‘Was she a teaser?’ asked Frost.
His pale cheeks showed two red spots. ‘How the hell should I know?’
‘In the car, sir, you and her, close. The old knees rubbing together… flashes of elasticated knicker leg and tender young thigh all juicy and throbbing?’
Bell’s lip curled contemptuously. ‘I find you offensive, Inspector.’
Through a haze of cigarette smoke Frost beamed at him. ‘You’re not alone in that, sir. But I found it offensive when I saw what that sod had done to that kid, so just answer my questions.’
Bell stood up and towered angrily over the inspector. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I am involved in this poor child’s death?’
‘Let’s just say you’re quite high on my list of suspects.’ In fact, thought Frost, you’re my one and only bloody suspect, so if it isn’t you, I’m nowhere. ‘Can you tell me your movements for the morning she went missing?’ His raised hand halted Bell in mid-protest. ‘I know you’ve told it all to the other bloke, but I’d like to hear it first-hand.’
‘It was the morning of my wife’s funeral. The hearse arrived from the undertakers at 9.30. The interment was at ten. I got back home a few minutes before noon.’
‘So, before the funeral, you were alone in the house until 9.30?’
‘No. My wife’s parents were here. They’d travelled down from Berwick for the funeral and stayed with me overnight.’
‘Oh.’ Frost tried not to sound disappointed. ‘They’d confirm this, of course?’
‘I think you’ll find they’re already given statements to Inspector Allen.’
Frost groaned inwardly. Why the hell hadn’t he done his homework? ‘I’ve only just skimmed through the files, sir. Skimmed! He hadn’t even opened them. ‘Your morning paper hadn’t arrived by the time you left for the funeral. Didn’t that worry you? Didn’t you wonder why?’
‘I didn’t give it a thought, Inspector. The only thing on my mind was the funeral.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Damn, thought Frost. There goes my best suspect. All he was left with now was the plumber. Which reminded him. ‘Did it rain during the funeral?’
‘There was a sudden cloudburst,’ said Bell. ‘We all got drenched.’
And damn again, thought Frost. Now I haven’t even got the plumber. He poked another cigarette in his mouth and lit up. The smoke curled and drifted and he followed it with his eyes, watching as it was drawn to the fireplace, some of it wafting up to the mantelpiece. In the centre of the mantel piece a clock in Chinese black lacquer, long unwound, had stopped at ten past eight. Something poked out from behind it. A light blue envelope, the address typed. It looked very similar to the one sent to old Mr Wardley.
A sharp cough to catch Gilmore’s attention and a jerk of the head to direct him to the clock. Silently, Gilmore sidled over and pulled out the envelope. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. The typing was identical.
Bell, staring out at the rain-soaked garden, saw nothing of this extended mime show.
‘One final thing,’ said Frost casually. ‘What did the poison pen letter say?’
Bell stiffened, then slowly turned. He saw the envelope in Gilmore’s hand and snatched it from him. ‘You’ve no right…’
‘We’ve every bloody right,’ snapped Frost, standing and holding out his hand. ‘The letter, please, sir.’
Bell stared at him, knuckles white, body stiff with fury. He almost threw the envelope at the inspector. ‘You bastard!’ he hissed. ‘You lousy bastard.’
‘Sticks and stones,’ reproved Frost, mildly. He unfolded the sheet of cheap typing paper. The typed message said, simply, Fornicator.
‘Terse,’ murmured Frost, passing the message to Gilmore. ‘Why should anyone accuse you of that, sir?’
‘It’s none of your damn business.’
‘In a murder enquiry, sir, everything is my damn business.’
Bell walked back to the window and again stared at the puddled garden blurred out of focus by the curtain of rain crawling down the pane. He wouldn’t look at Frost. He spoke to the glass. ‘If you must know, my wife had been ill for a very long time. We were not able to live together as husband and wife. There was a woman in Denton…’
‘Do you mean a tart?’ asked Frost, bluntly.
His back stiffened. ‘Yes, she was a prostitute. Someone must have been spying on us, hence the letters. Filthy letters. I burnt the others. This one came on the day of the funeral.’ He covered his face with his hands and his body shook. ‘The day of her funeral.’
On the way back to the car they detoured. There was the remains of an old bonfire at the end of the garden. Quite a large bonfire. Frost poked at the rain-sodden ashes with his foot. Bits of twigs, stalks and dried leaves. No burnt remains of buttons or the charred remnants of clothes stripped from a schoolgirl’s body. He added his cigarette end to the heap.
‘We’re wasting our time here,’ said Gilmore.
‘Maybe,’ muttered Frost, looking back to the house where a thin, bearded figure was watching them from the patio window. ‘But my philosophy in life is never to trust bastards with thin straggly beards.’
Burton started the engine as Frost slid into the passenger seat beside him. ‘Back to the station, Inspector?’
‘One more call, son. Let’s check with the headmaster of Bell’s school. I want to find out if there’s been any corn plaints of Hairy-chin teaching advanced anatomy to the senior girls.
‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ protested Gilmore from the back seat. ‘You’re forgetting — Mr Mullett said we should drop this case and concentrate on the stabbings.’
‘Mr Mullett says lots of stupid things, son. The kindest thing to do is ignore him.’
As Gilmore had predicted, calling on the headmaster was a waste of time. The man, stout and pompous, was outraged that such an accusation could be levelled at any member of his staff. Mr Bell had an excellent record, was highly regarded, and didn’t the inspector realize that the poor devil had recently lost his wife?
Frost felt like retorting, didn’t the headmaster know that while his wife was dying, his excellent schoolmaster was having it away with a tart in Denton? But he held his tongue and took his leave.
‘Yes, son,’ he said, before Burton could ask. ‘Back to the station.’ And they nearly made it. Another couple of minutes and they would have been in the car-park when Control called.
‘Calling all units,’ said the radio. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Selwood Road? Over.’
Before Frost could restrain him, Burton had snatched up the handset. They were a minute away from Selwood Road.
‘Eleven Selwood Road. Old-age pensioner living on her own. Neighbour reports she hasn’t been seen all day, her newspaper’s still in the letter-box and her milk is still on the step.’
The neighbour who made the phone call, a sharp-faced little busybody of a man wearing a too-big plastic mac, was hovering in the street and scurried over to the car as they pulled up. ‘Are you the police?’
‘More or less,’ grunted Frost.
‘I live next door,’ said the man, darting in front of them like an over-enthusiastic terrier as they made their way across to the house. ‘She always goes out during the day. I watch her through the window. She didn’t today. And none of her lights are on, her milk is on the doorstep. She’s an old-age pensioner, you know.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Frost, wishing the man would go away.
‘I’m an old-age pensioner too, but you’d never think it, would you?’
‘No,’ said Frost unconvincingly. ‘Never in a million years.’ The old sod looked at least eighty. They were now at the door, which was painted a vivid green.
‘Are you going to break in?’ asked the neighbour, pushing between them. ‘Only the council have just repainted these doors.’
Frost leant on the bell push.
‘No use ringing if she’s dead!’
‘Nothing good on telly?’ asked Frost pointedly, hammering at the door with the flat of his hand.