Harry shuffled out and the two men sidled across. Warning them to wait with a movement of his hand, Rickman darted over to the shop door and squinted through the glass to make sure no-one else was coming, then lowered his voice. ‘Who sent you — Les?’
‘Yes,’ replied Frost, equally conspiratorial, wondering what the hell this was all about.
‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Rickman, unlocking a door behind the counter. He ushered them through. ‘Some of this stuff’s dynamite.’ He clicked on the light. The room was full of shelved books and magazines with lurid covers of naked, sweating, entwined men and women. In boxes on a table were stacks of soft porn videos.
‘Les said you had something special,’ suggested Frost, signalling to Gilmore, who was fumbling for his war rant card, to hold his horses.
Rickman leered and tapped the side of his nose knowingly. He unlocked a cupboard. More videos, this time in plain white boxes with typed labels.
‘There’s everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘All tastes catered for — men with men, women with women, with kids, animals… any permutation you want. Fifty quid a time — return it undamaged and I’ll allow you twenty-five quid off your next purchase.’
‘I don’t know that I’ve got that much money on me,’ said Frost, reaching for his inside pocket.
‘I take Access… American Express… any card you like.’
‘What about this one?’ asked Frost.
Rickman stared at a warrant card. His jaw dropped. ‘Shit!’ he said.
A ring from the shop bell and a boy’s voice called, ‘Papers ready, Mr Rickman?’
‘By the counter. Take them and go.’ He waited until the bell signalled the boy’s departure. ‘Look, officer. I’m sure we can come to some understanding.’ He brought out his wallet and pulled out two?50 notes.
‘Give the gentleman a receipt for a?100 bribe,’ said Frost, holding out his hand for the money. ‘I’ll read you the numbers.’
Hastily, Rickman stuffed the banknotes in his pocket. ‘You misunderstand me, Inspector.’
‘I hope I do,’ replied Frost. ‘You’re in enough bloody trouble as it is.’ He read some of the labels on the videos and shuddered. They were very explicit.
Rickman fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed sweat from his face. ‘I don’t usually indulge in this sort of stuff. Harmless soft porn, yes, but not the hard stuff. I met this bloke in a pub…’
Frost cut him short. ‘Save your fairy tales for the officer down the station.’ He sent Gilmore to the car to radio for someone to collect Rickman and the books and videos.
‘You try and do people a good turn and this happens,’ moaned Rickman. ‘What bastard shopped me?’
‘We’ve been watching this shop for months,’ lied Frost. He had taken an instant dislike to the podgy newsagent. Some of the videos involved schoolgirls. He wondered if Paula Bartlett was tied in with this in some way. He stared at the fidgeting Rickman and slowly lit a cigarette. ‘We’ve found her, you know.’
‘Found who?’
‘Paula.’
‘Paula Bartlett… my news girl?’
Frost nodded.
‘Is she…‘ He steeled himself to say it. ‘Is she dead?’
Another nod.
‘Oh, that’s terrible.’ His face was screwed tight in anguish.
‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘And you should see what the bastard did to her. It would make a good video for you to sell.”
The shop bell tinkled again as Gilmore returned. He’d also asked Bill Wells to phone his wife and say he would be late, but had got short shrift from the sergeant.
Frost sat on the corner of the ice-cream cabinet. ‘Tell me about Paula.’
‘A really nice, sweet kid,’ said Rickman.
‘They’re always nice when they’re dead,’ said Frost. ‘Tell me what she was like while she was still alive.’
Rickman shrugged. ‘She was a nothing. A dull kid. A bit of a pudding. Never laughed. Hardly ever spoke. Did her work. That was all.’
Again the shop bell quivered and rung and an old woman shuffled in. ‘We’re closed,’ said Frost, taking her by the arm and steering her out into the street. He reversed the Open/Closed sign and rammed home the bolts.
‘Tell me about the day she went missing.’
‘I’ve already told all this to the other detective… the ferret-faced bloke. An absolutely normal day. She left as usual to go on her round and that was the last I saw of her.’
‘Had she complained about men molesting her… or following her?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Not to me, she didn’t. She hardly spoke a bloody word to me.’
Frost ambled over to the counter and glanced at the paper Rickman had been reading. He studied the naked Page Three girl, his cigarette drooping dispassionately. ‘How was young Paula set up? Well stacked, was she?’
‘No different to most of the other girls. They mature so bloody quickly these days… see them at fifteen you think they’re twenty. Mind you, Paula didn’t flaunt it. She used to wear loose woolly cardigans and things like that.’
‘Did she go out with any of the newspaper boys?’
‘No. Between you and me, I don’t reckon she’d ever been with a boy or knew anything about sex.’
Frost raised his eyebrows. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Something that happened three months ago. I’m in the shop sorting out the papers for the rounds. Only two of the kids were in, Diana Massey and Jimmy Richards.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Frost.
‘They were both in Paula’s class at school — both just turned fifteen. Anyway, I’m sorting out the papers when I realize they’ve both gone missing. Well, not that I mistrust anyone, but I keep the day’s takings in that other backroom there until I can get to the bank, so I sticks my head round the door and what do you think I saw?’
‘Tell me,’ said Frost.
‘Diana’s on the floor, jeans round her ankles, he’s on top of her, jeans ditto and they’re having it away on a stack of Radio Times. Fifteen flaming years old. Didn’t even stop when I yelled at them.’
‘I don’t think I would, either,’ observed Frost. ‘Anyway, I heard a gasp behind me. I turned and there was Paula Bartlett. She was staring at them horrified. She dropped her papers and just ran out of I shop. It was obvious to me she didn’t know what the hell they were up to. Innocent, that’s what she was.’
‘If our plumber lets us down, we’d better check out this Jimmy Richards,’ said Frost. ‘He might have acquired taste for innocent newspaper girls.’
While Gilmore was noting down the address, an area car drew up outside and two uniformed officers rattled the door handle. Frost let them in. ‘Stack of pornographic gear in the back,’ he told them. ‘Take it and our friend here down to the station and charge him under the Obscene Publications Act.’
Back to the car. Gilmore slammed the door, hoping this would wake up Burton who didn’t deserve to sleep after causing all this trouble, but to no avail. He was fastening his seat belt when the damn radio called for the inspector
Frost reached for the handset as Gilmore slumped back wearily, waiting for the worst.
‘Can you do a quick job for me, Inspector?’ asked Sergeant Wells.
‘No,’ replied Frost. ‘Gilmore’s got to get home. He’s left his wife on the boil.’
‘It’s on your way, Jack. Probably a false alarm. Number 46 Mannington Crescent. A pensioner, Mrs Mary Haynes. She lives there on her own, but yesterday’s milk is still on the doorstep and her cat’s meowing like mad inside. The milkman’s phoned us. He thinks something might have happened to her. Take a look, would you?’
‘This is uniform branch stuff,’ snapped Gilmore.