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 Frost, his nose wrinkling in distaste as a clinging smell of decay floated up. ‘This is one of the shoes we found on the body. You took it from the exhibits cupboard.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Frost.
‘You’re going to plant evidence?’ croaked Gilmore. ‘You fool! You’ll never get away with it.’ He thrust the shoe back into Frost’s hand. ‘You can forget it as far as I’m concerned. I want no part of it.’
‘Play along with me,’ pleaded Frost.
‘No bloody way.’ Gilmore’s mind was racing. He couldn’t wait to get back to the station. This was something Mullett had to be told about.
‘Please!’ said Frost.
The old twit looked so pathetic, Gilmore relented. ‘Just don’t involve me,’ he said.
Bell, slumped in a chair, straightened up as the two officers came back in. He forced out a smile which wasn’t returned The older detective’s face was grim and doom-laden. ‘Is there anything the matter?’
Frost didn’t answer. He just held out the shoe in mute accusation.
Bell backed away, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Paula was only wearing one shoe when we found her, sir. We kept this information from the press. In searching your bedroom we found this. It matches perfectly the other shoe we found on the body.’
The schoolmaster’s face was a picture of incredulity. ‘It’s impossible. I don’t understand…’
Frost felt the familiar, icy quiver of doubt. He was so sure he had the killer that he hadn’t fully considered the serious consequences of what would happen if his bluff failed. ‘In your bedroom,’ he repeated. ‘There’s no way it could have got there by accident.’ He was aware of the irony even as he said it.
Still the man shook his head.
‘I’ve had a chat with your prostitute friend, sir. Very interesting. Did your wife dress up in kinky schoolgirl clothes for you as well?’
Bell’s head jerked back as if he had been struck. He bit his lip tightly and shuddered, his face screwed up as if on the verge of bursting into tears. He went through the pantomime of searching hopefully in the empty cigarette box, then gratefully accepted one from Frost. ‘We all do things we’re ashamed of, Inspector. I was hurting no one. As I told you, my wife was incapable of making love during the last months of her illness. I had to find an outlet somewhere.’
‘And you found it in poor little Paula Bartlett? You raped her.’
‘No!’ screamed Bell.
‘You strangled her, and rammed her in a sack like so much rubbish.’
‘No! No, no, no.’
‘So how did the shoe get in your bedroom?’ asked Frost, hooking it on his finger and slowly swinging it from side to side.
Bell stared at Frost, his gaze unwavering. Because you put it there, you bastard, his expression seemed to say. Unflinching, Frost stared back. Gilmore’s pen hovered over a page where nothing was written down.