R. Wingfield - Night Frost

Mark Compton’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. ‘You’re just walking away? For God’s sake, man, my wife’s life has been threatened. I want round-the-clock protection.’

Frost shrugged apologetically. ‘I’ll get an area car to make a detour from time to time, just to keep an eye on the place, but we haven’t got the resources for twenty-four-hour surveillance.’

Compton’s voice rose to a shout. ‘Bloody marvellous! Well, let’s make one thing clear. If the police won’t do anything, then I will. If he lays one finger on my wife, and I catch the bastard, I’ll kill him with my bare hands, and that’s a bloody promise.’

The Fire Investigations Officer was sitting in the back seat of the Cortina. waiting for them. He declined a cigarette, pleading a sore throat. ‘I think I’m coming down with flu, Jack. Half the watch are off with it.’

‘Tell me what you’ve found and then push off,’ said Frost. ‘I don’t want to catch it from you.’

The fireman passed across a plastic envelope. Inside was a chunk of burnt wood with a snail’s trail of a dirty grey waxy substance dribbled over it. ‘Candle grease from an ordinary household candle. And I’ve found several scraps of burnt cloth. My guess is that the fire was set off by a stump of candle burning down to some inflammable material — possibly rags soaked in petrol.’

Frost handed the envelope back. ‘How long would a fuse like that take to burn down?’

The fireman scratched his chin. ‘Depends on the length of the candle, but I shouldn’t think they’d use a full one, not in that situation. Too much risk of it toppling over or getting blown out. The more reliable way is just to use a stump, the shorter the better and then you’re talking an hour maybe a lot less.’

‘But if they did use a full-length one?’

‘Four and a half hours top whack.’

Frost chewed this over and stared up at the black- clouded sky through the windscreen. ‘How good is that sprinkler system in The Mill?’

‘Damn good.’

‘Even if petrol was used again?’

‘It would definitely keep it under control until we got here.’ His nose wrinkled and his eyes widened as he dived into his pocket for his handkerchief, but too late. His violent sneeze rocked the car.

‘Thanks a bunch,’ grunted Frost. ‘Flu germs are all we bleeding need.’

The Cortina bumped down the puddled lane on its way back to Denton. An agitated Gilmore, concerned about his delayed meeting with the Divisional Commander, was fidgeting impatiently, willing the inspector to drive faster. Frost seemed to be driving by remote control, his mind elsewhere, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his lip. They were approaching the gloomy Denton Woods before Frost spoke. ‘What did you think of Jill Compton?’

‘A knock-out,’ admitted Gilmore.

Frost wound down the window and spat out his cigarette. ‘Did you see how he was groping her? I thought she was going to get his dick out any minute.’ He shook another cigarette from the packet straight into his mouth. ‘When you get a chance, son, find out where Compton was last night and if there’s any way he could have started that fire.’

‘Compton?’ Gilmore was incredulous. ‘Why should he destroy his own property?’

‘I don’t know, son. I don’t like the sod. He’s a bit too bloody lovey-dovey with Miss Wonder-bum for my taste — almost as if he wants to shout out for our benefit how devoted he is.’

Gilmore was unimpressed. ‘I thought he was genuinely devoted.’

‘Maybe so, son. I’m probably way off course as usual, but check anyway.’ The car was now speeding down the hill leading to the Market Square. ‘I’ll drop you off at the station. If Mullett asks, you don’t know where I am.’

The radio belched static, then Control asked for Mr Frost to come in please. ‘What’s your position, Inspector?’

Frost looked through the window at the row of shops and the turning just ahead leading to the police station. A bit too close to Mullett for comfort. ‘Still at The Mill, Lexing, investigating arson attack.’

‘Would you call on Dr Maltby, The Surgery, Lexing. One of his patients received a poison pen letter this morning and tried to kill himself.'

‘On my way,’ replied Frost, spinning the car into a U-turn.

‘Is Detective Sergeant Gilmore with you?’ asked Control. ‘Mr Mullett wants to see him right away.’

‘Roger,’ said Frost.

‘He also wants to see you this morning without fail,’ added Control.

‘Didn’t get that last bit,’ said Frost. ‘Over and out.’ He slammed down the handset and turned off the radio.

Lexing was a small cluster of unspoilt houses and cottages, nothing later than Victorian. Perched on the hill to the north was the mill they had just visited and leaning against the front door of Dr Maltby’s cottage was the same bike they had seen outside the Comptons’. And, sure enough, it was Ada Perkins who let them in.

‘What did the doctor say, Ada?’ asked Frost confidentially. ‘Are you pregnant or is it just wind?’

‘Not funny,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve just done the hall so wipe your muddy boots.’

She ushered them into the surgery. Maltby, a grey-haired, tired-looking man in his late sixties, wearing a crumpled brown suit, was seated at an old-fashioned desk and was furtively stuffing something that chinked into his top drawer and slamming it shut as he popped a Polo mint in his mouth. The waft of peppermint-tinted whisky fumes hit Gilmore as Frost introduced him.

‘This is Dr Maltby, son. He’s got the steadiest hands in the business. He can take a urine sample and hardly spill a drop.’ In spite of this build-up the hand that Gilmore shook didn’t seem at all steady.

Maltby squeezed out a token smile. ‘I’m not much fun this morning, Jack. I’ve been up half the night — patients are dropping like flies from this damned flu epidemic. And now this. I said someone would kill themselves if you didn’t stop these poison pen letters and now it’s happened.’

‘Calm down, doc,’ said Frost, scraping a match down the wooden wall panelling. ‘Just give me the facts, and slowly — you know what a dim old sod I am.’ He slumped down in the lumpy chair reserved for patients and wearily stretched his legs, puffing smoke at the ‘Smoking Can Kill’ poster.

‘Ada found him,’ said Maltby.

‘Found who, doc? Don’t forget I’ve come in in the middle of the picture.’

‘Old Mr Wardley,’ said Ada. ‘He lives next door to me. I do his cleaning once a week when I’ve finished at The Mill. I got no reply when I knocked so I used the spare key he gave me. No sign of him downstairs. “That’s strange,” I thought. “That’s very strange.” So I called out, “Mr Wardley, are you there?” No answer.’

‘Get to the punchline, Ada,’ prompted Frost, impatiently. ‘I went upstairs and there he was on the bed, fully dressed.’

‘I’m glad his dick wasn’t exposed,’ said Frost.

She glowered, but carried on doggedly. ‘His face was deadly white, his flesh icy cold, just like a corpse. So I dashed straight over to the doctor’s and he came back with me.’

Frost cut in quickly and poked a finger at Maltby. ‘Now your big scene, doc.’

The doctor rubbed his eyes and took over the narrative. ‘He’d swallowed all the sleeping tablets in his bottle. He was unconscious, but still alive. I phoned for an ambulance and got him into Denton General Hospital. I think he’ll pull through.’

‘Good,’ nodded Frost. ‘I like happy endings. So, in spite of your big build-up, no one’s actually killed themselves?’

‘Not for the want of trying,’ said Maltby.

‘Was there a suicide note?’ asked Gilmore.