The chair squeaked again as Frost stood up. ‘Arrest the bastard, Sergeant.’
‘Wait,’ said Wardley. ‘What do you want to know?’
Another squeak from the chair. Frost made himself comfortable, then shook the last export cigarette from the packet and lit up. ‘Let’s start with the pornographic video. Who’s been making them?’
‘A purveyor of filth. If I knew his name I’d tell you. I bought the video, Inspector. It wasn’t for enjoyment. I have to do these things to ferret out evil. When I screened it, I recognized the girl. Her mother goes to our church. I’ve no idea who makes and distributes them.’
‘Where did you buy it?’ Gilmore asked.
‘A newsagent’s in Catherine Street. I don’t know the name.’
‘We do,’ said Frost. ‘We’ve already arrested him.’ That part of Wardley’s story checked out anyway. ‘We’ll leave that for the moment. You sent one of your well-meaning letters to Mark Compton?’
The old man pulled himself upright, his eyes wild, his expression intense. ‘That lecher. All smug and high and mighty, but sneaking off behind his wife’s back for disgusting perversions with a prostitute.’
‘A prostitute?’ said Gilmore, glumly. This ruined his theory. If Compton’s bit of spare was a prostitute, a vengeful boyfriend or husband would have his work cut out.
‘Never mind, son,’ said Frost. ‘We’ll check her out anyway.’ He asked Wardley where she lived.
‘Where all these high-priced harlots live. In Queen’s Court – those new flats at the back of the big supermarket . . . end flat, third floor.’
‘If they were up on the third floor, how could you see through the bedroom window?’
Wardley smiled. ‘The multi-storey car-park overlooks her flat. All you need is a strong pair of field-glasses.’
‘And a dirty vicious bastard to use them,’ said Frost.
PC Dave Simms tucked the area car into the lay-by off the Bath Road and reached for the thermos flask. His observer, PC Jordan, yawned and stretched his arms. ‘I’ll be damn glad when this shift is over,’ he sniffed. ‘I’m sure I’ve got this flu bug coming on.’
‘Don’t breathe over me then,’ replied Simms, slopping steaming hot coffee into a plastic cup and passing it over.
Jordan sipped at the cup, then his eyes narrowed. ‘Hello. What’s this?’
Headlights approaching. Coming from the opposite direction to the fire, but they had been given instructions to stop everyone. Anyone out and about at this time of the morning was a potential suspect.
It was a small black van which slowed down and stopped as they sounded the siren and cut in front of it. The driver, a short, sharp-featured man with long greasy hair, in his late forties, eyed them warily. ‘What’s the trouble, officer?’
Simms asked to see the man’s driving licence, his nose twitching, trying to detect the smell of smoke, or petrol, but smelling only fresh paint.
‘I haven’t got my licence with me. What’s this all about?’
‘Just routine, sir. Do you mind telling us what you are doing out at this time of night?’
Jordan was checking the van. The smell of new paint was strong. The vehicle had been freshly painted. A pretty ropey job, done with a paint brush, not a spray gun. He tried the rear doors. They opened.
‘Leave them alone!’ yelled the man, reaching forward to switch on the engine, but Simms’ hand clamped round his wrist.
The beam of Jordan’s torch found a stack of cardboard boxes. He pulled one forward and looked inside. Jewellery. Lots of jewellery. Mainly old-fashioned, but good quality – brooches, lockets, bangles, rings.
‘Well, well, well,’ smirked Jordan. ‘And what is your perfectly reasonable explanation for these, sir?’
The hospital was slowly walking up as they clattered down the stone stairs past the first shift of cleaners with mops and buckets. They could hear the car radio as they crossed the pavement.
‘You’ve got Bradbury?’ asked Frost, unable to believe his luck. ‘Is he dripping with petrol, smothered in blood and carrying a blunt instrument?’
‘Not Bradbury,’ replied Wells, testily. Frost was always joking at the wrong moment. ‘No joy with him yet. But we’ve got Wally Manson. Jordan and Simms picked him up. His van’s a bloody treasure trove – full of stolen gear from the senior citizen break-ins. Mr Mullett is cock-a-hoop.’
‘What’s that about Mr Mullett’s cock?’ asked Frost innocently. ‘This is a very bad line.’ He replaced the handset. ‘The station, son.’
But Gilmore was already on the way.
Frost sank down in his seat again. He dug down in his pocket,