those broken-down shoes many times before. The scrubbing brush worked vigorously at a stubborn spot in the corner. ‘He’s out. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know when he’ll be back. I haven’t seen him for days.’
‘Thanks very much, Belle,’ said Frost, stepping over the wet patch into the hallway. ‘We’d love to come in.’ She snorted annoyance and straightened up, flinging the scrubbing brush into the bucket and splashing Gilmore’s trousers with dirty water in the process.
‘You got a warrant?’ she screamed.
‘Would I come in without one?’ asked Frost in a hurt voice, patting the forged car expenses in his inside pocket as he marched up the passage and into the kitchen.
‘Yes, you bloody would,’ she yelled, charging after him.
Frost drew a chair up to the formica-topped table and plonked himself down. He jerked his head for Gilmore to have a quick look round for a lurking Wally.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ she yelled as Gilmore clattered up the stairs.
‘He wants to use your toilet,’ Frost explained. ‘He had curry for breakfast and it’s given him the runs.’
Ear-rings and breasts quivering, Belle glowered. She flopped down in the chair opposite him. Frost gave her a friendly smile. ‘You’re looking well, Belle.’
‘You’re not,’ she snapped. ‘You’re looking old and scruffy.’ She waved away the offered cigarette. ‘I don’t smoke.’ Then her face softened. ‘Sorry to hear about your wife.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Frost. An awkward silence. She’d thrown him off balance. He lit up and waited for Gilmore’s return.
A kettle on the gas-ring rattled its lid and whistled. Belle heaved herself up and turned off the gas.
‘Two sugars in mine,’ said Frost.
‘You’ve got the cheek of the bloody devil,’ she snapped, banging three mugs on the table and hurling a tea-bag in each. Gilmore came in, shaking his head. Wally wasn’t in the house. ‘What did I tell you? I haven’t seen him for days.’ smirked Belle, filling the mugs from the kettle and slopping in milk. ‘Help yourselves to sugar.’ She slid the mugs over.
‘So where is he, Belle?’ said Frost, spooning out the dripping tea-bag and depositing it on the table.
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know.’ She leant back to reach an opened box of Marks and Spencer’s Continental chocolates from the dresser and wrenched off the lid. A chocolate truffle disappeared into her mouth and was washed down by a swig of tea.
‘When did you last see him?’ persisted Frost.
Her face contorted as she gave her impression of thinking deeply. ‘Last Friday. He goes away a lot on business. I hardly ever see him. He only comes back for you know what and that only lasts five minutes on a good day.’
Frost nodded sympathetically. ‘We’ve got him down in our files as a quick in and out merchant, Belle.’ His finger worried away at his scar. ‘He doesn’t take his van when he goes away, then?’
‘His van?’
‘The blue one outside.’
‘Oh that,’ sniffed Belle. ‘No. It’s broken down.’ As she spoke, the front door slammed. Her head jerked round. She looked worried. Quick footsteps along the passage. At a sign from Frost, Gilmore was up out of his chair, standing by the door, ready to grab the newcomer.
‘Mum, have you . . . Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were with clients.’ It was a young girl.
Belle forced a smile. ‘It’s the police, Deidree . . . I was just telling them we hadn’t seen your dad since Friday.’
Deidree Manson, fifteen years old, in a leather jacket and a short skirt, was a scaled-down replica of her plump mother, even down to small, curtain-ring ear pendants, but with sandy-coloured hair which had not yet made the acquaintance of the bleach bottle. She stared blankly at her mother. ‘Dad? Oh yes . . . of course. We haven’t seen him for days.’
Frost flicked ash into his tea mug. ‘Clients? Are you back on the game, Belle?’
‘Thank you very much!’ mouthed Belle to her daughter. To Frost she said airily, ‘I oblige the odd gentleman. Just for pin money.’
‘Yes. Some of your clients are bleeding odd,’ said Frost, pushing his mug away. ‘I hope you disinfect your crockery.’ He swung round to Deidree. ‘No school today?’
‘Half-term,’ she replied laconically, helping herself to a strawberry cream.
‘What school do you go to?’
‘Denton Modern.’
The same school as Paula Bartlett. Frost asked Deidree if she knew her.
Her tongue snaked out to catch a straying dribble of chocolate juice. ‘She was in my class. Bit of a drip. Nose always stuck in