and got him into Denton General Hospital. I think he’ll pull through.’
‘Good,’ nodded Frost. ‘I like happy endings. So, in spite of your big build-up, no one’s actually killed themselves?’
‘Not for the want of trying,’ said Maltby.
‘Was there a suicide note?’ asked Gilmore.
‘I didn’t see one,’ said the doctor.
‘So why did you say it was suicide? It could have been accidental.’
‘You don’t accidentally take an overdose of sleeping tablets at nine o’clock in the morning with all your clothes on,’ Maltby snapped irritably.
‘All right,’ murmured Frost. ‘Show me the poison pen letter that made him do it.’
‘We couldn’t find the letter,’ said Maltby, ‘but this was on his kitchen table.’
He handed the inspector a light blue envelope bearing a first-class stamp which had missed the franking machine and had been hand-cancelled by the postman. The name and address were typewritten. Frost checked that the envelope was empty before passing it over to Gilmore who compared the typing with that on the envelope received that morning by Mrs Compton. Gilmore shook his head. ‘Different typewriter.’ Frost nodded. He knew that already. He also knew that the envelope and the typing were identical to the two poison pen letters in the file in his office. ‘An empty envelope, doc. Why should you think it was a poison pen letter? Why not a letter from the sanitary inspector about the smell on the landing?’
A pause. But it was Ada who broke the silence. ‘If you don’t want me any more, doctor, I’ve got lots to do.’ She clomped out of the room.
As the door closed behind her, Maltby unlocked the middle drawer of his desk and took out a sheet of white A4 typescript. ‘This came in an identical envelope.’
He handed it to Frost who read it aloud. ‘“Dear Lecher. Does your sweet wife know what filthy and perverted practices you and that shameless bitch in Denton get up to? I was watching again last Wednesday. I saw every disgusting perversion. She didn’t even draw the bedroom curtains . . .” Bleeding hell, this is sizzling stuff,’ gasped Frost. He read the rest to himself before chucking the letter across to Gilmore. ‘What’s cunnilinctus, doc – sounds like a patent cough syrup.’
‘You know damn well what it is,’ grunted the doctor. He looked across at Gilmore who was comparing the typing with that on the envelope addressed to Wardley. ‘The same typewriter, isn’t it, Sergeant.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Gilmore. ‘The “a” and the “s” are both out of alignment. How did you come by it, doctor? It wasn’t addressed to you, was it?’
‘I should be so bloody lucky,’ said Maltby. ‘One of the villagers received it and asked me to pass it on to the police. For obvious reasons he doesn’t want me to tell you his name.’
‘We’ve got to talk to him,’ insisted Frost. ‘We need to find out how the letter writer discovered these details.’
Maltby shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. There’s no way I can tell you.’
Frost stood up and adjusted his scarf. ‘Well, we’ll let our Forensic whizz kids have a sniff at the letter and envelope, but unless people are prepared to co-operate, there’s not a lot we can do.’
‘You’re going to do something, though?’ insisted Maltby.
‘We’ll have a look through Wardley’s cottage and try and find the letter. I’ll have a word with him in the hospital. How old is he?’
Maltby flicked through some dog-eared record cards. ‘Seventy-two.’
‘I wonder what he’s been up to that made him try to kill himself.’ At the door he paused. ‘What do you know about the Comptons, doc?’
‘Seem a loving couple,’ said Maltby, guardedly.
‘Yes,’ agreed Frost, ‘too bloody loving. They were nearly having it away on the dining table while we were there. Know anyone who might have a grudge against them?’
Maltby shook his head. ‘Ada told me what’s been happening. I can’t think of anyone.’ The phone rang. He lifted the receiver and listened, wearily. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Keep her in bed. I’ll be right over.’
Back in the car Frost gave the volume control on the radio a tentative tweak. ‘. . . Mr Frost report to Mr Mullett urgently.’ Hastily he turned it down again. ‘I get the feeling its going to be a sod of a day, son.’
Monday afternoon shift
Police Superintendent Mullett, Commander of Denton Division, gave his welcoming smile and nodded towards a chair for Gilmore to sit down. They were in Mullett’s spacious office with its blue Wilton carpet and the walls, with their concealed cupboards, panelled in