Frost sat down on the settee, facing Duffy. ‘You’re up late?’
‘My wife can’t sleep. I stay up with her. I don’t like leaving her alone.’
Frost gave a sympathetic nod and looked up for his sergeant to start the questions.
‘We’re worried at the absence of a suicide note,’ Gilmore said.
‘Oh?’ He tried to rub some warmth into a shirt-sleeved arm.
‘You’re quite sure there was no note?’
‘Positive.’
Silence, broken only by the measured ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Then another sound. Frost had taken something from his mac pocket and was tapping it on his knee. It snatched Duffy’s attention away from his study of the curtains.
The object was black, made of plastic, and Frost, a half-smile on his face, was tapping it slowly and regularly, again and again, on his knee.
At first Duffy couldn’t make out what it was. Then his eyes widened and he sucked in air. It was a video cassette.
‘Woof woof,’ said Frost, and grinned.
‘You bastard!’ With a howl of rage Duffy hurled himself across the room at the inspector, his fists swinging wildly. Gilmore leapt forward to grab his wrists and fling him back into the chair.
‘Was it something I said?’ asked Frost in pretended puzzlement.
‘You bastard,’ repeated Duffy, this time near to tears. He shrank down into the chair and covered his face with his hands and his body convulsed with the sobbing he was no longer able to hold back ‘Don’t tell my wife. It would kill her.’ His voice was muffled by his hands.
Gilmore turned away. Raw emotion embarrassed him. Frost dribbled smoke and tried to look as if he knew more than he did
Kenneth Duffy knuckled his eyes dry. ‘What do you want to know?’
Frost waved the video. ‘Tell me about it.’
Duffy bowed his head. ‘I watched a few seconds — that was enough.’
‘Where’s the suicide note?’
The man shivered again and folded his arms around him self. ‘I destroyed it.’
‘Why?’ snapped Gilmore who was standing behind him. ‘Because it incriminated you?’
He twisted his head round and looked up at the sergeant. ‘No. Because Susan asked me to. The note was addressed to me.’
Frost lit up a fresh cigarette from the stub of the old. ‘What did it say?’
‘It said, “The letter will explain. I can’t face mum after what I’ve done. Please help me. Destroy this. She must never know.”’
‘Letter? What letter?’
‘It was with Susan’s note. An anonymous letter.’
Anonymous letter! Frost started, as did Gilmore. ‘Tell us about it.’
Duffy paused to control his agitated breathing. ‘It was addressed to my wife. Susan must have known it was coming so she waited for the postman. She opened it, read it and…’ He shrugged as if referring to something trivial. ‘… and killed herself.’
‘I want that letter,’ said Frost grimly.
‘I’m sorry. I haven’t got it. I burnt it with the suicide note.’
‘Shit!’ said Frost vehemently. ‘Describe it. The notepaper, the handwriting.’
‘Is it important?’ asked Duffy wearily.
‘Yes, it bloody is.’
‘Blue notepaper. Typed. Posted in Denton.’
Frost nodded grimly to Gilmore. ‘What did it say?’
‘What do you bloody think it said?’ replied Duffy again near to tears. ‘It said, “Dear Mrs Duffy. Did you know that your dear darling, pure daughter Susan has taken part in depraved, bestial practices with men, with other women… even with animals, and is so proud of what she did that she allowed herself to be filmed. If you doubt me, I’m sending you a video.” ‘He paused and listened to the clock tick.
‘And did he send a video?’ prompted Frost.
‘Yes. It came the next morning… the day after Susan died. Imagine the effect on my wife if she’d received it. I waited for the postman, just like Susan must have done.’ He shuddered. ‘It was the one with the dog.’
All heads turned to the door as it clicked open. Mrs Duffy came in, a shrunken, stooped figure, face tired and lined, eyes red. Duffy rose from his chair. ‘It’s the police, love. Just asking a few questions.’
‘Routine,’ muttered Frost, avoiding her eyes. She’d have to know, but he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.
She forced a smile. ‘I’ll make some tea.’
‘We can’t stop, I’m afraid,’ said Frost. ‘Lots of things to do.’
‘I won’t be long, love,’ said Duffy, helping his wife out of the room. ‘You go in the warm.’ When he came back he said, ‘How old does she look? Sixty?’ Not far short, thought Frost. ‘She was forty last month and she never looked her age. Losing her only daughter was bad enough, but when this other business comes out, it’ll kill her. You’ll have another death on your hands.’
‘You’ll have to tell her,’ said Frost.
‘You bloody tell her,’ said Duffy. He went to the side board and opened a drawer where he took out a small box. ‘You see these?’ He rattled it. ‘The bloody doctor’s put her back on the same tablets Susan took.’
Frost looked away. There was nothing to say.
Outside, in the car, Gilmore said, ‘That video. Did you notice Susan’s feet?’
‘Her feet were the last thing I thought of looking at,’ said Frost. ‘Why?’
‘The ground was rough so she was wearing shoes,’ said Gilmore. ‘Stark naked, but wearing shoes… just like Paula.’
Frost worried away at his scar, then shook his head. ‘Coincidence, son. No-one would want to make a porn video with Paula. The poor little bitch didn’t have the looks, or the figure.’ He salvaged a decent-sized butt from the ashtray and lit up. ‘The doc was right. He said that poison pen bastard would kill someone some day.’ He huddled down in his seat, suddenly feeling cold. ‘And I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about catching the sod.’
Gilmore started up the engine. ‘Where to?’
‘Drop me off at the station, then go home, son. You’ll be fit for sod all in the morning if you don’t get some kip.’
Wednesday night shift (2)
Gilmore drew up outside the house and checked the windows. Despite the hour he half expected to see all the lights blazing and a still-smouldering Liz waiting for him. But the house seemed to be in darkness and he sighed with relief. He wasn’t ready for another slanging match. But as he quietly clicked the front door shut behind him he heard mumbled voices and a slit of light showed from under the lounge door.
He tiptoed down the hall and turned the handle. An old black and white film was playing on the television and Liz was curled up in the armchair, a couple of empty tonic water bottles on the table and a bottle of vodka on the floor by her side. She turned and held up a brim-full glass in a mock toast. ‘Home is the hunter!’ In one gulp she swigged it down, waving the empty glass triumphantly aloft.
‘It’s gone four o’clock,’ he said. ‘What are you doing up?’
She pouted. ‘You said you’d be in early. You promised me you’d be in bloody early.’
He shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie and took a clean glass from the display cabinet. ‘I said I’d try. It just wasn’t possible.’ He flopped wearily into the other armchair and reached for the vodka bottle. It was empty. He held it up accusingly. ‘This was a full bottle on Saturday!’
‘So I bloody drank it. What else is there to do in this stinking town, sitting in this lousy room, waiting for you and you never bloody come.’
He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. ‘It won’t be long.’ None too hopefully he pushed himself from the chair and foraged through the display cabinet, looking for something alcoholic amongst the half-empty bitter lemon and Coke bottles. Defeated, he poured himself a glass of Coke. It was warm and flat. On the television screen Humphrey Bogart was slapping Peter Lorre around. He relaxed, rested his head against the back of the armchair and tried to fight off sleep.
‘You know what I thought,’ slurred Liz in a husky whisper, putting her empty glass on the table. ‘I thought I’d wait up for my randy, rampant, lover-boy husband and I thought we’d have some randy, rampant sex. How does that grab you, superstud?’