R. Wingfield - Night Frost

‘A letter? My wife said there was a letter threatening to kill her.’

Frost showed it to him. His face went white. ‘Why are we being persecuted like this?’ He sank down into a leather armchair. His wife dropped down on his lap and snuggled up to him.

‘That’s what I want to know,’ said Frost. ‘Why?’ He and Gilmore were sitting, facing the Comptons, in a large leather settee. He fumbled for his cigarettes. ‘Whoever’s doing this must have a reason.’

‘Reason?’ said Compton ‘There’s no bloody reason. It’s the work of a maniac.’

‘We’ve been receiving a spate of complaints about poison pen letters. “Did you know your wife’s been having it off with the milkman?” — that sort of thing. I’m wondering if it could be the same bloke.’

‘We’ve had death threats, Inspector, not stupid poison pen letters.’

‘Run through the main course of events again,’ said Frost. ‘Just for the benefit of my new colleague here.’

Mark Compton slipped his hand under Jill’s house-coat and gently stroked her bare back. ‘OK. As you know, we run a business from this place… Jill was on her own one night when this bugger phoned.’

‘What sort of business is it?’ interrupted Gilmore.

‘Dirty books,’ said Frost.

Compton glowered. ‘We’re fine art dealers,’ he corrected. ‘Mainly rare books and prints, a small proportion of which might be termed erotica, and manuscripts, but not many. There’s over a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of stock upstairs.’

Gilmore whistled softly to show he was impressed. ‘Safely locked up, I hope?’

‘We couldn’t get insurance if it wasn’t,’ Compton replied icily. ‘Your Crime Prevention Officer has given us the once-over and was quite satisfied. We’ve got a sophisticated alarm system with automatic 999 dialling. If anyone tried to break in, they’d set off the alarm at your police station.’

‘Books and manuscripts,’ said Gilmore, ‘and a wooden building. I shouldn’t think the insurance company were too happy about that?’

Mark Compton pointed to metal roses dotting the ceiling. ‘Automatic sprinklers in every room, a condition of the policy.’

‘So not too much danger from fire?’

‘An ordinary fire, perhaps, but if some stupid bastard starts pouring petrol all over the place like they apparently did with our summer house…’

Frost’s head came up sharply. ‘How did you know that, sir?’

‘The fireman outside told me. It’s not a state secret, is it? I am entitled to know the methods maniacs use to destroy my property.’

Frost smiled and switched his attention to the woman. ‘Tell us about the phone calls.’

The recollection made her shudder. ‘It started about two weeks ago. The phone kept ringing in the middle of the night. Every time I answered it, the caller hung up. It was frightening. This place is so isolated. I was terrified.’ Again she shuddered. Her husband moved his hand up to cup and squeeze her breast in reassurance. In case Gilmore hadn’t spotted this, Frost drew it to his attention by a sharp dig in the ribs with his elbow. Gilmore pretended not to notice and, trying to keep his eyes well above breast level, he asked Jill to continue.

‘The next morning a black Rolls Royce came up the drive. It was a hearse, with a coffin in the back!’ She was shaking uncontrollably. Mark squeezed her tighter and she clung to him. At last she was able to continue. ‘Two men dressed all in black got out and knocked. They said they were undertakers and had come to collect the body of my husband. I think I screamed.’

‘Some stupid, sick bastard’s idea of a joke,’ cut in Compton angrily. ‘Fortunately I came home a couple of minutes later. Jill was having hysterics. Then the phone rang. The Classified Ads section of the local paper checking details of my obituary notice which had just been phoned in. Apparently I had died suddenly as the result of a tragic accident. Just imagine if Jill had taken that call.’ She blinked up at him and buried her face in his chest. ‘Later that day, just to complete this hilariously funny sick joke, a firm of monumental masons sent me a quotation for my headstone. That was when I called in the police… not that it did us any damn good. The next day our ornamental pond was full of dead fish. They’d been poisoned. The maniac had poured bleach in. Then he phoned me.’

Gilmore’s head shot up. ‘Phoned you?’

‘He said, “Dead fish first, dead people next.” Then he hung up.’

‘Did you recognize the voice?’ asked Gilmore.

‘Of course I didn’t recognize it. Would we be sitting here wondering who it was if I did?’

Gilmore flushed. It would almost be worth his job to smack the smug bastard one in the mouth. ‘Can you describe the voice, sir?’

‘It was obviously disguised. Very soft, almost a whisper. You couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Things came through the post — newspaper cuttings, obituaries of people called Compton, or reports of killings or sudden deaths with the victim’s name crossed out and our name written in. Charming little things like that.’

‘Right,’ said Gilmore. ‘Whoever is doing this must hate you. Any suggestions?’

‘Don’t you think we’ve racked our brains, trying to think of something?’ barked Compton. ‘There’s no rhyme nor reason behind this. I keep telling you, this is the work of someone with a sick mind.’

‘Sick minds or not, sir, they’ve got to have a reason for picking on you in the first place.’

Jill Compton caught her breath and her eyes widened as if a thought had suddenly struck her. ‘Mark… that man who tried to pick a fight with you!’ She rose from his lap and sat on the arm of the chair.

Her husband frowned. ‘What man?’

‘In London — the security system exhibition.’

A scoffing laugh. ‘That was over a month ago.’ To the detectives he said, ‘A bit of nonsense. It’s got nothing to do with this.’

Then why did you look guilty when she mentioned it? thought Frost. ‘Let’s hear about it anyway, sir. Suspects are pretty thin on the ground at the moment.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with this,’ insisted Compton. ‘We’d gone up to London for an antiques fair at the Russell Hotel. This security system exhibition was on at the same time at a different hotel — I forget the name…’

‘The Griffin,’ his wife reminded him.

‘That’s right… Anyway, Guardtech, the firm that fitted up the alarm systems here, had sent us an invitation, so we looked in for a couple of hours. I was in the bar. Jill had gone off somewhere.’

‘I was powdering my nose,’ she told him.

‘Well — whatever. This woman comes up to me and asks for a light. Suddenly, her drunken lout of a husband staggers over and accuses me of trying to take his wife away from him. I didn’t want any trouble, so I turned to go. He swings a punch at me, misses by miles and falls flat on his face. It turned out he was a salesman for Guardtech security systems. Their sales manager came over and apologized. Said this chap was insanely jealous of his wife and had been knocking back the free booze all day, just spoiling for a fight with anyone.’

‘Do you remember his name?’ asked Gilmore, hopefully.

Compton shook his head.

‘His name was Bradbury, darling,’ said his wife, looking proud that she could supply important information. ‘Simon Bradbury.’

‘Something like that,’ grunted Compton begrudgingly. ‘But you’re wasting your time going after him. He lives in London.’

While Gilmore scribbled the name in his notebook, Frost stood up and wound his scarf round his neck. ‘We’ll check him out, anyway. If anything else happens, phone the station right away.’