She stared at him, then at Gilmore, her face white. ‘You’re framing me, you bastards! I want a solicitor.’
‘You can phone from the station,’ said Gilmore. At the door holding her tightly by the arm, he called to Frost, ‘You’d better bring her suitcases down. Forensic will want to examine her clothes.’ He waited while she put on her coat before leading her out to the lift.
With a distinct feeling of being upstaged, Frost gathered up the cases. At the side table he paused and hopefully looked inside the black lacquered cigarette box. It was disappointingly empty. Not his lucky day. Shoulders drooped in resignation, he picked up the cases, kicked the door shut behind him, and left the flat.
The lift taking him down now smelt fleetingly of plump, jolly, hennaed-haired murderess, Jean Bradbury. Frost was vaguely worried. He had his own theories on the Compton killing and the woman didn’t figure in them. But downstairs, with the woman locked safely in the car and glaring poisoned darts at them a smirking Gilmore called to him from one of the residents’ garages.
‘This is her garage,’ said Gilmore as he squeezed past a beige-coloured Mini Cooper and pointed to patches of damp on the concrete floor. The pervading smell was petrol. ‘This must be where she stored the petrol cans.’
Frost nodded gloomily. ‘Well done, son.’ He was forced to admit it. Gilmore was right and he was wrong.
‘I’d better get my prisoner back to the station,’ said Gilmore, leaving his inspector to close the garage doors.
The significance of ‘my prisoner’ instead of ‘our prisoner’ was not lost on Frost.
Police Superintendent Mullett sat to attention in his chair. He was on the phone to the Chief Constable. Opposite the satin mahogany desk stood a self-satisfied Detective Sergeant Gilmore, and a pale-looking Police Sergeant Wells who clutched a sodden handkerchief and kept interrupting the phone call by coughing and spluttering and noisily blowing his nose. If Wells thought he could wheedle his way on to the sick list, when they needed every man they could lay their hands on, he could think again.
‘We’re very much below strength,’ he told the Chief Constable, staring at Wells as he said it, ‘but I think you can rely on the Denton team to turn up trumps on Friday night.’
The door clicked open and Mullett looked up in annoyance as Frost shuffled in. Late again. ‘Ah, Frost,’ he said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘The Chief Constable wishes to know what progress you have made with the Paula Bartlett case.’
‘Bugger all,’ said Frost, dragging a chair over to the desk and sitting down wearily. ‘You told me to leave it for Wonder Boy’s return.’
Mullett’s smile flickered on and off like a dying neon tube. He held it unsteadily in place as he spoke into the phone. ‘Detective Inspector Frost reports no further progress at present, sir. However things should improve when Mr Allen returns from the sick list.’ He glared at Frost who unabashed, seemed more intent on trying to read, upside down, a private and confidential memo in the superintendent’s out-tray. Mullett pulled the tray towards him and turned the memo face down, then he flashed his gleaming white teeth into the receiver’s mouthpiece. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. You can depend on me, sir.’ He grovelled his good- byes, then replaced the phone.
He smoothed down his moustache. ‘Trouble, gentlemen. County have been hearing rumours that those gypsies — or travellers as they prefer to be called — who were involved in the fighting in the town centre last Friday are out to seek their revenge on our Denton lager louts. The Chief Constable wishes us to ensure that we have a sufficiently large police presence here on Friday night to nip any such trouble in the bud.’
‘How many men is he sending us, then?’ asked Wells between coughs.
Mullett treated the sergeant to one of his thin, superior smiles. ‘County are stretched to the limit, Wells.’
‘And we’re not, I suppose?’ said Frost, flicking ash all over the carpet.
‘Everyone’s in the same boat,’ snapped Mullett. ‘I am not giving County the impression that we will go whining to them each time we have a minor problem. I want them to see that Denton can cope. So tomorrow, all leave will be cancelled. All off-duty men will be called in. And the sick list is closed.’ He stared hard at Wells, letting him know that the last comment included him. ‘I have assured the Chief Constable that the maintenance of public order will be our number one priority.’
‘Priority even over our murder investigations?’ asked Frost in his deceptively innocent voice.
‘Of course a murder case takes precedence,’ barked Mullett, ‘but you will manage with the barest minimum.’ He jerked his head away from Frost and gave Gilmore the full benefit of his white flashing smile. ‘The Chief Constable was delighted when I told him of your success in the Compton case, Sergeant.’ He beamed. ‘There was some mention of him writing you a personal letter of commendation.’ He noticed that Frost looked unhappy at this. Jealousy, of course. His assistant had succeeded where he had failed. ‘That will be all, gentlemen.’
In the corridor outside, Frost grabbed Gilmore’s arm. ‘Has the Bradbury bird confessed yet, son?’
‘No,’ Gilmore told him. ‘But we don’t need a confession. The forensic evidence is overwhelming. The death threat letters definitely came from that magazine… they even confirm they were cut out by her own scissors. We’ve found identical notepaper and envelopes in her flat and the marks on the garage floor are definitely consistent with cans of petrol being stored there. We’ve got motive, opportunity and strong evidence. What more do we want
‘I’m not happy about this one,’ said Frost.
Gilmore bit back the urge to say ‘tough’. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Inspector, I’m on my way to see Mrs Compton. I want to tell her the good news.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Frost.
‘Why?’ asked Gilmore, icily. It was his case. He didn’t want Frost along.
‘Just for the ride, son. I haven’t seen a decent pair of nipples all day.’
Ada Perkins wasn’t very welcoming. Her vinegar expression and sharp sniff of disapproval showed them exactly what she thought of them barging in on her patient. She marched them into the living-room where a washed-out-looking Jill Compton in a thick towelling dressing gown sat staring into, a roaring fire.
‘Good to see you up and about,’ said Frost, sinking into the other comfortable chair.
Gilmore dragged a hard kitchen chair over and sat opposite her. ‘How are you feeling, Mrs Compton?’
‘It hasn’t really sunk in yet. Everyone’s being so kind.’
Gilmore moved his chair closer. ‘I’ve some news for you. We’ve arrested Mrs Jean Bradbury for the murder of your husband.’
She stared at him in total disbelief. ‘Bradbury? You mean the wife of that man who tried to pick that fight with Mark?”
‘Yes. She moved into Denton some weeks ago.’
‘But why should she want to harm Mark?’
Gilmore looked at Frost, hoping the inspector would want to tell her of her late husband’s infidelity, but, for a change, Frost seemed content to lean back and listen. He took a deep breath. ‘Your husband was having an affair with her.’
She shrank back as if he had struck her, and stared wide-eyed, uncomprehending. ‘No,’ she whispered at last. ‘Oh no!’
‘I’m afraid it’s a fact,’ continued Gilmore doggedly. ‘He even promised her he would divorce you and marry her. When he broke off the relationship, she began this hate campaign. Jean Bradbury started the fire last night. She killed your husband.’
Jill Compton shivered even though the room was sweltering. ‘No,’ she said firmly, as if trying to convince herself. ‘I don’t believe you. My husband would never look at another woman.’ Then she covered her face with her hands and hers body shook. ‘This is more than I can stand. I’ve lost every thing… my home… my husband … and now you tell me he was unfaithful.’