Night Frost Read Free Page B

"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?"
       "We couldn’t get insurance if it wasn’t," Compton replied icily. "Your Crime Prevention Officer has given us the once-over and was quite satisfied. We’ve got a sophisticated alarm system with automatic 999 dialling. If anyone tried to break in, they’d set off the alarm at your police station."
       "Books and manuscripts," said Gilmore, "and a wooden building. I shouldn’t think the insurance company were too happy about that?"
       Mark Compton pointed to metal roses dotting the ceiling. "Automatic sprinklers in every room, a condition of the policy."
       "So not too much danger from fire?"
       "An ordinary fire, perhaps, but if some stupid bastard starts pouring petrol all over the place like they apparently did with our summer house . . ."
       Frost’s head came up sharply. "How did you know that, sir?"
       "The fireman outside told me. It’s not a state secret, is it? I am entitled to know the methods maniacs use to destroy my property."
       Frost smiled and switched his attention to the woman. "Tell us about the phone calls."
       The recollection made her shudder. "It started about two weeks ago. The phone kept ringing in the middle of the night. Every time I answered it, the caller hung up. It was frightening. This place is so isolated. I was terrified." Again she shuddered. Her husband moved his hand up to cup and squeeze her breast in reassurance. In case Gilmore hadn’t spotted this, Frost drew it to his attention by a sharp dig in the ribs with his elbow. Gilmore pretended not to notice and, trying to keep his eyes well above breast level, he asked Jill to continue.
       "The next morning a black Rolls Royce came up the drive. It was a hearse, with a coffin in the back!" She was shaking uncontrollably. Mark squeezed her tighter and she clung to him. At last she was able to continue. "Two men dressed all in black got out and knocked. They said they were undertakers and had come to collect the body of my husband. I think I screamed."
       "Some stupid, sick bastard’s idea of a joke," cut in Compton angrily. "Fortunately I came home a couple of minutes later. Jill was having hysterics. Then the phone rang. The Classified Ads section of the local paper checking details of my obituary notice which had just been phoned in. Apparently I had died suddenly as the result of a tragic accident. Just imagine if Jill had taken that call." She blinked up at him and buried her face in his chest. "Later that day, just to complete this hilariously funny sick joke, a firm of monumental masons sent me a quotation for my headstone. That was when I called in the police . . . not that it did us any damn good. The next day our