The man snorted his contempt as he stamped out. ‘If I’ve got to wait for you to find that poor little cow, I’ll wait for ever.’
Wells stared stony-faced at the man’s retreating back, then opened a door to yell, ‘Can’t someone answer that damn phone,’ before turning his attention to Gilmore. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Detective Sergeant Gilmore to see Mr Mullett.’
Behind Gilmore the lobby door opened again and two men and a woman came in, shaking umbrellas. One of the men unbuttoned his raincoat to reveal a clerical collar. ‘Appointment with Mr Mullett,’ he announced.
‘Yes, vicar. He’s expecting you,’ Wells told him.
‘My appointment’s at nine,’ hissed Gilmore, waving his itinerary as proof.
‘Then you’ll have to wait.’ The sergeant brushed past him to escort the trio through the swing doors to the Divisional Commander’s office.
Fuming, Gilmore checked his watch. A minute to nine. The one thing he knew about his new Divisional Commander was that Mullett was a stickler for punctuality and, because that fool of a sergeant had let the newcomers through first, he was going to be late reporting for duty on his very first day.
He slumped down on the hard wooden bench and prodded a puddle of disinfectant-smelling water with his shoe. The hands of the wall clock clunked round with monotonous regularity, marking out the number of minutes he was going to be late. He shifted his gaze to the missing girl poster. Paula Bartlett, aged 15, dark hair, pale complexion, height 5’3”. Last seen September 14th, in the Forest Lane area. September 14th! Some two months ago!
She wasn’t a particularly pretty-looking kid, but perhaps the photograph didn’t do her justice.
The swing doors clicked together as the sergeant returned. Gilmore sprang to his feet. ‘My appointment with Mr Mullett…’
‘You’ll have to wait.’ Wells had no time for jumped-up newly promoted constables.
Gilmore felt he had to report to someone. He consulted his itinerary. ‘Tell Inspector Allen I’m here.’
‘He’s off sick. Everyone’s off flaming sick.’ The internal phone buzzed. ‘No, Mr Mullett, Mr Frost isn’t in yet. Yes, I did tell him nine o’clock. Yes, sir.’ He hung up.
Rain blew in from the lobby doors as a scruffy figure in a dripping mac pushed through. He peeled a sodden maroon scarf from his neck and wrung it out. ‘It’s peeing down out there,’ he announced, then his nose twitched. ‘Disinfectant and perfume. This place stinks like a tart’s slop-bucket.’
‘The disinfectant is from the cleaners,’ the sergeant informed him. ‘We had drunks throwing up all over the place last night. And the poncey scent is from the new boy’s aftershave.’ He jerked his head at Gilmore, who scowled back. ‘Mr Mullett’s been asking for you.’
‘He’s always asking for me. I think he fancies me. He likes, a bit of rough.’ He unbuttoned his mac to expose a crumpled blue suit with two buttons missing. The red tie beneath the frayed shirt collar had a tight, greasy knot and looked as if it had been put on by being pulled over his neck like a noose. He turned to Gilmore and held out a nicotine-stained hand. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jack Frost.’
Gilmore shook the proffered hand, his mind racing. A detective inspector! This rag-bag was a detective inspector? A joke, surely? But no-one seemed to be laughing. ‘You’ll be working with me,’ continued Frost.
Now that just had to be a joke. He waved his itinerary. ‘I’ve been assigned to Mr Allen.’
‘All been changed — Allen’s got the pox,’ said Frost.
‘He’s down with flu,’ corrected the station sergeant. ‘Half the damn station’s down with it, most of the others are on sick leave following Friday’s punch-up and the rest of us silly sods are dragged in on their rest day and working double shifts.’ The internal phone buzzed.
‘If it’s Mullett…’ said Frost, backing towards the exit doors.
It wasn’t Mullett. It was Control for the inspector. ‘The Comptons — the couple receiving the hate mail. They’ve had a fire — someone’s tried to burn their summer house down.’
‘On my way,’ said Frost, banging down the phone. He jerked his head at Gilmore. ‘Come on, son. If you like rigid nipples you’re in for a treat — the lady of the house is a cracker.’
‘But I’m supposed to report to the Divisional Commander,’ Gilmore protested.
‘You can do that when we get back.’
The internal phone rang. This time it was Mullett.
Frost grabbed Gilmore’s arm and hurried him out into the rain.
Frost’s old Ford Cortina was tucked out of sight, round the corner from the station car-park where, hopefully, Mullett wouldn’t spot it. While Gilmore waited in the pouring rain which was finding its way through his new raincoat, Frost cleared the junk from the passenger seat, including two mud-encrusted wellington boots which he tossed into the back of the car. ‘In you get, son.’
Gilmore scrubbed pointedly at the seat with his handkerchief before risking its contact with his brand new suit. His head nearly hit the windscreen as Frost suddenly slammed the car into gear and they were away.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, hastily clicking the buckle of his seat belt as the car squealed into Market Square, shooting up spray as it ploughed through an unexpectedly deep puddle.
‘A little village called Lexing — about four miles outside Denton.’ A blur of shops zipped past then the engine was labouring and coughing as it clawed up a steep hill and there was a smell of burning oil. Frost sniffed and frowned. ‘Do you know anything about engines, son?’
‘No,’ said Gilmore, firmly. There was no way he was going to mess up his new suit poking under the bonnet of Frost’s filthy car. They were now passing a heavily wooded area, with sagging, rain-heavy bushes.
Frost jerked a thumb. ‘Denton Woods. Right over the far side is where that schoolgirl went missing. She was doing a newspaper round, but never finished it. Her bike and her undelivered papers turned up in a ditch, but no trace of the kid.’
‘Had there been trouble at home? Could she have run away?’
‘Don’t know, son. It was Mr Allen’s case until he conveniently got the bloody flu. Now I’m lumbered. We’ll have to start reading through the file when we get back.’ He scratched a match down the dashboard and lit up, then remembered he hadn’t told Gilmore about the case they were driving to. ‘Married couple, in their mid-twenties, live in a converted windmill. Some joker’s been frightening the life out of them.’
‘How?’ Gilmore asked.
‘Lots of charming ways. Sending fake obituary notices — tombstone catalogues and things like that. They even had an undertaker call on them last week to collect the husband’s body. His poor cow of a wife went into hysterics.’
The car was now jolting and squelching down a muddied lane and the smell of burning oil was getting stronger. Frost wound down the window to let in some air, then pointed. ‘There it is!’ Looming up before them, imperfectly seen through the Cortina’s mud-grimed wind screen, was a genuine old wooden windmill, its sails removed, and painted a smart designer black and white.
Gilmore leant forward and craned his neck to take it all in. He was impressed. ‘That must have cost a few bob?’
Frost nodded. ‘Rumour has it that the Comptons paid close on a quarter of a million for the place. With the slump in the housing market it’s worth a lot less now.’
The car scrunched up the gravel driveway which led to a white-framed, black front door outside which a police car was already parked. Alongside the drive ran a lawn, once immaculate, but now a muddy, churned-up, tire-grooved mess a-slosh with dirty water. Their job done, firemen were clambering into a fire engine ready to drive off. In the middle of the lawn the Fire Investigations Officer, rain bouncing off his yellow sou’wester, was gloomily poking through a jumble of sodden ashes and burnt, paint-blistered wood, all that was left of the summer house. Frost paddled over to him, cursing as water found the holes in his shoes and ruefully remembering his wellington boots snug and dry in the back of the car. Gilmore stayed put on the path. He wasn’t ruining his shoes for a lousy burnt-out summer house.