz would raise hell over this.

  ‘Good. One other thing.’ Mullett cleared his throat nervously and hesitated as he carefully picked his words. ‘If, when you are working under Mr Frost, you notice anything that you feel should be brought to my attention, you will find I have a very receptive ear.’ He lowered his eyes and began fiddling with his fountain pen.

  Gilmore pulled himself up straight in his chair. ‘Are you asking me to spy on the inspector, sir?’

  Mullett looked pained. ‘If you consider that what I have suggested constitutes spying, Sergeant, then of course you will forget I ever said it.’ He closed the green cover of the detective sergeant’s personal file. ‘You are promotion material, Sergeant, but to promote you, I need a vacancy.’

  He stared hard at Gilmore. Gilmore stared back, holding Mullett’s gaze, then gave a tight smile and nodded.

  They understood each other.

  They were still smiling smugly at each other when Wells crashed in with the tea.

  ‘This will be your office.’ Detective Constable Joe Burton, stocky, twenty-five years old and ambitious, tried to keep the resentment out of his voice as he showed the new detective sergeant around. Gilmore stared in amazement. The poky room he was expected to share with that scarecrow, Frost, was a complete shambles with papers and files everywhere but in their proper place, dirty cups perched on the window ledge and the floor littered with cigarette stubs and screwed-up pieces of paper that
had missed the target of the waste bin. ‘And this is your desk,’ added Burton.

  The spare desk, the smaller of the two, was awash with papers and ancient files. Gilmore’s jaw tightened. His first job would be to put this pigsty into some semblance of order. The internal phone rang. At first he couldn’t locate the instrument which was buried under a toppled stack of files on Frost’s desk.

  ‘Control here,’ said the phone. ‘Got a dead body for you – probable suicide. 132 Saxon Road. Panda car at premises.’

  Gilmore scribbled down the details. He could fit it in on his way home. He told Burton to come with him.

  On their way out to the car-park, they passed Mullett who was talking to a scowling Sergeant Wells. ‘You should be off duty, Gilmore.’

  ‘Possible suicide, sir. Thought I’d better handle it personally.’

  Mullett beamed. ‘Keenness. That’s what I like to see. A rare commodity, these days. All some people think of is getting off home.’ His pointed stare left Sergeant Wells in no doubt as to who he was referring to.

  Wells kept his face impassive. ‘Crawling bastard!’ he silently told Gilmore’s retreating back.

  Rain hammered down on Frost’s blue Cortina as it slowly nosed its way down Saxon Road, a street of two-storey terraced houses in the newer part of Denton. He spotted a police patrol car at the far end and parked behind it. One last drag at his cigarette, then out, head down against the rain, as he butted his way up the path to number 132.

  A worried-looking woman opened the door. Behind her, the bitter sound of sobbing. She looked enquiringly at the scruffy figure on the doorstep who was fumbling in the depths of his inside pocket. ‘Detective Inspector Frost,’ he said, showing her a dog-eared warrant card.

  She peered doubtingly at the card. ‘I’m just a neighbour. Do you want to see the parents?’ She inclined her head towards the back room from which the sobbing continued unabated.

  ‘Later,’ he said. And he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Up the stairs to the girl’s bedroom where a white-faced uniformed constable stood outside. This was PC John Collier, twenty years old. Collier, still very green and usually working inside the station with Wells, had been pitched out on patrol because of the manpower shortage. He hadn’t yet got used to dead bodies.