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