"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 typewritten. 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 t
he 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.
The bedroom door opened, releasing a murmur of angry voices. DC Burton came out. He seemed relieved to see the inspector and carefully closed the door behind him.
"What have we got?" asked Frost, shaking rain from his mac.
"Suicide, but our new super-sergeant is treating it as a mass murder."
"He’s new and he’s keen," said Frost. "It’ll soon wear off."
The bedroom was small, neat and unfussy, with white melamine furniture and pink emulsioned walls. A glowering Gilmore was watching Dr Maltby, red-faced and smelling strongly of alcohol, who was pulling the sheet back over the body on the single bed. Gilmore scowled at Frost’s entrance. He’d asked for a senior officer. He didn’t expect this oaf. "I thought you were off duty," he muttered.
"They dragged me out of bed. So what’s the problem?" Gilmore opened his mouth to speak but the doctor got in first. "There’s no problem, Inspector. It’s a clear case of suicide." He jerked his head towards a small brown glass container on the bedside cabinet. "Overdose of barbiturates. She swallowed the lot." He glared at Gilmore as if daring him to contradict.
"You don’t look very happy, Sergeant," observed Frost, wondering why the man had requested a senior officer to attend a routine suicide.
"There was no suicide note," Gilmore said.
"It’s not obligatory," snapped the doctor. "You can commit suicide without leaving a note." He was tired and wanted another drink. What he didn’t want was complications. "It’s suicide, plain and simple." He moved out of the way so the inspector could get to the body.
"I’m glad it’s simple," said Frost, pulling back the sheet, "I’m not very good when things are complicated." Then his expression changed. "Oh no!" he said softly, his face crumpling. "I never realized it was a kid."
"Fifteen years old," said Gilmore. "Everything to live for."
She lay on top of the bed. A young girl wearing a white cotton nightdress decorated with the beaming face of Mickey Mouse. Over the nightdress was a black and gold Japanese-style kimono. Her feet were bare, the soles slightly dirty as if she had been padding about the house without socks or shoes. A Snoopy watch on her left wrist ticked softly away. It seemed wrong. Almost obscene. Mickey Mouse and Snoopy had no place with death.
Frost gazed down at her face, trying to read some answers. A pretty kid with light brown hair gleaming as if newly brushed, spread loosely over the pillow. Gently, as if afraid to wake her, Frost touched her cheek, flinching at the hard, icy cold feel of death. "You silly bloody cow," he said. "Why did you do this?"
He switched his attention to the bedside cabinet. Standing on top of it was a bright red, twin-belied alarm clock, its alarm set at 6.45, a pair of ear-rings, a Bic pen, an empty, brown pill bottle and, over to one side away from the bed and almost on the edge of the cabinet, a tumbler with an inch of water remaining. Frost crouched to read the label on the pill container. Sleeping Tablets prescribed for Mrs. Janet Bicknell.
"They were prescribed for the mother," Gilmore explained. "There were about fifteen or so left. The kid got them from the bathroom cabinet."
Frost sank down on the corner of the bed and lit up a cigarette. "Any doubts it’s a suicide, doc?"
"If the post-mortem shows a lethal dose of barbiturates in her stomach, no doubts whatsoever. If you could speed things up, Jack, I’d like to get off home. I’ve had one hell of a day."
"Right," said Frost. "How long has she been dead?"
"Rigor mortis hasn’t reached the lower part of the body yet. That and the temperature readings suggest she’s been dead some nine to ten hours."
Frost checked his watch. It was now a few minutes past five. "So she died between seven and eight o’clock this morning?"
"She was still alive at half-past seven, this morning," interjected Gilmore.
"Then she was dead pretty soon after," snapped the doctor. His head was throbbing and Gilmore was getting on his damn nerves.
"S
low down," pleaded Frost. "Let’s take it step by step, starting with her name."
Gilmore opened up his notebook and read out the details. "Susan Bicknell, fifteen years old. In the fifth form at Denton Comprehensive."
"And who found the body?
"Her stepfather, Kenneth Duffy."
"Stepfather?"
"Yes. Her father died two years ago. Her mother married again in March." Gilmore paused, then added significantly, "He’s a lot younger than the mother."
"Ah," said Frost. "I’m getting the scenario . . . teenage girl, randy young stepfather. But let’s get the doc out of the way first. I don’t want to shock him with our rude talk."
"I’ve got nothing more to tell you," said Maltby, dropping a thermometer in his bag and snapping it shut. "You’ll have my written report today. Any joy with our poison pen writer?"
"No," Frost told him. "I’ll go and see Wardley in hospital when I get a chance." The doctor lurched towards the open door. A curse as he appeared to miss his footing on the stairs.
"He’s drunk!" hissed Gilmore.
"He’s tired," said Frost. "The poor bastard is over worked. He never refuses a call day or night and people take advantage of him." He whispered something to Burton who chased after Maltby and called, "Give us your keys, doc. I’ll drive you home." Maltby handed them over without a murmur.
"Follow on in the Panda and take Burton back to the station," Collier was told. Frost lit up another cigarette. "So what’s on your mind, son?"
"The suicide note’s missing," said Gilmore.
"What makes you think there was one?"
Gilmore steered the inspector across to the bedside cabinet. "One ballpoint pen." He pointed. On the floor, by the bed, was a pad of Basildon Bond writing paper. "One notepad."
"So she had the means to write a suicide note," said Frost. "But it doesn’t follow she wrote one. I don’t have to do a pee just because I pass a gents’ urinal."
"Look at the glass with the water in," continued Gilmore. "Right on the edge of the cabinet. If she was lying in bed when she took the pills, she’d have replaced the glass on the side nearest to her. If she took them before she lay on the bed, she’d have put the glass somewhere in the middle."
Frost 3 - Night Frost Page 3
