the Forensic team, were picking through the sodden wreckage. DC Burton in an anorak over a polo-necked sweater spotted their car as they pulled up and hurried to meet them. ‘The pathologist has examined the body, Inspector. He thinks the blow on the head knocked Compton unconscious and death was due to smoke suffocation. He’ll be doing the autopsy at eleven this morning.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Gilmore to remind everyone once again that this was his case.
‘Any joy with petrol- and smoke-smelling suspects?’ asked Frost.
‘No, sir. Charlie Alpha picked up a tramp on the Bath Road, but what he smelt of isn’t nice to say.’
‘Forensic turned anything up?’
‘Yes – those.’ Burton pointed to three heat-distorted metal petrol cans, bagged up for laboratory examination. ‘And this . . .’ He picked up a plastic bag containing a blackened cylinder of metal, caved in at one end. ‘They think this is the murder weapon.’
‘Compton’s torch!’ said Frost. He told Gilmore to get Mrs Compton to identify it as soon as Forensic had finished their tests.
‘That’s what I intended doing,’ hissed Gilmore through clenched teeth.
‘What’s the name of our one bloody suspect?’ asked Frost. ‘The one who picked the fight?’
‘Bradbury,’ Gilmore reminded him. The fool had a memory like a sieve.
‘That’s him! There’s an all-forces bulletin out on him. Find out if he’s been located yet.’
While Gilmore radioed through to the station, Frost peered through a smashed window at the remains of the lounge, which was now a miniature indoor lake of greasy water dotted with islands of ash and charred wood. He lit a cigarette, took one deep drag, then hurled it away. The smoke had the greasy taint of burnt flesh.
Gilmore returned, shaking his head. No joy yet on Bradbury. Frost took one last look round. Everyone seemed to be coping quite well without him. ‘We’re doing no good here, son,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s go to the hospital.’
‘The hospital?’ echoed Gilmore. ‘Why?’ Now that he had committed himself to attending the autopsy in six hours’ time, all he wanted to do was go home and get some sleep.
‘To question Wardley,’ explained Frost. ‘You said Mark Compton’s bit of spare might provide the motive for his death and Wardley knows who she is. I’ll do it on my own if you like.’
No way! thought Gilmore, slamming the car into gear. No bloody way.
At that hour of the morning Denton Hospital was a place of uneasy, muffled noises, whispers, coughs and groans. The very young probationer nurse in sole charge of the wheezing, snuffling ward wasn’t at all happy about Frost waking up one of the patients, but Frost breezily assured her that he had permission.
Wardley, deep in a trouble-free sleep, was rudely awakened by a rough shaking of his shoulder. His eyes flickered open as he tried to focus on the two strangers looking grimly down at him. One of them he recognized immediately and his heart-beat faltered before thudding away. It was that detective inspector, back again, in the middle of the night. And the look on his face. God, they knew. They had found out. He closed his eyes tightly and feigned sleep, but the renewed shaking of his shoulder nearly jerked him out of bed. ‘Yes?’ he asked in a quavery, weak, old man’s voice.
‘Get dressed,’ said Frost. ‘I’m arresting you.’
‘Arresting me?’ He pulled himself up. ‘It’s that woman next door telling lies about me, isn’t it? Don’t you believe her . . . she’s evil. She hates me.’
‘Not as much as I bloody hate you,’ said Frost. ‘And the only lies Ada told us was when she was covering up for you, you sod. She even hid your typewriter – the one you used for your suicide note – and for your poison pen letters.’
‘Poison pen?’ He tried to sound indignant. ‘The intention was to make people stop their filthy practices.’
‘You made Susan Bicknell stop hers,’ said Frost. ‘The poor cow killed herself.’
The skin on the old man’s knuckles stretched almost to blue transparency as he clutched at the sheet. ‘I didn’t mean that to happen. She over-reacted. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, you’re sorry?’ hissed Frost. ‘That makes it all right. We’ll dig the poor bitch up so you can apologize.’ He dragged a chair across the floor with such a loud, teeth-setting squeak that half the ward stirred uneasily. ‘Right,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m tired, my sergeant is tired, and we haven’t got time to sod about. I’m going to ask you questions, and I want answers.’