Free Body of a Girl by Michael Gilbert

and the opening was darkened for a moment as Sowthistle came through it.
    Massey turned the torch on him.
    â€œWho is it?” The voice was high-pitched and querulous. “Who are you? What do you want? You’ve got no right in there. Clear out the lot of you.”
    â€œYou got a lamp?” said Mercer.
    â€œWassat?”
    â€œI said, have you got a lamp. You must have some light in this hole.”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œWe’re police.”
    â€œPolice?” The old man was swaying on his feet, and each time he opened his mouth the sour smell of whisky was added to the other elements in the atmosphere. “You busted open my door, didn’t you? You’ve got no right to do that. And my cupboard.”
    â€œIf you don’t get that lamp lit, grandpa, I’ll bust you, too,” said Mercer.
    â€œAll right, all right.”
    â€œGet a move on.”
    The pale, smoky light of a paraffin lamp showed up the interior of the barge. It also illuminated its owner. He would have looked a lot less unpleasant, thought Mercer, if he had been dressed in the traditional rags of a tramp, with his toes sticking out of holes in his boots. In fact, he had assembled an outfit which, in different circumstances, might have looked almost respectable. He was wearing a blue suit, two sizes too large for him and shiny at the corners, a flannel shirt and a made-up bow tie which had twisted on its stud and was now pointing north and south, rather than east and west. On his feet, a pair of brown, lace-up boots. Red-rimmed, watery eyes and a stubble of grey beard completed the picture.
    Mercer said, “All right. Sit down.”
    â€œI want to know what right you’ve got—”
    Mercer took two quick steps up to him. Sowthistle retreated from the menace, the backs of his legs touched an old armchair, and he folded back into it.
    â€œThat’s better,” said Mercer. He perched on the edge of the table beside him. “Let’s have that stuff.”
    Massey opened the bag he was carrying and took out the clothes and trinkets one by one. Sowthistle made no pretence of examining them. He simply nodded his head at each item.
    â€œYou identify these as Sweetie’s property?” said Mercer.
    â€œI wouldn’t say identify. I knew she had some things. Kept them down in town. Wouldn’t bring them home.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Sowthistle waved a vague hand round the dirt and shambles of his home.
    â€œAnswer the question,” said Mercer. “Do you mean she was afraid of the dirt? Or was she afraid you’d take ’em off her?”
    â€œI don’t follow you, Inspector. Are you suggesting I’d rob my own flesh and blood?”
    â€œYou could read that into it,” said Mercer, “or take it the other way if you like. Did you ever take her clothes off her?”
    This got a reaction. Sowthistle started to come out of his chair. Mercer raised his leg, planted his foot in the old man’s chest, and pushed him back.
    â€œAll you’ve got to do,” he said, “is sit still and answer questions. Are any of those photographs in the cupboard photographs of your daughter in the next-to-nothing?”
    â€œOf course they aren’t. I bought ’em.”
    â€œWe shall see when we’ve had a chance to look through them.” Mercer sat, swinging one leg, and looking down at the old man. “You’re on a spot. You know that, don’t you?”
    â€œWhat do you mean? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
    â€œNo? What about all that filth—?”
    â€œLike I told you. I bought ’em for myself. There’s no law against that.”
    â€œTry and get the court to believe you. I’ll put up half a dozen witnesses who’ll say you charged them to look at it. Young boys, some of them. There’ll be other charges, too. Indecent behaviour—”
    The old man opened his mouth to say something,