Night Frost (37 page)

   Mullett frowned. "A security chain?"

   "Old Mother Watson had arranged to have a stronger one fitted," Frost told him. "And that’s who she let in last night with open arms . . . the man who was going to fit the new security chain . . . so she would be safe from attack."

   "It could be a chain," said Mullett doubtfully, "but we don’t know for sure."

   "I know for bloody certain," announced Frost. "I’ve got a hunch."

   A thin smile from Mullett. "Hunches are all very well," he began, but Frost wasn’t listening, he was giving instructions to his team.

   "Knock on doors again. Go round to all the neighbours of the victims. Did the victims talk of having chains fitted? Has anyone been canvassing before, or since, offering to fit security chains? Don’t cause a panic, but get what gen you can. I want someone to contact all the local security system firms. Do they send salesmen around canvassing? Have their salesmen found that some bloody amateur has been undercutting their prices? Mrs. Watson was supposed to be a tight old sod, so this would have to be a cheap job. One last thing—Burton. Mrs. Watson talked to the old biddy in the next-door flat about having a new security chain. Chat her up, see if she can come up with names. OK—on your bikes, everyone. Chop chop."

   As the team scurried out he flipped a cigarette from his packet and tried to catch it in his mouth. It missed. Scooping it up from the floor, he lit up and inhaled deeply He felt happy. Things were now on the move. They were on the track of the killer, he felt sure of it.

   The phone rang. Detective Sergeant Hanlon from the mortuary. "The pathologist has completed the autopsy on Mark Compton, Jack. Definitely murder. A heavy blow to the head from behind. That didn’t kill him, but the fire and the fumes finished him off—death from asphyxiation." Frost pushed Mullett to one side so he could yell for Gilmore, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.

   Mullett cleared his throat pointedly. He wasn’t used to being ignored.

   "Sorry, Super," grunted Frost. "Be with you in a minute." As Gilmore appeared in the doorway, he told him about the autopsy findings.

   Gilmore checked his watch. He’d forgotten all about the damn autopsy. Frost’s bad habits were contagious. "How come Hanlon attended it?"

   "I told him to, son. We’re far too busy."

   "But it’s my case."

   "Sorry, son, but we’ve too much work and not enough men to be able to specialize. It’s everyone’s case."

   But if I crack it, it’s my bloody case, thought Gilmore. "I want to see the woman that Compton was knocking off. She might know something."

   "Right, son. We’ll do it now. Bring the car round to the front." Back to Mullett. "Anything I can do, Super . . . as long as it’s quick?"

   Huffily, the Divisional Commander produced the curt memo he had received from County. "Still some discrepancy with your car expenses, Inspector. County are furious. They want an immediate reply."

   "They want stuffing," corrected Frost, his mind elsewhere. "Stick it on my desk as you go out, would you, sir? I’ll deal with it later." And he dashed out of the rest room to the car.

   Mullett was halfway down the corridor before he realized that Frost had ordered him about like an office boy. But it was too late to go back and protest.

The flats behind the supermarket were owned by a firm of property agents and were usually let out on short leases. The Denton
Echo
, in one of its bouts of outraged crusading, had exposed several of these tenancies as being taken up by high-class call girls and for a while many of the apartments remained empty, but slowly, and more discreetly, many of the old tenants returned.

   In the carpeted foyer a lift purred down and the door opened with a barely audible hiss. They stepped inside and Gilmore pressed the button for the third floor. So different from the disinfectant-masking urine smell of the lift in the senior citizens’ flats, this lift was heady with the perfume of its previous passenger.

   They walked over thick footstep-muffling grey carpet to the end flat. There was something outside the door. Four bulging rubbish sacks. Black plastic sacks, the sort Paula Bartlett’s body was in. Frost peeped inside one. Assorted packets, cartons and jars as if someone had been clearing out a cupboard. He fished out a detergent packet. It had been opened, but was almost brim-full. "The cow’s done a bunk," he said, jamming his thumb in the bell-push. He was surprised to hear footsteps from inside.

   The woman who opened the door was around twenty-six years of age, and wore a tightly fitting knitted dress in emerald green. She was slightly plump, with red hennaed hair and breasts that could best be described as ample. Admiring their generosity, Frost had difficulty in locating his warrant card. Gilmore produced his.

   "Police. May we come in?"

   She stared at Gilmore’s warrant card wide-eyed. "Police? What’s it about? That nosy old bitch downstairs hasn’t been complaining again, has she?"

   "Not to us," answered Gilmore curtly. "Can we come in?" Pre-empting her reply he pushed forward into the hall.

   Bristling slightly at his tone, she led them through to the lounge, a comfortable room with pale blue carpeting and dark blue upholstered furniture. The light grey walls were hung with aluminium-framed abstract prints. Frost shuffled across to the large picture window and looked down on to the sprawl of the supermarket. "Very nice," he murmured. "I bet you get a good view of the multi-storey car-park from your bedroom."

   Her lips shaped a brief, flat, non-understanding smile. "This won’t take long, will it? I’m in a hurry."

   "Mind if I sit down?" said Frost, sinking into one of the blue armchairs. He dug deep into his pocket for his cigarettes and frowned with disappointment. The packet was empty. He had been too generous in the Murder Incident Room. "Do you mind telling us your name?"

   "East. Jean East." She studied her watch. "Look—what is this all about?"

   "A few questions," said Frost, letting his eyes wander around the room. He imagined this was where clients waited while the bedroom was occupied. He straightened up. Two bulging suitcases stood side by side to the left of the lounge door. "Moving out?"

   "The lease is up. I can’t afford to renew it. I’m going back to London."

   "Then we caught you just in time," beamed Frost. "Do you know a gentleman called Mark Compton?"

   A barely perceptible pause. "No. Why—what is this about?"

   "He might not have told you his real name," said Gilmore, moving in front of Frost to remind him that this was his case. He showed her a photograph.

   She studied the colour print briefly, shook her head, and handed it back. "Sorry. Never seen him before."

   "Perhaps you don’t recognize him with his clothes on," Frost suggested.

   Her face tightened and her eyes blazed. "You can get out right now." She flung open the door dramatically, her breasts heaving, straining the woollen dress to the limits.

   Frost heaved himself from the chair. "We’re going, love, but you’re coming with us. Get her coat, Sergeant."

   She hesitated. "Where are we going?"

   "To the station. I want a policewoman to examine you."

   "Examine me? Why?"

   "If you haven’t got a little strawberry birthmark on your lower stomach, my apologies will bring tears to your eyes."

   She closed the door and turned slowly. "How do you know about that?"

   "You should keep your blinds closed when you’re entertaining," sneered Gilmore.

   "You had an audience," added Frost. "An old boy with field-glasses watching from the car-park."

   Her hand covered her mouth. She looked horrified. "Watching us?"

   "From start to finish. And then he sent a poison pen letter to your client. It described you in graphic detail."

   Her face crimsoned to match her hair. "Let’s get one bloody thing straight. I’m not a tart. Yes, I knew Mark Compton. We were lovers. He came here and we made love and it was wonderful and if some dirty little snivelling shit in a filthy raincoat was watching, then sod him. I’m ashamed of nothing."

   "Eat your heart out, Mills and Boon," said Frost. "But you said you knew him. You were lovers. Past tense?"

   "Yes—past tense, because the bastard threw me up last week. Came here, made love, then calmly told me it was all over. Look—what the hell is this all about?"

   Gilmore raised his head from his notebook. He was content to let Frost ask the preliminary questions, but he would step in when the time was ripe. So she was a discarded lover. Not an uncommon motive for murder.

   But Frost, digging fruitlessly through his pockets in the hope of finding a pinched-out butt, didn’t seem to have realized the significance. "Why did he chuck you?" He watched enviously as she took a cigarette from a black lacquered box on a side table and lit it with a tiny, initialled, blue and gold enamelled lighter.

   "He was afraid his wife might find out." She flung her head back and laughed bitterly. "His bloody wife! He always told me he was going to divorce her and marry me . . . and like a fool I bloody believed him. Even when the bastard’s cheques bounced, I believed him."

   "Cheques?" queried Frost, tapping his empty Lambert and Butler packet hopefully, but she didn’t take the hint.

   "He was always borrowing money, and when I asked him to pay me back, his cheques bounced."

   "How much money are we talking about?"

   "Getting on for £500, which I could ill afford."

   Frost scratched his chin. "He sounds a right charmer. How long have you known him?"

   "A couple of months. We met in London." She dropped down into the other chair and her breasts bounced like Mark Compton’s cheques. Do that again, Frost pleaded silently.

   "Does your husband know of this association?" asked Gilmore who, unlike Frost whose gaze was directed higher, had noticed the wedding ring on her finger.

   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
.