tailored raincoat. At 9.30 in the morning the lobby had a tired, slept-in look, which reminded him that he wanted to have a few words with Frost to ascertain his progress with the Paula Bartlett case.
‘Mr Frost in yet, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Wells, barely managing to camouflage a yawn. ‘He’s out on another fatal stabbing – an old lady in Mannington Crescent.’
Mullett’s forehead creased in anguish. ‘Oh no!’
‘Nasty one by all accounts,’ continued Wells. ‘Stomach ripped and throat cut.’
‘Send the inspector to me the minute he comes in, Sergeant. Do you know if he left a report for me on the Paula Bartlett case? I’ve got a press conference at two.’
‘I haven’t seen one, sir.’
Mullett sighed his annoyance. ‘How can I answer press questions if I’m not kept informed? It just isn’t good enough.’
‘We’re all overworked, sir,’ said Wells.
‘Excuses, excuses . . . all I hear are excuses.’ His eyes flicked from side to side, doing a brisk inspection of the lobby. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Wells, swaying slightly from side to side, trying to give his impression of a loyal, dedicated policeman almost dead on his feet from overwork. ‘The thing is, with this flu epidemic. . .’
‘We mustn’t use that as an excuse to lower standards, Sergeant. This lobby is our shop window. The first thing the public see when they come in. A clean lobby is an efficient lobby . . . it inspires confidence.’ He paused and stared hard at the Sergeant. ‘You haven’t shaved this morning. A fine example to set the men.’
In vain Wells tried to explain about the double shift and that his relief sergeant was down with the virus, but Mullett wasn’t prepared to become involved in the trivial details of station house-keeping. ‘Excuses are easy to make, Sergeant. Those of us fortunate enough to escape the flu virus must work all the harder. Standards must be maintained.’
Waiting until the door closed behind his Divisional Commander, Wells permitted himself the luxury of an importent, two-fingered gesture.
‘I saw that, Sergeant!’ rasped the unmistakable voice of the Chief Constable.
Wells spun round, horrified, then flopped into his chair, almost sweating with relief. Grinning at him from the lobby doorway was Jack Frost who had been hovering in the background, waiting for Mullett to leave.
‘You frightened the flaming life out of me, Jack.’
‘The man of a thousand voices but only one dick. So what’s been happening?’
‘Well, I’ve been working all bleeding night. . .’
‘Excuses, excuses, Sergeant . . . give me the facts, man.’ He pushed a cigarette across and lit it for Wells.
‘Rickman’s given us a statement.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The porno video merchant. Says he bought them from a man in a pub . . . didn’t know his name. We’ve released him on police bail.’
‘What about my plumber?’
‘Interview Room number two.’
‘Thanks,’ said Frost, making for the swing doors. He paused. ‘This floor could do with a sweep, Sergeant.’
‘I’ll get you a broom,’ grinned Wells. The internal phone rang. Bloody Mullett again. Wells’ expression changed. ‘The canteen’s closed, sir. I haven’t got anyone who can make your tea.’ He jiggled the receiver, then slammed the phone down. Not interested in excuses, Mullett had hung up.
Outside the interview room an excited Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon ran forward to meet Frost. ‘We could be on to something here, Jack.’ He opened the door a crack so the inspector could see inside. A fat, balding man with shifty eyes in his mid-forties was slouched in a chair. He wore dark blue overalls over a beer belly.
‘He’s guilty,’ said Frost. ‘Never mind a trial, just hang him.’
Carefully closing the door, Hanlon continued. ‘Bernard Hickman, forty-four years old, married, no children. The day Paula went missing, Hickman was supposed to be working in the cemetery, installing that new stand-pipe by the side of the crypt. His time sheet says he started work at eight, but the vicar is positive he didn’t arrive until gone nine.’ He opened a folder to show Frost the time sheet.
‘Where does he live?’
‘63 Vicarage Terrace, Denton.’
Frost chewed this over. The area where Paula went missing was north of Denton Woods. Vicarage Terrace was some four or five miles to the south. ‘Has he got a motor?’
‘Yes. It’s in the car-park.’
Then Hickman could have driven and forced the girl into his car, raped and killed her and got to the cemetery by nine. But what was he doing north of the woods in the first place? The cemetery was in the opposite