fight between two gangs of youths outside one of the town’s less reputable pubs. ‘Steer clear of there,’ said Frost, not wanting to get involved.
And then the radio was calling them. ‘Can you get over to The Old Mill right away?’ asked a harassed-sounding Bill Wells. ‘I had to call Charlie Alpha away to help with this pub fight. Mrs Compton’s seen someone prowling about the grounds.’
Tuesday night shift (3)
The smell of burning oil from Frost’s clapped-out Cortina grew stronger as Gilmore roared the car up the hill. ‘I can see the sod!’ yelled Frost. A hunched shape was moving across the lawn towards the house. Gilmore braked violently, slewing the car across the gravel driveway, and flung open the door. The sound of breaking glass shivered the silence, followed by the shrill urgency of an alarm bell.
‘There he goes!’ said Gilmore as something darted back across the lawn and was swallowed by shadow. ‘I’ll cut across that field, round to the side of the house. You nip that way to the end of the lane and cut him off as I flush him out.’ Frost, his running days long past, listened without enthusiasm, and was still fumbling with his seat belt as Gilmore streaked away into the darkness.
The radio called to report that the alarm at The Old Mill was ringing. ‘Yes, we know,’ said Frost.
Gilmore, out of breath, was clinging to a tree, sucking in air for dear life as Frost eventually ambled over. Frost lit a cigarette and pushed a mouthful of smoke in the sergeant’s direction. Gilmore fanned it away and, at last, between gasps, was able to croak, ‘Where were you?’
Frost ignored the question. ‘Did you see him?’
Gilmore’s head shook in tempo with his panting. ‘No. I told you to head him off.’
‘I must have misheard you,’ said Frost. ‘Let’s go to the house and see what he’s done.’ He spun round abruptly as a figure crashed towards them out of the black. ‘Who the hell’s this?’
‘Did you get him?’ It was Mark Compton, flourishing a heavy walking stick.
‘He was too fast,’ panted Gilmore. ‘We thought your wife would be here on her own.’
‘That’s probably what that swine thought,’ snapped Compton. ‘I changed my schedule. I’ve just got in.’ He led them back to the house and through to the lounge where curtains billowed from a jagged hole in the centre of the large patio window. Glass slivers glinted on the carpet. The cause of the damage, a muddied brick, probably from the garden, lay next to what looked like a bunch of flowers. Frost picked it up. It wasn’t a bunch of flowers.
‘My God!’ croaked Compton.
It was a funeral wreath of white lilies, yellow chrysanthemums and evergreen leaves. Attached to it was an ivory-coloured card, edged in black. A handwritten message neatly inscribed in black ink read simply, and chillingly, Goodbye.
‘The sod doesn’t waste words, does he?’ muttered Frost, passing the wreath to Gilmore. He stared out at the empty, dead garden, then pulled the curtains together. The night air had crept into the room and that, or the wreath, was making him feel shivery. ‘Did you see anything of the bloke who did it?’
‘No. Jill said she’d heard someone prowling around, but I couldn’t spot anyone. I thought she’d imagined it, then the glass smashed, then the damned alarm. I saw someone running away, but that was all.’
‘And you’ve no idea who it might be?’
‘I’ve already told you, no.’
Frost scuffed a splinter of glass with his shoe. ‘He’s going to a great deal of trouble to make his point. He must really hate you . . . or your wife.’
‘There’s no motive behind this, Inspector,’ insisted Compton. ‘We’re dealing with a nut-case.’
‘Mark!’ His wife calling from upstairs.
‘I’m down here with the police.’
Gilmore pushed himself in front of the inspector. ‘A quick question before your wife comes in, sir. Simon Bradbury – the man you had the fight with in London . . .’
‘Hardly a fight, Sergeant,’ protested Compton.
‘Well, whatever, sir. It seems he’s got a record for drunkenness and violence . . . and now we learn that his wife – the lady you obliged with a light – has given him the elbow. Any reason why he might believe you were the cause of her leaving him?’
Compton’s face was a picture of incredulity. ‘Me? And Bradbury’s wife? I lit her damn cigarette over four weeks ago and that is the sum total of our relationship. You surely don’t think Bradbury’s responsible for