Inspector. She's supposed to have second sight-like that Dutch chap who helps the police in Holland.' The superintendent found an interesting piece of graining on his desk, top and followed it with his finger. 'The chief wants… sug gests… er… feels we should see this woman. Ask if she can help us find Tracey Uphill. It can't do any harm… after all, you've no positive lead at the moment.'
Frost's jaw crashed. 'You mean we're to ask the bloody ghosts to help us?'
Mullett showed his palms. 'I know it's a bit… unorthodox.. but a Chief Constable's entitled to his whims, so let's humor him! Just go along and see her… I… er…' He showed his teeth. 'I told him you'd see her yourself and make it a number-one priority.'
He rose from his chair to signify the interview was over. The great thing after tearing chaps off a strip was to end on a happy note, show them you were behind them. He gave Frost's arm a little squeeze. 'Cheer up… er… Jack… it's not the end of the world.'
He carried on with his letter-signing as Frost slouched out. From Miss Smith's office he heard a startled cry of annoyance, a guffaw from Frost who said, 'How's that for center, Ida?' He wondered what it was all about.
Mickey Hoskins lit another cigarette. He didn't want it, it tasted hot and bitter, and the ones he had already smoked had coated his mouth with thick acidy nicotine, but he had to do something. He'd been in this damned interview room for over half an hour, just waiting. It was all part of the softening-up process, of course, to get you jumpy, twitchy, wondering how much they knew. Well, he wasn't going to let it affect him.
But he wished he had something to do. Just sitting in this miserable room with its dull green walls and the tiny window too high to see out of. But, at least it was warm. These coppers sure liked their warmth. A cylinder of ash dropped from his cigarette. How many had he left? He checked. One! And he was saving that for the interview. With a cigarette in his hand he felt better. It gave him something to do, time to think when the questions got a bit too near the mark.
But how much longer had he to wait? They had no right to keep him here against his will. He hadn't been charged, he could just stand up and walk out of that door and into the street and they couldn't do anything to stop him. He'd give them five minutes and not a second more. Twelve minutes later Inspector Frost breezed in wearing the same battered suit Mickey remembered from years past.
'Sorry to keep you waiting, Mickey boy, but I've got so many ventures of great pith and moment on the boil, I completely forgot about you.'
A young uniformed man slid in after him and stood by the door. Frost dragged a chair from under the table and sat opposite Mickey who blinked at him warily through those thick lenses.
'Right, Mickey. First of all I must have a fag.' He lit one slowly, but didn't offer the packet, then he took a photograph from his inside pocket and laid it face down on the table. He pushed it over to the other man with his forefinger.
'Turn it over, Mick.'
Mickey regarded Frost suspiciously, then looked down at the blank back of the photograph. What trick was this?
'What is it?'
'Turn it over and look.'
Gingerly he flipped it over. It showed a young girl, a schoolgirl, in color. She looked vaguely familiar. He screwed his face. Was it one of his? He couldn't remember.
'Well, Mickey?'
'Well, what? It's a photograph of a kid.' His tongue traveled along dry lips.
'Does she look anything like her photograph?'
'How should I know-I've never seen her.'
'Never seen her!' Frost barked out the words as if they were of the utmost significance, then turned to the young constable who was making shorthand notes in a spiral-bound notebook. 'Get that down, Constable, and underline it-he's never seen her!' Back to Hoskins. 'You'd sign that, of course, wouldn't you, Mickey? I wouldn't want people to think I'd tricked you. You'd sign a statement saying you'd never seen her?'
Mickey wriggled in his chair. Frost always managed to get him confused. 'I might have seen her… I mean, it's a small town. I could have seen her without knowing it was her. Who says I've seen her? I mean, I couldn't actually swear on a Bible…' The eyelids were fluttering wildly behind the lenses. 'When am I supposed to have seen her?'
'How about Sunday?' suggested Frost.
'No!'
'Show me your hand, Mick. Come on, I want to see your hand.'
He held out his hand. It wouldn't keep still. Frost grabbed it, squeezing the wrist in a vise-like grip. Mickey was glad the young constable was in the room. If one of them got you alone, he beat you up.
Frost was shaking the wrist. 'Look at this, Constable.' The young man raised his eyes from the notebook. 'Have you ever seen such a soft, warm hand? Look at these long, sensitive fingers. A really beautiful hand, that is, Mick. How many knicker legs has it slipped inside, eh?' Hoskins tried to pull free, but was held firm. 'How many warm young thighs has that explored, eh Mick?'
'Stop it!' This time he managed to snatch his hand away. He massaged the white pressure marks of Frost's fingers.
'Getting you excited, is it?'
'No, of course not.' Time for a cigarette. His hand shook as he lit it.
Frost rose from his chair and walked round the table to stand behind him. 'Did you have a go at her on Sunday, Mick? Did she like it? Did you like her?'
Almost a scream. 'Stop it! I never saw her on Sunday.'
'You don't have to shout, Mick.' The voice now gentle. 'You can lie just as well in a quiet voice. You haven't been in your digs since Sunday.'
'So? It's not a crime, is it?'
'Afraid to go back after what you did? Come on, Mick, tell us. Have the thrill of telling, then you can live it all again. What did you do to her?'
Mickey sucked at the cigarette, then blinked up at his tormenter. 'I want my solicitor.'
'You have but to ask, Mick,' said Frost with a friendly smile. He picked up the phone, dialed for an outside line, then handed the receiver to the huddled man.
Hoskins took it, poked his finger toward the dial, then, almost in tears with frustration, slammed it back on its rest.
'You know I haven't got a solicitor,' he bleated petulantly. 'I've got no money. Only the rich can afford the law.'
Frost nodded his agreement. 'We live in an unfair society, Mick. Still, I bet the richest man in the world hasn't been up as many knicker legs as you. But back to the old police persecution. I want to know about Sunday. Come on, give us a cheap thrill.'
Mickey thought for a while then asked for a cigarette. Frost gave him one. He took two deep drags, then he spoke. 'I didn't think she'd mind. Some of them don't-they lap it up, they love it. She was sitting on her own, so I moved over and sat next to her.'
The inspector frowned. 'Where was this?'
It was Mickey's turn to look puzzled. 'The pictures. The Century Cinema in Lexton. That's what you're on about, isn't it?'
Frost assured him that it was, wondering how the hell eight-year-old Tracey Uphill could have got over to Lexton and into the Century Cinema on her own. 'So you sat next to her…?'
'Yes. Like I said, I didn't think she'd mind. She let me get my hand right up her leg before she screamed. If she didn't want it, why didn't she complain earlier?'
'Perhaps she didn't want to miss a good bit of the film, Mick,' suggested Frost. Then he saw that the young constable was trying to attract his attention. He went over to him.
'This incident,' the young man whispered, 'it's been reported-a man tried to molest a woman, she screamed, he hit her in the face, breaking her nose. There was a chase. They nearly got him when he couldn't get the exit doors open, but he burst through. The woman was about thirty, sir. He's not talking about Tracey.'
Thirty years old? Mickey's hands usually favored much fresher meat. At the other side of the room their
