deep into the filing tray in Allen’s office where Frost had buried it and had transferred it to the top of his in-tray with a large, block capitalled inscription in red felt-tip yelling WHY HASN’T THIS GONE OFF? Because I haven’t bleeding sent it off, thought Frost, reading on. MUST GO OFF TODAY WITHOUT FAIL. SCM — the OR ELSE was implied.
Gilmore came in carrying a thick bacon sandwich and a mug of tea from the canteen. Frost brightened up until he realized Gilmore intended it for himself. ‘Doesn’t that wife of yours feed you?’ he growled and was quite unprepared for Gilmore’s slashing expression of vehemence.
Burton broke the tension by coming in to report.
'What’s the position with Gauld?’
‘He left home at 8.56,’ Burton told him, ‘and drove straight to Denton Hospital. He’s been ferrying out- patients backwards and forwards. We’re keeping him under surveillance.’
‘Good,’ nodded Frost. ‘What have you found out about him?’
‘Not much. He lives with his widowed mother. They moved to Denton some ten years ago from Birmingham. He’s never had a permanent job — just temporary work, mainly driving. The neighbours like him. Apart from his hospital work, he helps out at the local Oxfam shop in his spare time.’
Frost gave a derisory snort. ‘What else does he do? Cure the sick and raise the dead?’ He thought for a while. ‘Do the neighbours see him coming and going late at night?’
‘Sometimes, sir. But you’d expect that with all the late-night coaches he drives.’ Burton paused. ‘I know you want to go for broke on him, Inspector, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep a watch on some of the other coach drivers.’
‘Then do it, son. As long as you don’t let up on Gauld.’
‘We could do with more men.’
‘I could do with a new dick,’ said Frost, ‘but I’ve got to manage with what I’ve got.’ He stared miserably at the inventory. ‘You busy, son?’ he asked Gilmore.
Gilmore backed towards the door. ‘I’m due in court with Mrs Compton in twenty minutes.’
Frost flicked through the wad of information-demanding pages and shuddered. He chucked it back in his in- tray and reburied it. His internal phone buzzed. He scooped his mac from the hat-stand. ‘Tell him I’m out,’ he yelled from the corridor.
Burton picked up the phone. ‘I’m afraid Mr Frost isn’t here, sir,’ he told the Divisional Commander.
The sound of the Westminster chimes reverberated inside the flat. A fat, motherly little woman in a green overall waddled into the hallway and opened the door. A shabbily dressed man twitched a shy smile. Not one of the regulars. She hadn’t seen him before. ‘I phoned,’ he said.
She gave a welcoming smile to put him at ease. He looked so nervous. ‘French lesson, isn’t it? Miss Desiree’s expecting you.’ She led him through the hall into a dimly lit room with the curtains drawn. ‘The gentleman who phoned,’ she announced, then retired discreetly, closing the door with a gentle click behind her.
The woman sitting on the bed was in her late thirties and looked like a young Mae West. The loose-fitting red dressing gown she wore was carefully flapped open to display black bra, black knickers and black stockings which were held up by rosette, red garters. An over-brilliant smile clicked on automatically as she greeted her visitor. ‘Don’t be shy,’ she purred in a thick French accent, ‘I am Mademoiselle Desiree.’
‘Hello, Doris,’ said Frost, giving her a quick flash of his warrant card. ‘How’s your bunions?’
The smile withered and died with the French accent. ‘Jack effing Frost! Well, you can piss off as soon as you like.’
‘You can’t get round me with sweet talk,’ said Frost, helping himself to one of her cigarettes from a packet on the bed.
He flopped into a chair and pulled a photograph from his pocket. ‘Recognize him?’
She took the photograph and gave it a cursory glance. ‘Can’t place him,’ she said, disdainfully handing it back.
‘It’s dark in here,’ said Frost. ‘Perhaps the light might be better down at the station.’
‘All right. Haven’t seen him for a while, but he used to be a regular. Every Wednesday just after five. His name’s John Smith.’
‘It’s his John Thomas I’m interested in. What did he pay for, Doris — straight sex, or did you have to tart it up, if you’ll pardon the expression?’
‘More or less straight sex — but I had to dress up.’
‘As what?’
She crossed the room to a large fitted wardrobe and slid open the doors. Like the stock for a fancy dress ball, all sorts of bizarre costumes rustled and swung on hangers. On the floor of the wardrobe were whips, canes, a canvas strait jacket, some handcuffs and various ropes, straps and chains. She selected a hanger and unhooked it from the rail. It held a black gym-slip, a white blouse, black knickers and thick dark stockings. ‘He was kinky about schoolgirls,’ she said. ‘I had to wear this school uniform and act all bleeding coy. It didn’t half get him excited.’
‘It’s getting me excited,’ said Frost, standing up and stuffing the photograph of Bell back in his inside pocket. ‘I only wish I had the time…’
Gilmore found Frost in the Murder Incident Room rummaging through the exhibits cupboard. ‘You wanted me, Inspector?’
‘Yes, son. Get the car. We’re going to call on the school master.’ He pulled out the plastic bag which held the shoes Paula Bartlett was wearing when they found her. He told Gilmore about his visit to the prostitute. ‘That’s clinched it for me, son. I’m going to nail the bastard.’
Gilmore hesitated. Frost’s case was strong on suspicion, but pathetically weak on proof. ‘How are you going to do that?’
‘I might have to cheat a little,’ said Frost, pushing the bag back into the exhibits cupboard, ‘and if that doesn’t work, I might have to cheat a lot.’
Bell led them through into his cold, cheerless lounge, apologizing for the state of the place. ‘I still haven’t got over it.’ He cleared some old newspapers from a chair, but they declined his invitation to sit.
‘An official call, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Frost, looking grim.
‘Oh?’ He straightened a few cushions and seemed more concerned at the state of the room than the unexpected visit of the two detectives.
‘Probably nothing in it,’ continued Frost. ‘We get these crank calls all the time and we have to follow them up?’
‘Crank calls?’ blinked Bell.
‘Paula Bartlett, sir. We have a witness who claims he saw the girl in your house on the afternoon she went missing.’
‘Here?’ Bell frowned, finding the idea incredible. ‘Oh no, Inspector, that’s ridiculous.’
‘I’m sure it’s ridiculous,’ continued Frost, ‘but as I said, sir, we have to follow these things through. Just a formality, but do you mind if we have a look around the house?’
‘Mind? Of course not. Look anywhere you like. It’s all such a mess though, I’m afraid.’
‘We’re used to mess, sir,’ Frost assured him. ‘No need to come with us. We’ll do it quicker on our own.’ And he trotted up the stairs, Gilmore following close behind. The first door they tried led to the master bedroom, the unmade bed a shambles, discarded clothes everywhere. Frost grinned. ‘This will do fine. Start searching.’ He sat on the bed, smoking, as Gilmore poked around, dragging out the dressing table, peering behind the wardrobe.
‘It would help,’ grunted Gilmore, shouldering the ward robe back into position, then climbing on a chair so he could look on the top, ‘if I knew what I was supposed to be looking for.’
Frost puffed out three smoke rings then speared one with his finger. ‘We’re looking for proof the girl was in the house.’
Gilmore climbed down from the chair and rubbed the dust from his hands. ‘We’re never going to find it after two months.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frost, pushing himself up from the bed and wandering over to the dressing table. ‘There’s some thing poking out down there.’
He bent down and came up holding a shoe. A flat-heeled, lace-up brown shoe. Neatly written inside, in biro, the name ‘Paula Bartlett’.
Gilmore stared in confusion. ‘I looked there,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have missed it.’ He snatched the shoe from
