He was too tired. He wasn’t in the mood and he didn’t even think he was capable of making love. But he forced a grin. He didn’t want a row, a hurtful, scratching row, all in hoarse angry whispers to avoid disturbing the neighbours. ‘You’re on,’ he said, and held out his arms.
She slunk over and nestled in his lap. He kissed her. She tasted of vodka. Her body was hot and burning and her perfume was heady and erotic. Her hand crawled over him, tugging the shirt free from his trousers, her fingers exploring, caressing and lightly scratching his lower stomach. Then he wasn’t faking any more. Then he was unbuttoning and easing off her dress. Then he was biting and licking and groaning.
And then, jarring like a dentist’s drill, the door bell. A long, persistent ring. And someone banging on the door. And Frost’s voice yelling for him to open up. This is a nightmare, he thought. A bloody nightmare.
‘Sorry, son,’ said Frost, barging in as he opened the front door. ‘An emergency…’ He stopped dead as he saw Liz smouldering in the armchair, her dress unbuttoned down to the waist, making no attempt to cover her naked breasts. Frost made no attempt to hide his gaping admiration.
Gilmore made the unnecessary introduction. ‘My wife Liz.’
‘Sorry about this, love,’ apologized Frost. ‘You must hate my guts.’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
‘I’m known as Coitus Interruptus in the trade,’ added Frost, hoping to warm up the atmosphere, but neither of them responded.
‘What do you want?’ asked Gilmore curtly.
‘Another arson attack at the Comptons’. I know it’s your case, but I’ll attend to it if you like.’
Gilmore hesitated.
‘Bloody go,’ snapped Liz. ‘Bugger off and go!’ The door slammed as she stormed out of the room.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Frost. ‘Be quick.’
‘I’m coming now,’ said Gilmore, grabbing his coat.
The rain had stopped, but a cold wind chased them to the car. ‘Sorry if I sodded things up for you, son,’ said Frost, settling into the passenger seat. Gilmore gave a noncommital grunt and slammed the car into gear. He looked back at the house, half hoping Liz would be at the window so he could give her a wave. A forlorn hope.
The road was clear so Gilmore was able to ignore traffic signals and speed limits and drove with his foot jammed down hard while Frost briefly outlined what he knew. ‘Compton phoned the station about half an hour ago. Someone was prowling about outside. A couple of minutes later the station alarm went off, so the prowler must have broken a window or forced a lock or something. Control sent an area car. It found the place in flames. The fire brigade’s on its way. That’s all I know so far.’ As they left the town and climbed the hill to skirt the woods an orange glow throbbed in the sky ahead. ‘Bloody hell, son,’ said Frost. ‘That’s one hell of a fire.’
Soon they could see the flashing electric-blue beacons of the fire trucks and hear the deep-throated roar of the burning wooden structure fanned to a frenzy by the wind. The scorching heat hit them as they climbed out of the car and stumbled over a spaghetti confusion of hoses.
‘Look out!’ someone yelled.
A long-drawn-out creaking screech of agony as the supporting timbers of the mill gave way, then a slow rumbling as the roof collapsed and whooshed up a tongue of flame which licked the night sky with thousands of red, dancing sequins. Firemen in yellow oilskins turned their backs as the dragon’s breath of scorched air and smoke blasted out at them.
With the roof down and the building open to the sky, the firemen were able to direct their hoses into the seething heart of the fire gradually damping down the flames and sending up clouds of steam and oily smoke.
‘Inspector! Over here.’ PC Jordan was waving to them from the side of a fire truck. There was something on the grass by his feet. Something covered by a crumpled sheet of grey plastic, dripping wet from the back-spray of the hoses.
‘Shit,’ said Frost. The plastic was draped over a dead body.
‘The firemen found him in the lounge,’ Jordan told them. ‘He’s burnt to buggery.’
Frost bent and carefully lifted the sheet, then turned his head away, but not before he had breathed in the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Gilmore, watching, felt his stomach start to churn. The dead face gawping up at him was blistered red raw and distorted by intense heat. ‘Where the hair should have been was grey powdery ash.
‘The firemen reckon he must have fallen into a pool of blazing petrol,’ explained Jordan, staring straight ahead, determined not to look down. ‘They dragged him out of the lounge.’
‘Poor bastard,’ muttered Frost. He pulled the plastic sheeting down further to see better. Welded into the bubbling black flesh, pieces of charred material. ‘Looks like pyjamas.’
‘Yes, sir. We presume he’s the householder.’
Frost forced himself to bend again and study the face closer. If it was Mark Compton it would require medical and dental records for a positive identification. Slowly, he straightened up. ‘So what happened?’
‘The place was well alight when we got here. Simms radioed for the fire brigade. No way of getting in at the front, so I tried the rear and found Mrs Compton, in her night clothes, unconscious on the lawn just outside the back door.’
'Where is she now?’
‘She’s with someone in the village, I think.’
Frost nodded for him to continue.
‘When the fire brigade got here they sent a couple of men with breathing apparatus into the house. The body was in the lounge. They dragged him out but he was already dead.’
‘I thought the sprinklers were supposed to stop this sort of fire,’ said Frost.
‘They’d been put out of action, Inspector. The water supply was turned of at the mains.’
Gilmore thought it was about time he reminded everyone that this was his case. ‘Radio through to Control,’ he snapped. ‘Tell all patrols that anyone out and about at this time of the morning, on foot or in a car, is a suspect and is to be detained for questioning.’
‘And advise all hospitals, chemists and doctors that we want to know immediately about anyone requesting treatment for burns,’ added Frost.
A car horn sounded and Dr Maltby’s Vauxhall crept into the side road. Maltby, wrapped up against the cold in a thick overcoat, climbed out and surveyed the smouldering wreck age of the once beautiful house. He spotted Frost and made his way across, stepping with exaggerated care over the hose-pipes.
‘He’s drunk again,’ hissed Gilmore.
‘Then arrest him,’ snapped Frost. ‘We need the extra work. Over here, doc!’
The doctor lurched over. ‘Terrible business, Jack.’ He nodded at the sheeted shape. ‘The husband?’
‘All that’s left of him, doc. He fell face first in some four star. What I want to know is, did he fall or was he pushed?’
Maltby pulled the sheet completely away from the body and arranged it over the wet grass so he could kneel down. He shook his head testily. ‘He’s too badly burnt. You’ll need a proper post-mortem.’ He lifted the head slightly, his fingers exploring the skull. ‘Hello…’ Carefully he moved the head so he could examine it more easily. ‘The back of the skull’s caved in.’
‘Where?’ asked Frost, squatting down beside the doctor. His nicotine-stained fingers probed. Yes, he could feel the pulpy fracture where the skull gave way under pressure. He wiped his hand on his mac and straightened up. ‘Damn, damn and double damn!’
‘Could it have happened when he fell?’ asked Gilmore.
Frost shook his head. ‘He fell face down, son… straight into the burning petrol.’
Maltby nodded his agreement. ‘I’d say he was struck from behind
… a heavy blow from a blunt instrument. If the blow didn’t kill him outright, then the fire finished him off.’
Frost’s shoulders sagged wearily. ‘It’s murder whichever way you look at it, doc.’ He shook water from the plastic sheeting and jerked it back over the body. ‘Where’s the poor sod’s wife?’