Frost 3 - Night Frost

by R D Wingfield

  "He’s drunk again," hissed Gilmore.

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

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

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

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

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

  "Could it have happened when he fell?" asked Gilmore.

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

  Maltby nodded his agreement. "I’d say he was struck from behind . . . a heavy blow from a blunt instrument. If the blow didn’t kill him outright, then the fire finished him off."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Where's Mark? Is he all right?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Did you see who it was?" asked Gilmore.

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

  "He was going to use the torch as a weapon?"

  She nodded. "I imagine so."

  "You didn’t go downstairs with him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I let you into my house. I give you tea. I give you biscuits . . ."

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

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

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

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

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

  She folded her arms stubbornly and compressed her lips.

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

  Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.

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

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

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

  Her expression didn’t change.

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

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

  "The bottle was nearly empty," said Gilmore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Did you confront Wardley?" Frost asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  "Any joy with petrol—and smoke-smelling suspects?" asked Frost.

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

  "Forensic turned anything up?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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