Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  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 turn
ed 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 goodbyes, 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 her body shook. ‘This is more than I can stand. I’ve lost everything . . . 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 inven
t 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 his 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.’