last night with open arms.. the man who was going to fit the new security chain… so she would be safe from attack.’
‘It could be a chain,’ said Mullett doubtfully, ‘but we don’t know for sure.’
‘I know for bloody certain,’ announced Frost. ‘I’ve got a hunch.’
A thin smile from Mullett. ‘Hunches are all very well,’ he began, but Frost wasn’t listening, he was giving instructions to his team.
‘Knock on doors again. Go round to all the neighbours of the victims. Did the victims talk of having chains fitted? Has anyone been canvassing before, or since, offering to fit security chains? Don’t cause a panic, but get what gen you can. I want someone to contact all the local security system firms. Do they send salesmen around canvassing? Have their salesmen found that some bloody amateur has been undercutting their prices? Mrs Watson was supposed to be a tight old sod, so this would have to be a cheap job. One last thing — Burton. Mrs Watson talked to the old biddy in the next-door flat about having a new security chain. Chat her up, see if she can come up with names. OK — on your bikes, everyone. Chop chop.’
As the team scurried out he flipped a cigarette from his packet and tried to catch it in his mouth. It missed. Scooping it up from the floor, he lit up and inhaled deeply He felt happy. Things were now on the move. They were on the track of the killer, he felt sure of it.
The phone rang. Detective Sergeant Hanlon from the mortuary. ‘The pathologist has completed the autopsy on Mark Compton, Jack. Definitely murder. A heavy blow to the head from behind. That didn’t kill him, but the fire and the fumes finished him off — death from asphyxiation.’ Frost pushed Mullett to one side so he could yell for Gilmore, his voice echoing down the empty corridor.
Mullett cleared his throat pointedly. He wasn’t used to being ignored.
‘Sorry, Super,’ grunted Frost. ‘Be with you in a minute.’ As Gilmore appeared in the doorway, he told him about the autopsy findings.
Gilmore checked his watch. He’d forgotten all about the damn autopsy. Frost’s bad habits were contagious. ‘How come Hanlon attended it?’
‘I told him to, son. We’re far too busy.’
‘But it’s my case.’
‘Sorry, son, but we’ve too much work and not enough men to be able to specialize. It’s everyone’s case.’
But if I crack it, it’s my bloody case, thought Gilmore. ‘I want to see the woman that Compton was knocking off. She might know something.’
‘Right, son. We’ll do it now. Bring the car round to the front.’ Back to Mullett. ‘Anything I can do, Super… as long as it’s quick?’
Huffily, the Divisional Commander produced the curt memo he had received from County. ‘Still some discrepancy with your car expenses, Inspector. County are furious. They want an immediate reply.’
‘They want stuffing,’ corrected Frost, his mind elsewhere. ‘Stick it on my desk as you go out, would you, sir? I’ll deal with it later.’ And he dashed out of the rest room to the car.
Mullett was halfway down the corridor before he realized that Frost had ordered him about like an office boy. But it was too late to go back and protest.
The flats behind the supermarket were owned by a firm of property agents and were usually let out on short leases. The Denton Echo, in one of its bouts of outraged crusading, had exposed several of these tenancies as being taken up by high-class call girls and for a while many of the apartments remained empty, but slowly, and more discreetly, many of the old tenants returned.
In the carpeted foyer a lift purred down and the door opened with a barely audible hiss. They stepped inside and Gilmore pressed the button for the third floor. So different from the disinfectant-masking urine smell of the lift in the senior citizens’ flats, this lift was heady with the perfume of its previous passenger.
They walked over thick footstep-muffling grey carpet to the end flat. There was something outside the door. Four bulging rubbish sacks. Black plastic sacks, the sort Paula Bartlett’s body was in. Frost peeped inside one. Assorted packets, cartons and jars as if someone had been clearing out a cupboard. He fished out a detergent packet. It had been opened, but was almost brim-full. ‘The cow’s done a bunk,’ he said, jamming his thumb in the bell-push. He was surprised to hear footsteps from inside.
The woman who opened the door was around twenty-six years of age, and wore a tightly fitting knitted dress in emerald green. She was slightly plump, with red hennaed hair and breasts that could best be described as ample. Admiring their generosity, Frost had difficulty in locating his warrant card. Gilmore produced his.
‘Police. May we come in?’
She stared at Gilmore’s warrant card wide-eyed. ‘Police? What’s it about? That nosy old bitch downstairs hasn’t been complaining again, has she?’
‘Not to us,’ answered Gilmore curtly. ‘Can we come in?’ Pre-empting her reply he pushed forward into the hall.
Bristling slightly at his tone, she led them through to the lounge, a comfortable room with pale blue carpeting and dark blue upholstered furniture. The light grey walls were hung with aluminium-framed abstract prints. Frost shuffled across to the large picture window and looked down on to the sprawl of the supermarket. ‘Very nice,’ he murmured. ‘I bet you get a good view of the multi-storey car-park from your bedroom.’
Her lips shaped a brief, flat, non-understanding smile. ‘This won’t take long, will it? I’m in a hurry.’
‘Mind if I sit down?’ said Frost, sinking into one of the blue armchairs. He dug deep into his pocket for his cigarettes and frowned with disappointment. The packet was empty. He had been too generous in the Murder Incident Room. ‘Do you mind telling us your name?’
‘East. Jean East.’ She studied her watch. ‘Look — what is this all about?’
‘A few questions,’ said Frost, letting his eyes wander around the room. He imagined this was where clients waited while the bedroom was occupied. He straightened up. Two bulging suitcases stood side by side to the left of the lounge door. ‘Moving out?’
‘The lease is up. I can’t afford to renew it. I’m going back to London.’
‘Then we caught you just in time,’ beamed Frost. ‘Do you know a gentleman called Mark Compton?’
A barely perceptible pause. ‘No. Why — what is this about?’
‘He might not have told you his real name,’ said Gilmore, moving in front of Frost to remind him that this was his case. He showed her a photograph.
She studied the colour print briefly, shook her head, and handed it back. ‘Sorry. Never seen him before.’
‘Perhaps you don’t recognize him with his clothes on,’ Frost suggested.
Her face tightened and her eyes blazed. ‘You can get out right now.’ She flung open the door dramatically, her breasts heaving, straining the woollen dress to the limits.
Frost heaved himself from the chair. ‘We’re going, love, but you’re coming with us. Get her coat, Sergeant.’
She hesitated. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To the station. I want a policewoman to examine you.’
‘Examine me? Why?’
‘If you haven’t got a little strawberry birthmark on your lower stomach, my apologies will bring tears to your eyes.’
She closed the door and turned slowly. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘You should keep your blinds closed when you’re entertaining,’ sneered Gilmore.
‘You had an audience,’ added Frost. ‘An old boy with field-glasses watching from the car-park.’
Her hand covered her mouth. She looked horrified. ‘Watching us?’
‘From start to finish. And then he sent a poison pen letter to your client. It described you in graphic detail.’
Her face crimsoned to match her hair. ‘Let’s get one bloody thing straight. I’m not a tart. Yes, I knew Mark Compton. We were lovers. He came here and we made love and it was wonderful and if some dirty little snivelling shit in a filthy raincoat was watching, then sod him. I’m ashamed of nothing.’
‘Eat your heart out, Mills and Boon,’ said Frost. ‘But you said you knew him. You were lovers. Past tense?’
‘Yes — past tense, because the bastard threw me up last week. Came here, made love, then calmly told me it was all over. Look — what the hell is this all about?’
