‘And we thought we could hear the sound of an ear-hole pressed against the wall,’ replied Frost. ‘We’d like a couple of words… preferably not “piss off’.’
With a loud sniff of disapproval she showed them into a spotlessly clean, cosy little room where a coal fire glowed cherry red in a black-leaded grate and where chintz curtains hid the damp and depressing weather outside. In the centre of the room stood a solid oak refectory table draped in a green baize cloth on which was a quantity of different coloured wine bottles bearing white, hand-written labels.
‘Not interrupting an orgy, are we?’ asked Frost.
She ignored the question and pointed to the high-backed wooden chairs by the table. ‘Sit down!’
While Gilmore fidgeted, and kept consulting his watch, anxious to get back to his files, Frost settled down comfort ably and warmed his hands at the fire. He picked up one of the bottles and pretended to read the label. “What’s this? “Cow’s Dung and Dandelion. A thick brown wine, sticky to the palate.” That sounds good, Ada.’
She snatched the bottle. ‘It’s Cowslip and Dandelion, as well you know. I’m sorting out my home-made wine.’ She turned to Gilmore, who was drumming his fingers impatiently. ‘Would you like to try some?’
Gilmore shook his head curtly. ‘We’re not allowed to drink while we’re on duty.’
‘This isn’t alcoholic,’ Frost assured him. ‘This is home made.’ He beamed at Ada. ‘Perhaps just a little sip — to keep out the cold.’
From the top of the matching solid oak sideboard, she produced two of the largest wine glasses Gilmore had ever seen, and after giving them a quick blow inside to shift the dust, banged them down on the green baize. She filled them to the brim, and slid them across. ‘Try that.’
Gilmore lifted his glass and eyed the cloudy contents with apprehension. ‘That’s more than a sip.’
Frost told him, ‘You’ve got to have a lot to get the full benefit,’ and raised his glass in salute to Ada who waited, arms folded, for their verdict. ‘Cheers!’ The wine tiptoed down his throat as smooth as silk, tasting of nothing in particular, then, suddenly, the pin slipped from the hand grenade and something exploded inside him, punching him in the stomach, making him gasp for breath and firing little star shells in front of his eyes. ‘Gawd help us!’ he spluttered as soon as the fit of coughing stopped.
‘What’s it like?’ whispered Gilmore who hadn’t plucked up the courage to try his yet.
‘Delicious,’ croaked Frost, his throat raw and stinging as if he had swallowed a glass of hot creosote. Quickly he covered his glass as Ada offered a second helping. ‘If you’re trying to get us drunk so you can have your way with us, Ada, forget it. I lust after your body, but all I want at the moment is the letters.’
Her expression hardly changed as she rammed the cork home in the bottle. ‘What letters?’
Pausing only to slap the coughing, red-faced Gilmore on the back, Frost said, ‘The poison pen letter and the suicide note.’
She stared blankly, as if mystified.
‘You don’t have to be a bleeding Sherlock Holmes to deduce you’ve got them, Ada. Wardley left them on his bedside cabinet. You were the first one in. They were gone by the time the doc arrived a couple of minutes later. Don’t sod me about. I want them.’
Her lips tightened stubbornly. ‘Did Mr Wardley say you could have them?’
‘Yes, Ada. And he also said if you didn’t hand them over, I was to give you a clout round the ear-hole.’ He held out his hand. She hesitated, then took a folded sheet of notepaper from her apron pocket and thrust it at him.
Frost was slowly becoming aware that he was beginning to feel a trifle light-headed. Everything in the room was starting to blur slightly round the edge. It took a great deal of effort to bring the typed letter into focus. Thank God he’d refused a second glass of Cowslip and Dandelion.
‘Give it to me,’ said Gilmore impatiently. He unfolded the note and read it aloud. ‘“Dear Lecher. What would the church say if I told them about you and the things the boys said you did?”’
‘Is that it?’ asked Frost, sounding disappointed.
Gilmore nodded. ‘Typed on the same machine as the others. The “a” and the “s” are out of alignment.’
‘It all looks out of alignment to me,’ muttered Frost, wishing he hadn’t made such a pig of himself on Ada’s lethal brew. He squinted up at the blurred outline of the woman. ‘And where’s his suicide note, Ada?’
Stubbornly, she folded her arms. ‘I burnt it.’ At Frost’s angry exclamation, she explained, ‘Suicide is a mortal sin. Mr Wardley is a churchwarden. I wanted people to think the overdose was an accident.’
Frost pulled himself to his feet and waited to give the room a chance to steady itself. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that, Ada.’
She walked with them to the front door. ‘Think yourself lucky I kept the poison pen letter. I was in two minds whether to burn that as well.’
‘Thanks for the wine,’ said Frost. ‘I only felt sick for a little while.’ A cold, swirling mist was waiting for them out side. Its chill dampness embraced them, sobering Frost instantly and making him shiver.
Gilmore edged the car out of the village and headed for Denton. Up on the hill, looking down on them, The Old Mill, a dark blur in the mist. No lights showed. ‘Old Mother Rigid Nipples has gone to bed,’ Frost murmured. ‘Her husband’s probably got one of them stuck up his nose right now.’
‘Her husband’s away,’ grunted Gilmore, trying to spot the area car that was supposed to be watching the place, but there was no sign of it.
As they drove back, the radio was pleading for all available patrols to help break up a fight between two gangs of youths outside one of the town’s less reputable pubs. ‘Steer clear of there,’ said Frost, not wanting to get involved.
And then the radio was calling them. ‘Can you get over to The Old Mill right away?’ asked a harassed-sounding Bill Wells. ‘I had to call Charlie Alpha away to help with this pub fight. Mrs Compton’s seen someone prowling about the grounds.’
Tuesday night shift (3)
The smell of burning oil from Frost’s clapped-out Cortina grew stronger as Gilmore roared the car up the hill. ‘I can see the sod!’ yelled Frost. A hunched shape was moving across the lawn towards the house. Gilmore braked violently, slewing the car across the gravel driveway, and flung open the door. The sound of breaking glass shivered the silence, followed by the shrill urgency of an alarm bell.
‘There he goes!’ said Gilmore as something darted back across the lawn and was swallowed by shadow. ‘I’ll cut across that field, round to the side of the house. You nip that way to the end of the lane and cut him off as I flush him out.’ Frost, his running days long past, listened without enthusiasm, and was still fumbling with his seat belt as Gilmore streaked away into the darkness.
The radio called to report that the alarm at The Old Mill was ringing. ‘Yes, we know,’ said Frost.
Gilmore, out of breath, was clinging to a tree, sucking in air for dear life as Frost eventually ambled over. Frost lit a cigarette and pushed a mouthful of smoke in the sergeant’s direction. Gilmore fanned it away and, at last, between gasps, was able to croak, ‘Where were you?’
Frost ignored the question. ‘Did you see him?’
Gilmore’s head shook in tempo with his panting. ‘No. I told you to head him off.’
‘I must have misheard you,’ said Frost. ‘Let’s go to the house and see what he’s done.’ He spun round abruptly as a figure crashed towards them out of the black. ‘Who the hell’s this?’
‘Did you get him?’ It was Mark Compton, flourishing a heavy walking stick.
‘He was too fast,’ panted Gilmore. ‘We thought your wife would be here on her own.’
‘That’s probably what that swine thought,’ snapped Compton. ‘I changed my schedule. I’ve just got in.’ He led them back to the house and through to the lounge where curtains billowed from a jagged hole in the centre of the large patio window. Glass slivers glinted on the carpet. The cause of the damage, a muddied brick, probably from the garden, lay next to what looked like a bunch of flowers. Frost picked it up. It wasn’t a bunch of flowers.