the top of the lane and give her a lift from there.’
‘What did you do about her bike?’ This from Frost.
‘It was one of those folding ones. I put it in the boot. She could then cycle home when school was over. This is all in your files . . . I made a full statement to that other officer.’
‘What sort of things did you talk about when you drove her to school?’ asked Gilmore. ‘Did she mention boy friends, or crushes on any of the masters, or anything?’
Bell shifted his position to face the sergeant. ‘We hardly passed more than a few words. She was a quiet girl, and that suited me. When I’m driving, I like to concentrate, not talk.’
‘Was she a teaser?’ asked Frost.
His pale cheeks showed two red spots. ‘How the hell should I know?’
‘In the car, sir, you and her, close. The old knees rubbing together . . . flashes of elasticated knicker leg and tender young thigh all juicy and throbbing?’
Bell’s lip curled contemptuously. ‘I find you offensive, Inspector.’
Through a haze of cigarette smoke Frost beamed at him. ‘You’re not alone in that, sir. But I found it offensive when I saw what that sod had done to that kid, so just answer my questions.’
Bell stood up and towered angrily over the inspector. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I am involved in this poor child’s death?’
‘Let’s just say you’re quite high on my list of suspects.’ In fact, thought Frost, you’re my one and only bloody suspect, so if it isn’t you, I’m nowhere. ‘Can you tell me your movements for the morning she went missing?’ His raised hand halted Bell in mid-protest. ‘I know you’ve told it all to the other bloke, but I’d like to hear it first-hand.’
‘It was the morning of my wife’s funeral. The hearse arrived from the undertakers at 9.30. The interment was at ten. I got back home a few minutes before noon.’
‘So, before the funeral, you were alone in the house until 9.30?’
‘No. My wife’s parents were here. They’d travelled down from Berwick for the funeral and stayed with me overnight.’
‘Oh.’ Frost tried not to sound disappointed. ‘They’d confirm this, of course?’
‘I think you’ll find they’ve already given statements to Inspector Allen.’
Frost groaned inwardly. Why the hell hadn’t he done his homework? ‘I’ve only just skimmed through the files, sir.’ Skimmed! He hadn’t even opened them. ‘Your morning paper hadn’t arrived by the time you left for the funeral. Didn’t that worry you? Didn’t you wonder why?’
‘I didn’t give it a thought, Inspector. The only thing on my mind was the funeral.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Damn, thought Frost. There goes my best suspect. All he was left with now was the plumber. Which reminded him. ‘Did it rain during the funeral?’
‘There was a sudden cloudburst,’ said Bell. ‘We all got drenched.’
And damn again, thought Frost. Now I haven’t even got the plumber. He poked another cigarette in his mouth and lit up. The smoke curled and drifted and he followed it with his eyes, watching as it was drawn to the fireplace, some of it wafting up to the mantelpiece. In the centre of the mantelpiece a clock in Chinese black lacquer, long unwound, had stopped at ten past eight. Something poked out from behind it. A light blue envelope, the address typed. It looked very similar to the one sent to old Mr Wardley.
A sharp cough to catch Gilmore’s attention and a jerk of the head to direct him to the clock. Silently, Gilmore sidled over and pulled out the envelope. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. The typing was identical.
Bell, staring out at the rain-soaked garden, saw nothing of this extended mime show.
‘One final thing,’ said Frost casually. ‘What did the poison pen letter say?’
Bell stiffened, then slowly turned. He saw the envelope in Gilmore’s hand and snatched it from him. ‘You’ve no right . . .’
‘We’ve every bloody right,’ snapped Frost, standing and holding out his hand. ‘The letter, please, sir.’
Bell stared at him, knuckles white, body stiff with fury. He almost threw the envelope at the inspector. ‘You bastard!’ he hissed. ‘You lousy bastard.’
‘Sticks and stones,’ reproved Frost, mildly. He unfolded the sheet of cheap typing paper. The typed message said, simply, Fornicator.
‘Terse,’ murmured Frost, passing the message to Gilmore. ‘Why should anyone accuse you of that, sir?’
‘It’s none of your damn business.’
‘In a murder enquiry, sir, everything is my damn business.’
Bell walked back to the window and again stared at the puddled garden