Night Frost - By R. D. Wingfield Page 0,121

and doing all the damage.’

‘This is ridiculous. Why would he do that?’

‘A providential fire, your business on the rocks and the sprinkler system turned off at the mains. No insurance company is going to pay out on that. So your husband had to invent this imaginary nutter who makes weird phone calls and death threats. He even involved the police to give it authenticity.’ Frost shook his head in grudging admiration. ‘Bloody clever. He almost deserved to get away with it.’

An ingenious theory, thought Gilmore, but where’s your proof?

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jill, her chin thrust forward defiantly, ‘but I won’t believe a word against my husband. It was that damn woman . . .’

‘We’ve got proof coming out of our ear-holes,’ said Frost. ‘He had the key to the girl’s flat. The magazines he cut the messages from . . . his fingerprints are all over them . . .’

Gilmore stared down at the floor and tried to keep his expression impassive. He wanted no part of this. Forensic had found no prints other than the Bradbury woman’s.

‘Secondly,’ Frost continued, ‘we’ve a witness who saw your husband stacking petrol cans in Jean Bradbury’s garage. But the clincher, the absolute clincher . . .’ He scrabbled around in his mac pocket. ‘I found these in the boot of your husband’s car.’ He opened his hand to show some bright green leaves nestling in his palm. ‘Three different sorts of leaf. And not any old leaf. According to our Forensic Department they are identical to the leaves on that wreath which we found in your lounge. We’ve even traced the grave where your husband pinched it, haven’t we, Sergeant?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Gilmore, curtly. That was the only part of Frost’s tissue of lies that he was prepared to endorse.

She stared at the leaves and shook her head. ‘This is too much. I just can’t believe it.’

Carefully, Frost replaced the leaves in his pocket then gave her one of his disarming smiles. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to believe, Mrs Compton. It wouldn’t have worked if you weren’t in it with him.’

She jerked back, her face white. ‘How dare you!’

Ignoring her, Frost continued. ‘You were his alibi, he was yours. When he was away, you vandalized the garden. You each claimed to have received the phone calls in the other’s presence . . . and when the wreath was chucked through the window, you both claimed to have seen someone running away. Which was impossible, because your husband planted the wreath. Even a dim sod like me can see that you were in the fiddle with him.’

Her mouth opened and shut, then she thought for a while and finally took a deep breath. ‘I was hoping this would never have to come out, Inspector. Everything you say is true. It was Mark’s idea. I didn’t want to go along with him, but he said things were desperate and this was the only way out. He was my husband and I loved him. I did what he asked. Any wife would have done the same.’

Frost nodded. ‘But that still makes you an accessory, Mrs Compton.’

She gave the secret smile of a poker player holding a royal flush. ‘An accessory to what, Inspector? I have no intention of making a claim on the insurance policy, and if I don’t claim, then there is no conspiracy to defraud.’

Frost looked deflated. ‘Law isn’t my strong point, Mrs Compton. I suppose there’s no law that says you can’t destroy your own property. So who burnt it down – you or your husband?’

‘Mark. I tried to stop him, but he did it.’

A match flared. Frost sucked at his cigarette. ‘That only leaves one problem.’ He flicked the match in the fire and slowly expelled a lungful of smoke. ‘Who killed him?’

She frowned.

‘I may be a bit slow on the uptake, Mrs Compton, but there was no mysterious nutter with a grudge . . . you and your husband invented him, so you couldn’t have heard him breaking in last night. You must have gone downstairs with your husband . . . you wouldn’t lie in bed while he was splashing petrol about. Only two people in the house and one of them is murdered. So who did it, Mrs Compton?’

Gilmore was watching the woman. God knows how Frost had stumbled on to the truth, but her expression was as good as a signed and sealed confession.

‘Why did you do it, love?’ asked Frost, his voice softening. ‘Did you find out

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