A roar of poncey aftershave as the new chap, Detective-newly-promoted-to-bloody-Sergeant Gilmore marched up to the desk. ‘Where’s Inspector Frost?’
‘No idea,’ beamed Wells, delighted to be so unhelpful. Gilmore scowled at the clock. Frost was ten minutes late already. ‘How do I get a cup of tea?’
‘You make it yourself. The canteen’s closed. The night staff are all down with flu.’
Gilmore scowled again. Detective sergeants didn’t make the tea. He would find DC Burton and get him to do it. As he turned to go he bumped into a woman wearing a red raincoat with the hood up over her head. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, stepping out of her way.
‘Yes, madam?’ asked Wells; Then he recognized her and his voice softened. ‘What can we do for you, Mrs Bartlett?’
‘I’ve got to see Inspector Allen. It’s very urgent. I’ve news about Paula…’
Gilmore stopped dead. Paula? Paula Bartlett? Of course, the girl on the poster, the missing school kid. ‘Perhaps I can help, madam. I’m Detective Sergeant Gilmore. I’m handling the case in Mr Allen’s absence.’
She looked up at him, eyes blinking behind heavy glasses, a dumpy woman in her early forties. Her usually pale face was flushed with excitement. ‘Wonderful news. Paula’s alive. I know where she is.’
‘Mrs Bartlett…’ began Wells guardedly, but Gilmore took her by the arm and drew her away to one of the benches. ‘Where is she, Mrs Bartlett?’
‘In a big house, overlooking the woods.’
His hand shaking with excitement, Gilmore scribbled this down.
‘Where did you get this information from?’ called Wells from the desk.
Gilmore scowled. He was handling this. He didn’t want any interference from the sergeant.
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.