about him and the Bradbury woman?’ Her reaction was barely perceptible, but he saw it.
She stared at him unblinking. ‘I had no motive to kill my husband. I never knew about Mark and her.’
Frost pushed himself out of his chair. ‘I think you did, love. You probably got a poison pen letter telling you all about it, but we can check on that.’ He jerked his sleeve back to consult his wrist-watch. ‘But here am I rambling away and it isn’t even my case.’ He gave an apologetic grin to Gilmore as he shuffled out. ‘Sorry, son. I’ll leave you to get on with it.’
Gilmore stood up and opened the bedroom door. ‘Would you please get dressed, Mrs Compton. I’d like you to come to the station with me.’ While he waited he was irritated to hear Ada’s startled shriek from the kitchen, followed by the raucous roar of Frost’s laughter and his cry of ‘How’s that for centre, Ada?’ Stupid childish bloody fool, he thought.
Outside, Frost pulled the handful of leaves from his pocket and hurled them into the wind. There were plenty more on Ada’s privet hedge where he had plucked them on his way in.
Thursday afternoon shift (2)
The Incident Room was buzzing with activity when Frost entered carrying a mug of tea and a corned beef sandwich from the canteen. Burton, eyes gleaming with excitement, hurried over to him.
‘You look happy,’ said Frost. ‘Has Mr Mullett died?’
Burton grinned. ‘It’s better than that, sir.’
Frost sat on the edge of a desk and sank his teeth into his sandwich. ‘Nothing could be better than that.’
‘First of all,’ Burton told him, ‘we’ve checked all the local security firms. A couple of them send salesmen around cold calling to sell complete burglar alarm systems, but they leave chains and padlocks to the hardware stores.’
Frost washed down a mouthful of sandwich with a swig of tea. ‘That doesn’t send my pulse racing, son. What else?’
‘We’ve knocked on as many doors as we can asking if any one-man-band outfits have been touting for custom in fitting security chains and locks. A complete blank.’
Frost chewed gloomily. ‘Wake me up when you get to the good bit.’
‘I called on Mrs Proctor as you asked . . .’
Burton paused for maximum effect. ‘A couple of days ago Mrs Watson told her that one of the bingo coach drivers had offered to fit a stronger security chain on the cheap.’
Frost punched the air and whooped. ‘Geronimo! Did she say which driver?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No matter, we can probably pin-point him. Now I want you to check all the coach companies . . .’
‘Already done,’ cut in Burton. ‘The main bingo run contract is with Superswift Coaches, but they sub-contract the work out to other firms on a day-to-day basis. I’ve got details of the other firms.’ He offered the typed list to Frost who warded it away with his sandwich. ‘Each firm has a rota of drivers for its various runs, so you wouldn’t necessarily get the same driver each time . . . additionally, most drivers are self-employed so the same driver could do work for different firms.’
Frost gave a weary shake of the head. ‘All these details give me a headache. Skip the foreplay – go straight to the big bang!’
‘Right, sir. Sally fed all the names and duty rotas through the computer so we could eliminate those who definitely weren’t anywhere near Denton when the killings took place. We’ve come down to four possibles.’ From a folder he pulled four typed A4 sheets with photographs clipped on them. ‘We pulled the photographs from the firms’ personnel files.’
Frost wiped his buttery fingers on his jacket and took the first page. The photograph showed a man in his late thirties, a podgy face, receding dark hair.
‘David Allen Hardwicke,’ recited Burton. ‘Works for the Denton Creamline Coach Company. He’s done a lot of bingo runs, but he’s mainly used for coach parties from the clubs for West End shows and pantomimes. During the summer he does the outings to the seaside resorts.’
Frost stared down at Hardwicke’s details. The man was thirty-eight, married with two children aged nine and ten. Frost poked at the typescript with the crust of his corned beef sandwich. ‘He was away from Denton for two of the killings.’
Burton retrieved the sheet and shook off the breadcrumbs. ‘Yes, but sometimes drivers swap turns with each other and don’t let their firms know. That’s one of the complications you didn’t want to hear about. We’re checking it