A small, bespectacled man wearing a plastic raincoat stood in the centre of the lobby. When he had Wells’ attention, he parted the raincoat. He was wearing nothing underneath it.
‘Oh, push off,’ groaned Wells, slamming his pen down. ‘We’re too bloody busy.’
Defiantly, the man stood his ground, holding the mac open even wider. Another groan from Wells. ‘Collier,’ he yelled. ‘Come and arrest this gentleman.’
The lobby door swung open again as Frost bounded in, a disgruntled-looking Gilmore at his heels. He glanced casually at the man, did a double take and stared hard. ‘No thanks, I’ve got one,’ he said.
‘When you want a flasher,’ moaned Wells, ‘you can’t find one. When you don’t want one, they come and stick it under your nose.’
There were extra staff in the Murder Incident Room where the phones were constantly ringing.
Frost looked around in surprise. ‘What’s going on?’
Burton, a phone to his ear, noted down a few details, murmured his thanks and hung up. ‘It’s the response to the Paula Bartlett video. It went out on television again tonight. We’re flooded out with calls from people who reckon they saw her.’
‘After two months they reckon they saw her,’ grunted Frost. ‘When the video went out the day she went missing, no-one could remember a damn thing.’ He picked up one of the phone messages from a filing basket. A woman reporting seeing Paula in the town two days ago. Frost flicked it back in the basket. ‘A waste of bloody time.’
‘Excellent response to the video,’ boomed Mullett, sailing in and beaming at all the activity.
‘Just what I was saying, Super,’ lied Frost. ‘How did the press conference go?’
‘Very well,’ smirked Mullett. ‘I recorded an interview for BBC radio. They hope to repeat it in Pick of the Week.’
‘Are you sure they said “pick”?’ Frost enquired innocently.
There was the sound of stifled laughter and people in the room seemed desperate to avoid Mullett’s eye. One of the WPCs had a fit of the giggles and was stuffing a handkerchief in her mouth. Mullett frowned, uneasily aware he was missing out on something, and not sure what. He didn’t see the joke, but he smiled anyway. He remembered the messages he had to deliver. ‘Who’s been telexing the Metropolitan Police about someone called Bradbury?’
‘Simon Bradbury?’ asked Gilmore eagerly. ‘That was me.’
‘Who’s Simon Bradbury?’ Frost asked.
‘The computer salesman. The bloke who picked the fight with Mark Compton. I thought he might be the one who’s been sending the death threats.’
‘You could be on to something. Sergeant,’ said Mullett, handing Gilmore the telex. ‘The Metropolitan Police know Bradbury. He’s a nasty piece of work and he’s got form.’
Bradbury had been involved in drunken brawls, had served two prison sentences for assault and had been fined and disqualified for drunken driving. There was an arrest warrant out on him for beating up a barman who refused to serve him. He had defaulted on police bail and was no longer at his last known address. Full details and a photograph were following.
Gilmore rubbed his hands. ‘Sounds like our man, Super. I could have a result on this case very soon.’
‘Excellent,’ beamed Mullett. ‘Results are something we are very short of at the moment.’ He glared significantly at Frost then looked around the room where the phones were still ringing non-stop. ‘Anything interesting on the Paula Bartlett video?’
‘Yes,’ sniffed Frost. ‘Proof there’s life after death. She was still being seen delivering papers up to last week.’
Mullett forced a smile. ‘Ah well. Carry on with the good work.’ He turned to leave and was nearly hit by the door as Sergeant Wells burst in.
‘Urgent message for Mr Frost from Fingerprints,’ panted Wells. ‘The senior citizen killing . . . Mary Haynes. One of the prints in the bedroom. It’s someone with previous.’
‘Who?’ asked Frost, pushing Mullett to one side.
‘Dean Ronald Hoskins. Collier’s pulling out his file.’
On cue, a panting Collier rushed in waving a buff folder. Wells snatched it and skimmed through the details. ‘Dean Ronald Hoskins, aged twenty-four. Three previous – burglary, breaking and entering and assault with a knife.’
‘A knife,’ hissed Mullett, snatching the file from Wells. ‘By God, we’ve got him.’ He was so excited he could hardly hold the file still. He couldn’t wait to phone the Chief Constable . . . ‘Sorry to disturb you at your home, sir,’ he would begin modestly, ‘but a bit of good news I thought you’d like to know . . . Denton Division triumph yet again . .