and reeking of disinfectant. Somewhere a phone was ringing and no-one answered it. Leaning against the counter, snorting with impatience, a middle-aged man waited. He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling as Gilmore entered, inviting him to share his disgust at the treatment meted out to rate-paying members of the public. ‘My car’s been pinched. They won’t accept details over the phone – that’s too bloody easy. You have to take time off from flaming work, hire a cab because you’ve got no car and come down in person and fill in a damn form.’
A balding, uniformed sergeant with a mournful face came in. This was Bill Wells, pushing forty, tired and fed up. Today should have been his rest day. ‘Right, Mr Wilkins. Details have been circulated.’
‘So what happens now?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘It was probably taken by joyriders. If a member of the public reports it abandoned somewhere, we’ll let you know so you can collect it.’
‘And that’s the limit of the help I get from the police? If someone happens to spot it, you’ll pass on the message. Brilliant. Aren’t the police going to look for it?’
‘Of course we are,’ the sergeant told him, ‘but we do have more important things on our plate.’ He nodded towards the poster on the wall behind him. The poster displayed a black and white photograph of a child in school uniform standing by a bike. The heading read: Missing – have you seen this girl?
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