Wells was on his feet, his mouth opening and closing in the hope that his brain would provide him with something mitigating to say. Gilmore wished the ground would open and swallow him. At the first opportunity he would request an interview with Mullett to explain that he was not there from choice.
Frost didn’t appear to be paying his Divisional Commander much attention, but leant forward to study the antics on the screen more closely.
Mullett’s lips compressed as he bottled up his rage. This was the last straw. ‘Would you please wait outside,’ he asked the other two men. A mad scramble for the door as they raced to comply, leaving the inspector as hostage for the superintendent’s fury.
Frost dragged his chair closer to the TV set. Angrily, Mullett pushed in front of him, blocking his view. ‘If I might have your attention,’ he began icily then nearly burst a blood vessel as Frost had the temerity, the brazen-faced insubordinate impudence, to reach out and push his Divisional Commander to one side.
‘How dare you,’ he spluttered when the words finally came.
Flapping a hand for Mullett to be quiet, Frost roared out, ‘Gilmore . . . in here! Quick.’
The detective sergeant came back in the room, looking first at the purple-faced, rage-quivering Mullett, then at Frost who was on his knees operating the rewind button on the video recorder. Like a silent film in reverse, the naked girl and the dog moved jerkily backwards at high speed.
‘Watch,’ ordered Frost, releasing the rewind. The dog, panting with excitement, again approached and straddled the girl.
‘For the last time, Inspector . . .’ roared Mullett.
Curtly jerking his hand for silence, Frost jabbed the pause button. On the screen, in full close-up, the vacant face of the girl froze, quivering slightly as the video head passed over and over the same section of tape.
‘The pigtails and blonde hair are a wig, son,’ said Frost, his hands moving to block them out.
Gilmore stared hard at the girl’s face, her lips slack, eyes glazed and unseeing, tiny flecks of sweat on the forehead.
‘Recognize her, son?’
Gilmore nodded. Yes, he recognized her. The suicide. The Snoopy watch. The Mickey Mouse night-shirt. Fifteen-year-old Susan Bicknell. The marks of the beating were now explained.
Frost straightened up. ‘Come on, son. I think we should ask her stepfather a few questions.’
‘I demand to know what this is all about!’ shrieked Mullett. But they were gone, the door slamming firmly shut behind them, leaving him alone in the room. Behind him the dog had worked itself up into a frenzy. He tried to switch it off, but none of the buttons seemed to work. He pushed the door open and thundered down the corridor. Tomorrow. He would see Frost tomorrow. And then it would be his turn. The lobby wall suddenly zipped upwards and the ceiling stared down at him as his back hit the floor. His feet had found a slippery patch of vomit.
‘Whatever you do,’ hissed Frost to Wells, just before he darted out to the car-park, ‘don’t laugh.’
A cold black night, made blacker by purple rain clouds that covered the face of the moon. They didn’t have to drag anyone out of bed. A downstairs light was still on at the house and a shirt-sleeved Kenneth Duffy, tired and drawn, opened the door to them.
‘Remember me, Mr Duffy?’ asked Gilmore, showing his warrant card.
Duffy stared through the card and nodded.
‘We’d like to come in, please,’ said Gilmore. ‘Just a couple of questions.’
Duffy twisted his head. ‘It’s for me, love,’ he called, ushering the two detectives into an unheated lounge. ‘I don’t want my wife troubled,’ he explained. ‘She’s broken up about this. We both are.’ He dropped into a chair and stared at the drawn red curtains. He shivered. ‘Sorry there’s no heat.’
Frost sat down on the settee, facing Duffy. ‘You’re up late?’
‘My wife can’t sleep. I stay up with her. I don’t like leaving her alone.’
Frost gave a sympathetic nod and looked up for his sergeant to start the questions.
‘We’re worried at the absence of a suicide note,’ Gilmore said.
‘Oh?’ He tried to rub some warmth into a shirt-sleeved arm.
‘You’re quite sure there was no note?’
‘Positive.’
Silence, broken only by the measured ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Then another sound. Frost had taken something from his mac pocket and was tapping it on his knee. It snatched Duffy’s attention away from his study of the curtains.