Night Frost (31 page)

   "The firemen reckon he must have fallen into a pool of blazing petrol," explained Jordan, staring straight ahead, determined not to look down. "They dragged him out of the lounge."

   "Poor bastard," muttered Frost. He pulled the plastic sheeting down further to see better. Welded into the bubbling black flesh, pieces of charred material. "Looks like pyjamas."

   "Yes, sir. We presume he’s the householder."

   Frost forced himself to bend again and study the face closer. If it was Mark Compton it would require medical and dental records for a positive identification. Slowly, he straightened up. "So what happened?"

   "The place was well alight when we got here. Simms radioed for the fire brigade. No way of getting in at the front, so I tried the rear and found Mrs. Compton, in her night clothes, unconscious on the lawn just outside the back door."

   'Where is she now?"

   "She’s with someone in the village, I think."

   Frost nodded for him to continue.

   "When the fire brigade got here they sent a couple of men with breathing apparatus into the house. The body was in the lounge. They dragged him out but he was already dead."

   "I thought the sprinklers were supposed to stop this sort of fire," said Frost.

   "They’d been put out of action, Inspector. The water supply was turned of at the mains."

   Gilmore thought it was about time he reminded everyone that this was his case. "Radio through to Control," he snapped. "Tell all patrols that anyone out and about at this time of the morning, on foot or in a car, is a suspect and is to be detained for questioning."

   "And advise all hospitals, chemists and doctors that we want to know immediately about anyone requesting treatment for burns," added Frost.

   A car horn sounded and Dr Maltby’s Vauxhall crept into the side road. Maltby, wrapped up against the cold in a thick overcoat, climbed out and surveyed the smouldering wreck age of the once beautiful house. He spotted Frost and made his way across, stepping with exaggerated care over the hose-pipes.

   "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."