Frost crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, then turned up the collar of his mac. ‘Let’s have a word with the bastard.’
The man, wrenching up weeds from the heavy soil, gave a cry of pain as the sharp thorns of a hidden bramble pierced his palm. He stared angrily at the bright red globules welling from the punctures. The damned briar was everywhere. As fast as you cleared it from one section it appeared somewhere else. Well, if it thought it was going to defeat him, it was making a damn mistake. He tore up a thick clump of grass and wrapped it round the briar as protection then pulled and tugged, swearing out loud as the bramble resisted. It took a great deal of effort but at last he tore it free of the rain-sodden earth and hurled it on to the growing pile of garden refuse. His hand was sticky with blood and rain and sweat. He sucked salt and moved on to the next section, only dimly aware of the sound of slamming car doors and approaching footsteps.
‘Mr Bell?’
‘Eh?’ He straightened up and eased the pain in his back. There were two men, one dark-haired, young and neatly dressed, the other older, hair starting to thin, wearing a crumpled raincoat that had seen better days. The younger one held up a piece of plastic bearing a coloured photograph. ‘Police, Mr Bell.’
‘Is it about Paula?’ he asked. ‘Has she been found?’
‘Let’s talk inside,’ said the scruffy man.
The house was cold and unwelcoming. They passed through the kitchen, its sink and draining board stacked with dirty saucepans and crockery. On top of the fridge stood a half-bottle of lumpy milk. The room was a mess. It reminded Frost of home.
Muttering apologies for the untidiness, Bell opened one door, decided against it and took them into a musty-smelling lounge. Rain streamed down the patio window, blurring the view of the garden beyond. A miserable room. Frost would be glad to get out.
‘Not too cold for you, is it? I haven’t had the heating on. I suppose I should, but it seems pointless . . .’ Bell’s voice trailed off.
‘This is fine, sir,’ said Frost without conviction, winding his scarf tighter. He and Gilmore sat side by side on the beige Dralon settee, facing Bell who was squatting on a footstool, dripping rain on to the pink carpet.
Bell, who wore a rain-blackened checked shirt and baggy corduroy trousers, was in his late thirties. Thin and nervous-looking, his face was framed by unstyled light brown hair and a few tufts of a scraggy beard. A hint of dark rings around his eyes suggested he hadn’t been sleeping too well.
Unaware of Frost’s scrutiny, Bell unwrapped the bloodstained handkerchief, studied his palm, then wrapped it again. Suddenly he remembered the reason for their calling.
‘Paula’s been found, you say? That’s splendid. How is she?’
Frost’s eyes flicked to Gilmore, who sat impassive. This was too naïve. Surely Bell must have heard about the discovery of the girl’s body? ‘Don’t you read the papers, sir?’
‘Papers?’ He shook his head. ‘They don’t deliver papers here any more. The parents won’t let their children do it.’
‘Don’t you listen to the radio? Or talk to your colleagues?’
‘It’s half-term and I’ve been too busy in the garden these past few days to listen to the radio. So what has happened?’
‘Paula is dead, sir,’ said Frost bluntly, carefully watching Bell’s reaction. The man jerked back as if he had been hit, then his face crumpled.
‘Oh no. That poor child. Oh no!’ His grief and shock at the news seemed genuine.
Without taking his eyes from the teacher, Frost slowly lit a cigarette. ‘She was murdered, sir. Raped and murdered.’
Bell stood up. He took the soiled handkerchief from his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. Nervously, he paced the room. ‘She was only fifteen.’
‘Kids mature earlier these days,’ said Frost. ‘They have sex earlier, they get raped earlier, they get murdered earlier.’ He exhaled smoke and watched it disperse. ‘What sort of girl was she?’
The man dropped back on the footstool and thought for a moment. ‘Quiet. Didn’t mix much. An excellent scholar.’
‘Why did you start giving her lifts to school?’ asked Gilmore.
‘It was her parents’ request. Her newspaper round took her some five miles in the opposite direction. Sometimes the papers would be late which could make her late for school and they didn’t want her to miss any of her lessons. I would meet her at