Paula.’
Frost worried away at his scar, then shook his head. ‘Coincidence, son. No-one would want to make a porn video with Paula. The poor little bitch didn’t have the looks, or the figure.’ He salvaged a decent-sized butt from the ashtray and lit up. ‘The doc was right. He said that poison pen bastard would kill someone some day.’ He huddled down in his seat, suddenly feeling cold. ‘And I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about catching the sod.’
Gilmore started up the engine. ‘Where to?’
‘Drop me off at the station, then go home, son. You’ll be fit for sod all in the morning if you don’t get some kip.’
Wednesday night shift (2)
Gilmore drew up outside the house and checked the windows. Despite the hour he half expected to see all the lights blazing and a still-smouldering Liz waiting for him. But the house seemed to be in darkness and he sighed with relief. He wasn’t ready for another slanging match. But as he quietly clicked the front door shut behind him he heard mumbled voices and a slit of light showed from under the lounge door.
He tiptoed down the hall and turned the handle. An old black and white film was playing on the television and Liz was curled up in the armchair, a couple of empty tonic water bottles on the table and a bottle of vodka on the floor by her side. She turned and held up a brim-full glass in a mock toast. ‘Home is the hunter!’ In one gulp she swigged it down, waving the empty glass triumphantly aloft.
‘It’s gone four o’clock,’ he said. ‘What are you doing up?’
She pouted. ‘You said you’d be in early. You promised me you’d be in bloody early.’
He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie and took a clean glass from the display cabinet. ‘I said I’d try. It just wasn’t possible.’ He flopped wearily into the other armchair and reached for the vodka bottle. It was empty. He held it up accusingly. ‘This was a full bottle on Saturday!’
‘So I bloody drank it. What else is there to do in this stinking town, sitting in this lousy room, waiting for you and you never bloody come.’
He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. ‘It won’t be long.’ None too hopefully he pushed himself from the chair and foraged through the display cabinet, looking for something alcoholic amongst the half-empty bitter lemon and Coke bottles. Defeated, he poured himself a glass of Coke. It was warm and flat. On the television screen Humphrey Bogart was slapping Peter Lorre around. He relaxed, rested his head against the back of the armchair and tried to fight off sleep.
‘You know what I thought,’ slurred Liz in a husky whisper, putting her empty glass on the table. ‘I thought I’d wait up for my randy, rampant, lover-boy husband and I thought we’d have some randy, rampant sex. How does that grab you, superstud?’
He was too tired. He wasn’t in the mood and he didn’t even think he was capable of making love. But he forced a grin. He didn’t want a row, a hurtful, scratching row, all in hoarse angry whispers to avoid disturbing the neighbours. ‘You’re on,’ he said, and held out his arms.
She slunk over and nestled in his lap. He kissed her. She tasted of vodka. Her body was hot and burning and her perfume was heady and erotic. Her hand crawled over him, tugging the shirt free from his trousers, her fingers exploring, caressing and lightly scratching his lower stomach. Then he wasn’t faking any more. Then he was unbuttoning and easing off her dress. Then he was biting and licking and groaning.
And then, jarring like a dentist’s drill, the door bell. A long, persistent ring. And someone banging on the door. And Frost’s voice yelling for him to open up. This is a nightmare, he thought. A bloody nightmare.
‘Sorry, son,’ said Frost, barging in as he opened the front door. ‘An emergency…’ He stopped dead as he saw Liz smouldering in the armchair, her dress unbuttoned down to the waist, making no attempt to cover her naked breasts. Frost made no attempt to hide his gaping admiration.
Gilmore made the unnecessary introduction. ‘My wife Liz.’
‘Sorry about this, love,’ apologized Frost. ‘You must hate my guts.’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘I’m known as Coitus Interruptus in the trade,’ added Frost, hoping to warm up the atmosphere, but neither of them responded.
‘What do you want?’ asked Gilmore curtly.
‘Another arson attack at the Comptons’. I know it’s your case, but I’ll attend to it if you like.’
Gilmore hesitated.
‘Bloody go,’ snapped Liz. ‘Bugger off and go!’ The door slammed as she stormed out of the room.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Frost. ‘Be quick.’
‘I’m coming now,’ said Gilmore, grabbing his coat.
The rain had stopped, but a cold wind chased them to the car. ‘Sorry if I sodded things up for you, son,’ said Frost, settling into the passenger seat. Gilmore gave a noncommital grunt and slammed the car into gear. He looked back at the house, half hoping Liz would be at the window so he could give her a wave. A forlorn hope.
The road was clear so Gilmore was able to ignore traffic signals and speed limits and drove with his foot jammed down hard while Frost briefly outlined what he knew. ‘Compton phoned the station about half an hour ago. Someone was prowling about outside. A couple of minutes later the station alarm went off, so the prowler must have broken a window or forced a lock or something. Control sent an area car. It found the place in flames. The fire brigade’s on its way. That’s all I know so far.’ As they left the town and climbed the hill to skirt the woods an orange glow throbbed in the sky ahead. ‘Bloody hell, son,’ said Frost. ‘That’s one hell of a fire.’
Soon they could see the flashing electric-blue beacons of the fire trucks and hear the deep-throated roar of the burning wooden structure fanned to a frenzy by the wind. The scorching heat hit them as they climbed out of the car and stumbled over a spaghetti confusion of hoses.
‘Look out!’ someone yelled.
A long-drawn-out creaking screech of agony as the supporting timbers of the mill gave way, then a slow rumbling as the roof collapsed and whooshed up a tongue of flame which licked the night sky with thousands of red, dancing sequins. Firemen in yellow oilskins turned their backs as the dragon’s breath of scorched air and smoke blasted out at them.
With the roof down and the building open to the sky, the firemen were able to direct their hoses into the seething heart of the fire gradually damping down the flames and sending up clouds of steam and oily smoke.
‘Inspector! Over here.’ PC Jordan was waving to them from the side of a fire truck. There was something on the grass by his feet. Something covered by a crumpled sheet of grey plastic, dripping wet from the back-spray of the hoses.
‘Shit,’ said Frost. The plastic was draped over a dead body.
‘The firemen found him in the lounge,’ Jordan told them. ‘He’s burnt to buggery.’
Frost bent and carefully lifted the sheet, then turned his head away, but not before he had breathed in the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Gilmore, watching, felt his stomach start to churn. The dead face gawping up at him was blistered red raw and distorted by intense heat. ‘Where the hair should have been was grey powdery ash.
‘The firemen reckon he must have fallen into a pool of blazing petrol,’ explained Jordan, staring straight ahead, determined not to look down. ‘They dragged him out of the lounge.’
‘Poor bastard,’ muttered Frost. He pulled the plastic sheeting down further to see better. Welded into the bubbling black flesh, pieces of charred material. ‘Looks like pyjamas.’
‘Yes, sir. We presume he’s the householder.’
Frost forced himself to bend again and study the face closer. If it was Mark Compton it would require medical and dental records for a positive identification. Slowly, he straightened up. ‘So what happened?’
‘The place was well alight when we got here. Simms radioed for the fire brigade. No way of getting in at the front, so I tried the rear and found Mrs Compton, in her night clothes, unconscious on the lawn just outside the back door.’
'Where is she now?’
‘She’s with someone in the village, I think.’
Frost nodded for him to continue.
