‘He’s still got a wispy beard,’ said Frost, ‘and I don’t trust the sod.’ He returned to his desk. ‘Right. She’s reported missing. What happened from there?’
‘Mr Allen took over the case at 20.15. The area between Grove Road and Brook Cottage was searched. At 23.32 we found her bike and her newspaper bag with the two undelivered papers, dumped in the ditch. The ditch was dragged in case the girl was there as well. It was then too dark to continue so it was resumed at first light with the search area extended to include part of the woods. Mr Allen had all known sex offenders, child molesters, flashers and the like brought in for questioning.’ He pulled open a filing cabinet drawer jam-packed with bulging file folders – the results of the questionings.
Frost regarded them gloomily. Far too many for him to read through.
‘There’s more,’ said Burton, tugging open a second drawer.
Frost winced and kneed them both shut. ‘Say what you like about Mr Allen, but he’s an industrious bastard. I take it he cleared them all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then that’s good enough for me.’ He struck a match down the side of the filing cabinet and lit up another cigarette. ‘Where’s the bike?’
Burton led him to the freezing cold evidence shed in the car-park and unlocked the door.
The bike, swathed in dimpled polythene, was leaning against the wall. Burton pulled off the covering and stood back. A neat little foldable bike in light grey stove-enamel with dark grey handle-grips and pedals. Frost stared at it, but it told him nothing. He waited while Burton replaced the dimpled polythene, then followed him back to the Incident Room.
‘Let’s see the physical evidence.’
Unlocking a metal cupboard Burton took out a large cardboard box that had once held a gross of toiletrolls and dumped it on the desk. Then he pulled a bulging box-file down from the shelf and handed it to the inspector. ‘The main file.’
Frost opened it. From the top of a heap of papers a serious-looking Paula Bartlett regarded him solemnly through dark-rimmed glasses. The school photograph provided by the parents when she first went missing, which was used for the ‘Have You Seen This Girl?’ poster. There were many more photographs, including those taken at the crypt and at the post-mortem. Frost shuddered and dug deeper, pausing to examine the flashlight enlargements showing the handlebar of the bike poking through the green scum of the ditch. ‘Any prints on the bike?’
‘You’ve already asked me, sir. Just the girl’s and the schoolmaster’s.’
Frost paused. Why did little buzzes of intuition whisper in his ear every time the schoolmaster was mentioned?
The rest of the file consisted of negative forensic reports on the bike and the canvas newspaper bag, plus statements from Paula’s school friends – no, she had never talked of running away; no, she wasn’t worried or unhappy about anything; no, she had no boyfriends. In the early days of the investigations, as no body was found, it was hoped that she had dumped her bike and, like so many kids of her age, run away from home. There were reports from various police forces who had followed up sightings of Paula look-alikes, teenage girls on the game or sleeping rough. A few missing teenage girls were restored to their families, but the Bartletts just waited, and hoped, and kept her room ready exactly as she left it.
He closed the file and handed it back to Burton, then pulled the cardboard box towards him. Inside it, loosely folded in a large transparent resealable bag, was the black, mould-speckled plastic rubbish sack, Paula’s shroud, ripped where the knife had cut through to reveal her face.
‘A rubbish sack,’ commented Burton. ‘Millions of them made. No clue there.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ gloomed Frost, taking the next item from the box. A canvas bag which had held the newspapers. The stagnant smell of the scummy ditch in which it had been immersed wafted up as he examined it. He slipped his arm through the shoulder strap. The bag was too high and uncomfortable. Paula was much smaller than he was. What the hell does that prove? he thought. He shrugged off the strap and put the bag on top of the rubbish sack. Next were the brown, flat-heeled shoes, the stained laces still tied in a neat double bow.
‘Naked, raped and murdered, but still wearing shoes,’ muttered Frost. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’