a cup of tea and went into the lounge. The first letter she opened was this.’ Jordan pushed across a transparent plastic bag. Inside it was a sheet of cheap quality A4 paper on which were pasted letters cut from a glossy magazine to form words.
Frost read it, his face grim, then passed it across to Gilmore. The message was short and chillingly to the point. THE NEXT THING TO BURN WILL BE YOU, YOU BITCH.
‘Where’s the envelope?’ demanded Gilmore. This case was looking a little more worthy of his attention now. Jordan handed over another plastic bag containing a manila envelope, 9 inches by 4 inches. The address, typed in capitals, read: MRS COMPTON, THE OLD MILL, LEXING. It bore a first-class stamp and had been posted in Denton the previous evening. He motioned for Jordan to continue.
‘Next she heard this roaring sound from outside. She opened the lounge curtains and saw the summer house on fire, so she dialled 999.’ He closed his notebook.
Frost drained his mug and dropped his cigarette end in it. ‘This is getting nastier and nastier. It started off with heavy-breathing phone calls, now it’s death threats. Right, Jordan. Nip down to the village and ask around. Did anyone see anything . . . any strange cars lurking about . . . someone stinking of petrol.’ As the constable left, he stood up. ‘Buttock-viewing time,’ he told Gilmore. ‘We’re going to chat up Mrs Compton.’
Gilmore followed him out of the kitchen, along the waxed wooden-floored passage and into the lounge, a large, high-ceilinged room which had a rich, rustic, new-sacking smell from the dark chocolate-coloured hessian covering its walls.
Jill Compton, standing to receive them, looked much younger than her twenty-three years. She wore a gauzy cobweb of a baby doll nightdress which hid nothing, and over it a silken house-coat which flapped open so as not to spoil the view through the nightdress. Her hair, fringed over wide blue eyes and free-flowing down her back, was a light, golden corn colour. She wore no make-up and the pale, china doll face with a hint of dark rings around the eyes gave her a look of vulnerability. She smiled bravely. ‘I’m sorry I’m not dressed.’
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Compton,’ said Frost, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. ‘It’s a sod about your summer house.’
‘It could have been the house,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘Did you see that letter?’
Before Frost could answer the front door slammed and a man’s voice called, ‘Jill – I’m home! Where are you?’
Mark Compton was twenty-nine and flashily good-looking. Fair-haired, a bronzed complexion, although slightly overweight from good living, he looked like a retired life-guard out of Neighbours. Gilmore hated him instantly for his looks, his money, his perfectly fitting silver-grey suit, his arm around Mrs Compton, but most of all for his hand caressing her bare arm.
‘A letter? My wife said there was a letter threatening to kill her.’
Frost showed it to him. His face went white. ‘Why are we being persecuted like this?’ He sank down into a leather armchair. His wife dropped down on his lap and snuggled up to him.
‘That’s what I want to know,’ said Frost. ‘Why?’ He and Gilmore were sitting, facing the Comptons, in a large leather settee. He fumbled for his cigarettes. ‘Whoever’s doing this must have a reason.’
‘Reason?’ said Compton ‘There’s no bloody reason. It’s the work of a maniac.’
‘We’ve been receiving a spate of complaints about poison pen letters. “Did you know your wife’s been having it off with the milkman?” – that sort of thing. I’m wondering if it could be the same bloke.’
‘We’ve had death threats, Inspector, not stupid poison pen letters.’
‘Run through the main course of events again,’ said Frost. ‘Just for the benefit of my new colleague here.’
Mark Compton slipped his hand under Jill’s house-coat and gently stroked her bare back. ‘OK. As you know, we run a business from this place . . . Jill was on her own one night when this bugger phoned.’
‘What sort of business is it?’ interrupted Gilmore.
‘Dirty books,’ said Frost.
Compton glowered. ‘We’re fine art dealers,’ he corrected. ‘Mainly rare books and prints, a small proportion of which might be termed erotica, and manuscripts, but not many. There’s over a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of stock upstairs.’
Gilmore whistled softly to show he was impressed. ‘Safely locked up, I hope?’