Wells spun round, horrified, then flopped into his chair, almost sweating with relief. Grinning at him from the lobby doorway was Jack Frost who had been hovering in the background, waiting for Mullett to leave.
‘You frightened the flaming life out of me, Jack.’
‘The man of a thousand voices but only one dick. So what’s been happening?’
‘Well, I’ve been working all bleeding night…’
‘Excuses, excuses, Sergeant… give me the facts, man.’ He pushed a cigarette across and lit it for Wells.
‘Rickman’s given us a statement.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The porno video merchant. Says he bought them from a man in a pub… didn’t know his name. We’ve released him on police bail.’
‘What about my plumber?’
‘Interview Room number two.’
‘Thanks,’ said Frost, making for the swing doors. He paused. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘I’ll get you a broom,’ grinned Wells. The internal phone rang. Bloody Mullett again. Wells’ expression changed. ‘The canteen’s closed, sir. I haven’t got anyone who can make your tea.’ He jiggled the receiver, then slammed the phone down. Not interested in excuses, Mullett had hung up.
Outside the interview room an excited Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon ran forward to meet Frost. ‘We could be on to something here, Jack.’ He opened the door a crack so the inspector could see inside. A fat, balding man with shifty eyes in his mid-forties was slouched in a chair. He wore dark blue overalls over a beer belly.
‘He’s guilty,’ said Frost. ‘Never mind a trial, just hang him.’
Carefully closing the door, Hanlon continued. ‘Bernard Hickman, forty-four years old, married, no children. The day Paula went missing, Hickman was supposed to be working in the cemetery, installing that new stand-pipe by the side of the crypt. His time sheet says he started work at eight, but the vicar is positive he didn’t arrive until gone nine.’ He opened a folder to show Frost the time sheet.
‘Where does he live?’
‘63 Vicarage Terrace, Denton.’
Frost chewed this over. The area where Paula went missing was north of Denton Woods. Vicarage Terrace was some four or five miles to the south. ‘Has he got a motor?’
‘Yes. It’s in the car-park.’
Then Hickman could have driven and forced the girl into his car, raped and killed her and got to the cemetery by nine. But what was he doing north of the woods in the first place? The cemetery was in the opposite direction.
‘It wasn’t a chance encounter,’ suggested Hanlon. ‘It was planned. He’d seen the girl before and lusted after her. He knew where she’d be and waited for her.’
‘Lusted after her?’ said Frost, doubtfully. ‘Why her? The poor cow was a pudding.’
‘There’s no accounting for taste, Jack. Some men lust after the ugliest of women.’
Frost looked reproachful. ‘That’s no way to talk of the Divisional Commander’s wife.’ Hanlon froze in mid- laugh, alerting the inspector to danger.
‘Inspector!’ nd there was Mullett charging down the corridor. Please don’t let him have heard, pleaded Frost as he slid into his guileless smile. ‘Sir?’
‘Where’s your report for me on the Paula Bartlett case? I’ve got a press conference at two.’
‘Just about to interview a suspect now,’ said Frost, jerking his head at the interview room.
Mullett’s eyes gleamed. ‘A suspect? Already? Marvellous. That’s just marvellous. If we can tie this up in time for the press conference…‘ He beamed at the two men, then his expression hardened as Hanlon took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. ‘I hope you’re not going down with this flu thing, Hanlon?’ he snapped accusingly. ‘We’re enough men short as it is.’ He turned on his heel and stamped off down the corridor.
‘You can’t even blow your blinking nose, now,’ moaned Hanlon.
‘Don’t breath your filthy germs over me,’ said Frost. ‘Let’s question our suspect.’
Hickman shifted his position in the hard, uncomfortable chair and stared unblinkingly at the nervous young uniformed constable, forcing him to look away. He smirked to himself, proud of his small triumph. ‘I could smash you with one hand,’ he leered.
‘Not if we handcuffed you first and gave him a truncheon,’ said a voice.
The tubby bloke had returned with a grotty-looking man in a shiny suit.
‘Detective Inspector Frost,’ announced the man, dropping into the chair opposite Hickman. ‘Like to ask you a few questions.’
‘I’d like to ask you one,’ said Hickman. ‘Why am I here? Or is it a state secret?’
‘You’re here,’ Frost told him, ‘because we’re investigating a very serious matter. I hope we can eliminate you from our enquiries, but if we can’t, you’re in dead trouble. So just answer my questions.’
‘Then ask,’ said Hickman. ‘Let’s get this bloody farce over.’
‘September 14th. I want to know everything you did. From when you got up, to when you went to bed.’
‘That’s over two months ago. How the hell can I remember that?’
‘Perhaps this will jog your memory,’ said Frost, pushing over a sheet of paper.
Hickman took the time sheet and stared at it in disbelief. ‘So this is what it’s all about? I fiddle an hour on my time sheet and the bastards call in the flaming Flying Squad! They can stuff their job..’
‘Your firm didn’t call us in,’ Frost told him, ‘and it’s a dam sight more serious than fiddling your time sheet.? Tell me what you did on that day.’
‘I was working at All Saints Cemetery, fitting a new stand-pipe. They were extending the burial section so the old piping had to be rerouted. On that day — it was a Thursday, I think — I’m ready to drive to work when the flaming car dies on me. I fiddle about with it — no joy. So I have to call in a mobile mechanic and walk to work. I got there an hour late, but it wasn’t my fault so why should I let the firm have the benefit?’
‘We’ll want the name and address of the mechanic.’ said Hanlon.
‘I’ve got it at home. Anyway, I worked until half-past twelve, nipped across to the pub for lunch, came back for more work and finished at six.’
‘So you were at the cemetery from nine until six,’ checked Frost. ‘Then what?’
‘In the pub for a few more drinks, home for dinner, then back to the pub until closing time. Supper at eleven, then bed, a bit of the other, and sleep.’
‘How can you be so sure about the bit of the other?’ asked Frost with genuine interest.
‘I’m a creature of habit. Every night without fail whether she wants it or not.’
Frost lit a cigarette and dribbled smoke from his nose. ‘How old is your wife?’
‘Forty-two.’
‘Ever fancied a younger bit of stuff?’
‘Like bleeding hell, I have,’ giggled the man. ‘Trouble is, they never fancy me.’
‘Big chap like you,’ said Frost, ‘that shouldn’t be a problem. You could force them to do what you wanted — whether they wanted to or not.’
Hickman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think I’m getting your drift.’
From a green folder Frost removed a colour photograph and slid it across the table. ‘Do you know her?’
Hickman stared down at the serious, unsmiling face of Paula Bartlett. ‘Never seen her before…‘ Then he recognized her. ‘Bloody hell! It’s that kid!’ Then he realized the implication and sprang up, sending the chair flying. ‘Just what the flaming hell are you accusing me of?’
A nervous PC Collier moved forward to restrain the man and was relieved when Frost waved him back. Frost snatched up the photograph and thrust it under Hickman’s nose. He spoke slowly and calmly. ‘I’ve just come from her post-mortem. I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell her parents what’s been done to her. So, no matter how loudly you scream and shout and bluster, you’re going to answer my bloody questions. Now sit down!’
His face sullen, Hickman pushed the photograph away and lowered himself into the chair.
‘That’s better,’ said Frost, beaming disarmingly. ‘Now tell us why we found fingerprints all over the inside of the crypt which match the fingerprints on your time sheet.’ No fingerprints had been found inside the crypt, but Hickman wasn’t to know.
‘The crypt? Is that where you found her?’ He leant back in his chair and smirked. ‘If I wanted to rape
