Jill Compton whose tear-stained, unmade-up face seemed to hold an erotic attraction.
His foot twitched and made contact with something under the table, something that swayed, then toppled heavily with a glassy clunk. Yawning, he lifted the table-cloth. Nudging his foot lay a wine bottle on its side. One of Ada’s home-made brews. There were about twenty or so more bottles of wine bunched together under the table. ‘The stingy cow’s hiding it from us,’ he said, pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a swig. The room shimmered, then jerked still. He replaced the cork and pushed the bottle back with the others under the table.
‘You know what I’ve been thinking?’ said Gilmore.
Frost shook his head to stop the fuzziness. ‘If it’s something rude, I’m all ears, son.’
‘If that poison pen letter was sent to Mark Compton, then who is the woman he’s been knocking off?’
‘I wish I knew,’ replied Frost. ‘I’d love to get some of what he’s been getting.’
‘He’s been going with another woman,’ said Gilmore. ‘There could be a jealous husband, or boyfriend.’
‘A good point, son,’ began Frost, then he stopped dead and looked under the table again as a nagging thought struck him. ‘Why has she dumped the bottles there? She’s usually so neat and tidy . . . everything in its place.’
‘I don’t know,’ muttered Gilmore, his tone implying he didn’t care either.
A wall cupboard in the corner caught Frost’s eye. ‘That’s where she usually keeps her wine. Quick, son. Take a look inside.’ Gilmore showed his astonishment. ‘It could be important, son.’
Anything to humour the old fool, thought Gilmore as he tugged at the handle. ‘It’s locked!’
‘Catch!’ Frost tossed him a bunch of keys. ‘Try one of these.’
The first key didn’t fit, so he tried another. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this without a search warrant.’
Frost raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. ‘You learn something new in this job every day. Someone was telling me you can’t plant false evidence any more, but I’m not that gullible.’ He lit up another cigarette. ‘Hurry it up, son.’
Another key. Still no joy. But the next glided in smooth as silk and the lock clicked. Gilmore pulled open the door then whistled softly. Inside the cupboard was a battered old Olympia typewriter. He was carrying it over to the table when a door slammed and an angry voice shrilled, ‘And just what do you think you’re doing?’
‘I tried to stop him, Ada,’ said Frost, ‘but he wouldn’t take any notice.’
‘I let you into my house. I give you tea. I give you biscuits . . .’
‘But you don’t give us your body, Ada. The one thing I’ve been lusting after.’
She wasn’t listening to Frost. Angry eyes stabbed at Gilmore who was ripping a blank page from the back of his notebook and feeding it into the roller. Her voice, shaking with rage, rose an octave. ‘Don’t you dare touch that!’ She plunged forward but Frost’s arm shot out to restrain her.
‘We’ve got to check it to make sure he hasn’t broken it, Ada. I want you to get every penny of compensation.’
The page in to his satisfaction, Gilmore pecked out a test sentence. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. He snatched the paper from the machine and studied it carefully, a grin of triumph creeping across his face. ‘The “s” and the “a” are out of alignment, Inspector. We’ve found the poison pen typewriter.’
Frost took the page from him and nodded. ‘He’s right, Ada. But I bet you’ve got a perfectly plausible explanation?’ He waited expectantly.
She folded her arms stubbornly and compressed her lips.
‘Can’t quite hear you, Ada,’ said Frost, cupping his hand to his ear.
Her eyes narrowed, but she remained silent.
Gilmore pushed himself between her and Frost. He was barely in control of himself. He kept seeing Susan Bicknell in her Mickey Mouse nightdress, stretched lifeless on the bed. ‘You don’t need to say anything, you evil-minded bitch. Because of you an old man tried to kill himself. Because of you a fifteen-year-old kid took her own life.’
She stared back at him, her eyes unflinching. ‘Then you’d better arrest me, hadn’t you?’
‘Stop fighting, you two,’ said Frost, flopping back in his chair. ‘You never wrote those bloody letters, Ada. The longest note you ever wrote said “No milk today, please, the cat’s got diarrhoea.”’ He shook an export Benson and Hedges from the packet. ‘That’s old Mr Wardley’s typewriter, isn’t it? He’s the sod who’s been sending the letters.’