‘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.