and wonder what the hell to say next. The sobbing brought Mrs Bartlett into the kitchen. She cradled her husband’s head in her arms and held him tight. ‘What is it, love?’ But head bowed, tears streaming, he couldn’t answer. She looked enquiringly at Frost who had to force the words out again.
‘I had to tell him that . . . that Paula was raped.’
Husband and wife clung together, clutching each other like young lovers, saying nothing, their closeness consoling each other. Ignored by them both, Frost fidgeted and wished he was miles away. ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he told them, ‘your daughter was a virgin.’ Why the bloody hell did he say that? What possible consolation could it be that your daughter was a virgin before some bastard raped and choked the life out of her? He became aware that the father, his tears now of anger, was shouting at him.
‘Of course she was a virgin. She was only fifteen. A kid. She’d had no bloody life . . .’ And then he was sobbing again.
Hastily, Frost excused himself. ‘I’ll be in the other room.’ In the living-room Gilmore, uncomfortable in a too-low chair, raised an eyebrow in query. ‘I sodded it up,’ Frost told him. ‘It’s the wailing bleeding wall out there.’ He flopped into a chair. No sign of an ashtray, but he had to have a smoke. He lit one up, offering the pack to Gilmore who declined.
Barely two puffs later the woman was back, her eyes red. She seemed surprised that they were still there. He pinched out the cigarette and stood up. ‘Two more things, Mrs Bartlett.’ She looked apprehensive. What further horrors could he inflict? ‘It’s just that we’re repeating the video made when Paula first went missing. It’ll be shown on the television news tonight.’
She nodded, relieved that it was nothing worse.
‘And – just for the record. Can you tell me what Paula ate on that last morning?’
‘Cornflakes and toast.’
‘You’re sure? She wouldn’t have cooked herself anything?’
‘Oh no. I was down here with her . . . cornflakes and toast. That’s all she ever had for breakfast.’ As they moved to the front door, she clutched the inspector’s arm. ‘When can we put her to rest?’
At first he didn’t understand what she meant, then realized she was asking about the funeral. ‘Not for a while, love,’ he said.
‘I’d like to see her,’ said Mrs Bartlett, her eyes blinking earnestly behind her glasses.
‘No, love,’ said Frost firmly.
‘Please . . .’ She gripped so tightly, it hurt.
He gently disentangled her fingers from his sleeve. ‘She wouldn’t want you to see her as she is now, Mrs Bartlett.’
‘I don’t care how she looks. She’s my daughter. She’s my daughter . . .!’
Her shouts followed them to the car. With the car door closed she stood in the doorway, still shouting, but they could only hear the rain thudding on the car roof. Then her husband appeared and led her back into the house.
‘That wasn’t an unqualified success, was it?’ sighed Frost, sticking the cigarette end back in his mouth. ‘She had cornflakes for breakfast, Burton. What do you deduce from that?’
‘That you were right, sir. She must have had another meal after she was abducted,’ replied the detective constable.
‘Precisely.’ He scratched the match down the car window. ‘You’re a fifteen-year-old virgin, Burton. You’ve been abducted and taken somewhere. Would you have an appetite for chicken pie, peas and chips?’
‘It depends how long I’d been without food. She might have been held for hours without having anything to eat.’
Frost thought this over and nodded. ‘Cooked food, so it’s got to be indoors. And if he’s keeping the girl hidden there for any length of time, he’s got to be alone in the house. Lastly, to get her from his car to the house, he must be pretty certain he won’t be seen. Which means the house has got to be remote.’ He blew the end of his cigarette and watched it glow. ‘The schoolmaster who usually gave her a lift. Is his house remote?’
Burton nodded. ‘It’s all on its own – miles from anywhere.’
‘Then we’ve got the bastard.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Gilmore who was feeling left out of the discussion. This was typical Frost, plucking a suspect from thin air, then forcing the facts to fit.
‘I’m suggesting that bloody schoolmaster met her in his car and took her back to his house.’
‘The schoolmaster was at his wife’s funeral that day,’ Burton reminded him.