blurred out of focus by the curtain of rain crawling down the pane. He wouldn’t look at Frost. He spoke to the glass. ‘If you must know, my wife had been ill for a very long time. We were not able to live together as husband and wife. There was a woman in Denton . . .’
‘Do you mean a tart?’ asked Frost, bluntly.
His back stiffened. ‘Yes, she was a prostitute. Someone must have been spying on us, hence the letters. Filthy letters. I burnt the others. This one came on the day of the funeral.’ He covered his face with his hands and his body shook. ‘The day of her funeral.’
On the way back to the car they detoured. There was the remains of an old bonfire at the end of the garden. Quite a large bonfire. Frost poked at the rain-sodden ashes with his foot. Bits of twigs, stalks and dried leaves. No burnt remains of buttons or the charred remnants of clothes stripped from a schoolgirl’s body. He added his cigarette end to the heap.
‘We’re wasting our time here,’ said Gilmore.
‘Maybe,’ muttered Frost, looking back to the house where a thin, bearded figure was watching them from the patio window. ‘But my philosophy in life is never to trust bastards with thin straggly beards.’
Burton started the engine as Frost slid into the passenger seat beside him. ‘Back to the station, Inspector?’
‘One more call, son. Let’s check with the headmaster of Bell’s school. I want to find out if there’s been any complaints of Hairy-chin teaching advanced anatomy to the senior girls.’
‘We shouldn’t be doing this,’ protested Gilmore from the back seat. ‘You’re forgetting – Mr Mullett said we should drop this case and concentrate on the stabbings.’
‘Mr Mullett says lots of stupid things, son. The kindest thing to do is ignore him.’
As Gilmore had predicted, calling on the headmaster was a waste of time. The man, stout and pompous, was outraged that such an accusation could be levelled at any member of his staff. Mr Bell had an excellent record, was highly regarded, and didn’t the inspector realize that the poor devil had recently lost his wife?
Frost felt like retorting, didn’t the headmaster know that while his wife was dying, his excellent schoolmaster was having it away with a tart in Denton? But he held his tongue and took his leave.
‘Yes, son,’ he said, before Burton could ask. ‘Back to the station.’ And they nearly made it. Another couple of minutes and they would have been in the car-park when Control called.
‘Calling all units,’ said the radio. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Selwood Road? Over.’
Before Frost could restrain him, Burton had snatched up the handset. They were a minute away from Selwood Road.
‘Eleven Selwood Road. Old-age pensioner living on her own. Neighbour reports she hasn’t been seen all day, her newspaper’s still in the letter-box and her milk is still on the step.’
The neighbour who made the phone call, a sharp-faced little busybody of a man wearing a too-big plastic mac, was hovering in the street and scurried over to the car as they pulled up. ‘Are you the police?’
‘More or less,’ grunted Frost.
‘I live next door,’ said the man, darting in front of them like an over-enthusiastic terrier as they made their way across to the house. ‘She always goes out during the day. I watch her through the window. She didn’t today. And none of her lights are on, her milk is on the doorstep. She’s an old-age pensioner, you know.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Frost, wishing the man would go away.
‘I’m an old-age pensioner too, but you’d never think it, would you?’
‘No,’ said Frost unconvincingly. ‘Never in a million years.’ The old sod looked at least eighty. They were now at the door, which was painted a vivid green.
‘Are you going to break in?’ asked the neighbour, pushing between them. ‘Only the council have just repainted these doors.’
Frost leant on the bell push.
‘No use ringing if she’s dead!’
‘Nothing good on telly?’ asked Frost pointedly, hammering at the door with the flat of his hand.
‘You could get over my garden fence if you liked,’ offered the man, ‘but she always keeps her back door locked.’
Frost moved the man out of the way so he could have a look through the letter-box.
‘You won’t see anything. Her morning paper’s stuck in there.’
Frost tugged at the paper, but it was wedged fast.
‘You won’t shift it, I’ve tried.’
Frost gave a savage yank and the newspaper came free.