Night Frost (32 page)

   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 cold, 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.

   Gilmore returned, shaking his head. No joy yet on Bradbury. Frost took one last look round. Everyone seemed to be coping quite well without him. "We’re doing no good here, son," he muttered. "Let’s go to the hospital."

   "The hospital?" echoed Gilmore. "Why?" Now that he had committed himself to attending the autopsy in six hours’ time, all he wanted to do was go home and get some sleep.

   "To question Wardley," explained Frost. "You said Mark Compton’s bit of spare might provide the motive for his death and Wardley knows who she is. I’ll do it on my own if you like."

   No way! thought Gilmore, slamming the car into gear. No bloody way.

At that hour of the morning Denton Hospital was a place of uneasy, muffled noises, whispers, coughs and groans. The very young probationer nurse in sole charge of the wheezing, snuffling ward wasn’t at all happy about Frost waking up one of the patients, but Frost breezily assured her that he had permission.

   Wardley, deep in a trouble-free sleep, was rudely awakened by a rough shaking of his shoulder. His eyes flickered open as he tried to focus on the two strangers looking grimly down at him. One of them he recognized immediately and his heart-beat faltered before thudding away. It was that detective inspector, back again, in the middle of the night. And the look on his face. God, they knew. They had found out. He closed his eyes tightly and feigned sleep, but the renewed shaking of his shoulder nearly jerked him out of bed. "Yes?" he asked in a quavery, weak, old man’s voice.

   "Get dressed," said Frost. "I’m arresting you."

   "Arresting me?" He pulled himself up. "It’s that woman next door telling lies about me, isn’t it? Don’t you believe her . . . she’s evil. She hates me."

   "Not as much as I bloody hate you," said Frost. "And the only lies Ada told us was when she was covering up for you, you sod. She even hid your typewriter—the one you used for your suicide note—and for your poison pen letters."

   "Poison pen?" He tried to sound indignant. "The intention was to make people stop their filthy practices."

   "You made Susan Bicknell stop hers," said Frost. "The poor cow killed herself."

   The skin on the old man’s knuckles stretched almost to blue transparency as he clutched at the sheet. "I didn’t mean that to happen. She over-reacted. I’m sorry."

   "Oh, you’re sorry?" hissed Frost. "That makes it all right. We’ll dig the poor bitch up so you can apologize." He dragged a chair across the floor with such a loud, teeth-setting squeak that half the ward stirred uneasily. "Right," he said wearily. "I’m tired, my sergeant is tired, and we haven’t got time to sod about. I’m going to ask you questions, and I want answers."

   "I’m saying nothing," whimpered Wardley. "I’m a sick man."

   The chair squeaked again as Frost stood up. "Arrest the bastard, Sergeant."

   "Wait," said Wardley. "What do you want to know?"

   Another squeak from the chair. Frost made himself comfortable, then shook the last export cigarette from the packet and lit up. "Let’s start with the pornographic video. Who’s been making them?"

   "A purveyor of filth. If I knew his name I’d tell you. I bought the video, Inspector. It wasn’t for enjoyment. I have to do these things to ferret out evil. When I screened it, I recognized the girl. Her mother goes to our church. I’ve no idea who makes and distributes them."

   "Where did you buy it?" Gilmore asked.

   "A newsagent’s in Catherine Street. I don’t know the name."

   "We do," said Frost. "We’ve already arrested him." That part of Wardley’s story checked out anyway. "We’ll leave that for the moment. You sent one of your well-meaning letters to Mark Compton?"

   The old man pulled himself upright, his eyes wild, his expression intense. "That lecher. All smug and high and mighty, but sneaking off behind his wife’s back for disgusting perversions with a prostitute."

   "A prostitute?" said Gilmore, glumly. This ruined his theory. If Compton’s bit of spare was a prostitute, a vengeful boyfriend or husband would have his work cut out.

   "Never mind, son," said Frost. "We’ll check her out any way." He asked Wardley where she lived.

   "Where all these high-priced harlots live. In Queen’s Court—those new flats at the back of the big supermarket . . . end flat, third floor."

   "If they were up on the third floor, how could you see through the bedroom window?"

   Wardley smiled. "The multi-storey car-park overlooks her flat. All you need is a strong pair of field-glasses."

   "And a dirty vicious bastard to use them," said Frost.

PC Dave Simms tucked the area car into the lay-by off the Bath Road and reached for the thermos flask. His observer, PC Jordan, yawned and stretched his arms. "I’ll be damn glad when this shift is over," he sniffed. "I’m sure I’ve got this flu bug coming on."

   "Don’t breathe over me then," replied Simms, slopping steaming hot coffee into a plastic cup and passing it over.

   Jordan sipped at the cup, then his eyes narrowed. "Hello. What’s this?"

   Headlights approaching. Coming from the opposite direction to the fire, but they had been given instructions to stop everyone. Anyone out and about at this time of the morning was a potential suspect.

   It was a small black van which slowed down and stopped as they sounded the siren and cut in front of it. The driver, a short, sharp-featured man with long greasy hair, in his late forties, eyed them warily. "What’s the trouble, officer?"

   Simms asked to see the man’s driving licence, his nose twitching, trying to detect the smell of smoke, or petrol, but smelling only fresh paint.

   "I haven’t got my licence with me. What’s this all about?"

   "Just routine, sir. Do you mind telling us what you are doing out at this time of night?"

   Jordan was checking the van. The smell of new paint was strong. The vehicle had been freshly painted. A pretty ropey job, done with a paint brush, not a spray gun. He tried the rear doors. They opened.

   "Leave them alone!" yelled the man, reaching forward to switch on the engine, but Simms’ hand clamped round his wrist.

   The beam of Jordan’s torch found a stack of cardboard boxes. He pulled one forward and looked inside. Jewellery. Lots of jewellery. Mainly old-fashioned, but good quality—brooches, lockets, bangles, rings.

   "Well, well, well," smirked Jordan. "And what is your perfectly reasonable explanation for these, sir?"

The hospital was slowly waking up as they clattered down the stone stairs past the first shift of cleaners with mops and buckets. They could hear the car radio as they crossed the pavement.

   "Frost," he yawned into the handset.

   "We’ve got him, Jack," reported Sergeant Wells triumphantly.

   "You’ve got Bradbury?" asked Frost, unable to believe his luck. "Is he dripping with petrol, smothered in blood and carrying a blunt instrument?"

   "Not Bradbury," replied Wells, testily. Frost was always joking at the wrong moment. "No joy with him yet. But we’ve got Wally Manson. Jordan and Simms picked him up. His van’s a bloody treasure trove—full of stolen gear from the senior citizen break-ins. Mr. Mullett is cock-a-hoop."

   'What’s that about Mr. Mullet’s cock?" asked Frost innocently. "This is a very bad line." He replaced the handset. "The station, son."

   But Gilmore was already on the way.

   Frost sank down in his seat again. He dug down in his pocket, but the Benson and Hedges packet was empty.

Thursday morning shift

A quarter to six in the morning and Mullett, freshly shaven, highly polished, and immaculately dressed in his best tailored uniform, emerged from his office, mentally rehearsing the speech he would make to the press and the television cameras after they had charged Manson with the 'Granny Ripper' killings. He waylaid the dishevelled Frost and Gilmore, both looking tired and edgy, on their way to the Interview Room. "No doubts about the right man this time, Inspector. Hanlon has definitely identified an item of jewellery from Manson’s van as belonging to one of the murder victims and there’s a positive forensic report on those jeans."