She turned towards Wells. ‘From Mr Rowley. He’s a clairvoyant.’
Gilmore’s heart sank. ‘A clairvoyant?’
She nodded earnestly. ‘He phoned us. He told us things about Paula that no-one would know. He said he suddenly had this mental picture of Paula in a tiny room… a tiny attic room. She was being held prisoner. He described the room, the house, everything.’
‘I see,’ said Gilmore. He stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment.’ He crossed over to Wells and lowered his voice. ‘Do we know a clairvoyant named Rowley?’
‘No,’ grunted Wells. ‘But we know a nut-case called Rowley who thinks he’s a clairvoyant. He spots the girl in about fifty different places every bloody week.’
‘Shit!’ said Gilmore. He returned to the woman, who was waiting expectantly. ‘I don’t think you should raise your hopes too high,’ he began, but she was in no mood for pessimism.
‘Paula’s alive,’ she said simply. ‘You’re going to find her and bring her back to me. I’ve got the full details here.’ She pressed a sheet of folded notepaper into his hand.
The lobby doors crashed open and Frost barged in. ‘It’s peeing cats and dogs out there,’ he announced, tugging off his scarf and flapping rain-water all over the papers on Wells’ desk. ‘Oh heck!’ He had spotted Mrs Bartlett walking across the lobby with Gilmore. He turned quickly and pretended to be studying a ‘Foot and Mouth Restriction Order’ poster on the wall. It was cowardly, but he couldn’t face her. He felt like a cancer specialist trying to avoid a terminally ill patient anxious for reassuring news. There was no reassuring news. The girl was dead. He knew it.
‘Everything all right, Mrs Bartlett?’ called Wells. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she smiled, pulling the red hood over her hair. ‘This gentleman here is going to bring Paula home for me. I’ve got her room all ready.’ She gave Gilmore a look of such implicit trust, he didn’t have the heart to contradict her. He opened the lobby door and watched as she crossed the road in the rain to hurry home and wait for her daughter.
‘Poor bitch,’ murmured Frost. ‘She comes in two or three nights a week.’
‘You might have warned me,’ Gilmore snapped angrily to Wells.
‘You never gave me the chance,’ said Wells happily. To Frost he said, ‘Mr Mullett wants to see you.’
‘Sod Mr Mullett,’ said Frost.
‘That’s what I say,’ said Wells, ‘but he still wants to see you.’
In direct contrast to the arctic conditions in the rest of the station, Mullett’s office was a hothouse with the thermostat on the 3-kilowatt convector heater set to maximum. But the heat did nothing to soften the expression on his face which was pure ice as he waited for Frost, who was already nearly a quarter of an hour late.
A half-hearted rap at the door. Unmistakably Detective Inspector Frost. Even his knock was slovenly. Mullett adjusted his chair to dead centre, straightened his back and curtly said, ‘Enter!’
The door opened and Frost shuffled in. What a mess the man looked. The shiny suit with the loose buttons, creased and crumpled where it had received a soaking from last night’s rain and had then been dried over a radiator. His tie was secured with a greasy knot that looked impossible to undo and Mullett was sure that the shirt was the same one the inspector had been wearing for the past six days. Why was this flu virus perversely selecting all the best men for its victims and leaving the rubbish unscathed?
Frost flopped into a chair. ‘Take a seat,’ said Mullett a split second too late. His lips tightened as he unlocked the middle drawer of his desk and removed the envelope from County HQ.
Frost watched warily, wondering which of his many transgressions had come to light. He adjusted his face into a pre-emptive expression of contrition and waited.
‘I’ve never been so humiliated and ashamed in all my life,’ began Mullett.
No clue here. Mullett had used these opening remarks many times before.
‘That an officer in Denton Division — my division — should be detected in forgery.’
Forgery? Frost’s mind raced. He had often forged Mullett’s signature on those occasions when his Divisional Commander’s authorization had been required and Frost knew it would not be forthcoming. But the last occasion was months ago.
Mullett pulled out a wad of papers from the envelope and detached the Strictly Confidential County memo. The rest he pushed across to the inspector.
Frost’s heart dropped with a squelch into the pit of his stomach. He recognized them immediately. His car expenses. His bloody car expenses, back like an exhumed corpse to accuse him
‘Ah — I can explain, Super,’ he began, frantically trying to dream up an excuse that would satisfy Mullett.
But Mullett was in no mood for explanations. He snatched up the receipts for the petrol Frost was claiming to have purchased during the month. ‘Forgeries!’ he snapped. ‘Twelve different petrol stations, but identical handwriting. Your handwriting, Inspector.’ He waggled the receipts under Frost’s nose and Frost could see that someone in County had done the Sherlock Holmes with his expense claim and had ringed in red ink all the similarities in the handwriting of the various receipts.
‘Flaming hell!’ gasped Frost. ‘Here we are, down to less than half-strength, working double shifts, and some lazy sod in County has got the time to go through a few lousy petrol receipts.’ He tossed the expense claim back on the desk. ‘If I was you, sir, I’d damn well complain.’
‘Complain?’ shrieked Mullett. ‘I’m in no position to complain. One of my officers, an inspector, fiddling his car expenses…’
‘I wasn’t fiddling,’ said Frost. ‘I lost the proper receipts and had to make copies.’
‘Copies! They weren’t copies. They were forgeries… and not even good forgeries at that!’
Frost switched off his ears as Mullett ranted on, his face getting redder and redder, his fist pounding the desk at intervals. He wasn’t interested in what Mullett was saying, he was only concerned at what Mullett intended doing about it. This could be the chop, the heaven-sent opportunity his superintendent had been dreaming about for years. Then something Mullett was saying penetrated his filtering mechanism.
‘This could have been the end of your career in the force, but much against the grain, I have interceded on your behalf with County..’
Interceded. Bloody hell, thought Frost. What’s the catch?
Mullett stuffed all the receipts back into the envelope and gave it to Frost. ‘Resubmit your expense claim, but this time with proper, genuine petrol receipts and nothing further will be said.’
Frost sat stunned. This was too good to be true. He slipped the envelope in his inside pocket. ‘Right, Super, leave it to me.’ He rose, ready to take his leave before Mullett came to his senses.
‘This is your last chance, Inspector. One more slip up — just one — and…’ But he was talking to an empty room. Frost had gone.
Mullett sighed deeply. He unfolded the Confidential memo from County and read it again. It pointed out that he, as Divisional Commander, had signed Frost’s expense claim, certifying that he had checked it and found it correct. How on earth was he expected to check everything he had to sign? It was most unfair. And what was more unfair was that in getting himself off the hook; he had to get Frost off as well. Damn. He returned the memo to his middle drawer and locked it, then phoned Sergeant Wells saying he wanted a briefing meeting with the night shift in ten minutes.
The murmur of conversation stopped abruptly and every one sprang to their feet as Mullett marched into the Briefing Room. He frowned. There seemed very few people in attendance. A quick count… eight in all, six men and two WPCs. No sign of Frost. He raised his eyebrows at Wells, querying the small turnout.
‘This is all there is, sir,’ he was told. ‘Two more down with flu, plus Bryant and Wilkes still in hospital after the pub punch-up last week. Collier’s on the desk in the lobby standing in for me.’
‘And Mr Frost?’
‘I did tell him, sir.’
Mullett’s lips narrowed. Typical Well, he certainly wasn’t going to wait for him. He looked around the room. The new man, Gilmore, smartly turned out, was in the front row. Next to him, a sullen DC Burton, all brawn and no brains. Burton was a good man to have at your side in an emergency, but he would never progress beyond the rank of DC.
Mullett shivered and rubbed his hands together briskly. It was damn cold in here. ‘Sit down, everyone, please. Well, what we lack in quantity, I’m sure we more than make up for in quality.’ He let the half-hearted ripple of laughter die. ‘Firstly, I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Allen has suffered a set-back and will not, be returning to duty for
