"Bloody woman driver," he croaked, gripping the wheel hard to stop his hands shaking.
Frost smirked. "And I thought she could do no wrong in your eyes. Didn't you recognize her, son? Your girlfriend, Mrs. Uphill. I wonder why she's in such a hurry? Some poor devil needs her services urgently, I suppose."
On to the Market Square where decorated shop windows appealed in vain to stay-at-home shoppers. Frost remembered he wanted to cash a check and asked Clive to stop at Bennington's Bank. Clive eased the car to the curb, and found he was parked alongside an empty red Mini. Frost dashed across the pavement to the bank where the fat detective sergeant from the previous morning was again examining the splintered door. He spun round rapidly at Frost's approach and guarded his rear with his hand. "I had enough of you yesterday, Jack," he protested.
"You know you like it, Arthur," replied Frost. "What's this then - another attempted break-in?"
The fat detective gave his head a puzzled scratch.
"Looks like it. Two nights running now and roughly at the same time. I think I'll get the duty chap to rearrange his beat so he's waiting for him."
"Good idea, Arthur - you don't have to be thin to have brains, do you? . . ." Frost's voice trailed off. He was looking over Hanlon's shoulder into the bank where Mrs. Uphill was having a wad of notes counted out to her by the cashier. Excusing himself, he slid inside, pressed himself into a corner and pretended to study the astronomical figures, with infinite noughts, contained in the bank's Annual Balance Sheet, framed on the wall. The click of heel across the tiled floor was Mrs. Uphill leaving. He sped over to the cashier and flashed his warrant card. The cashier looked to left and to right, then leaned across and spoke in a low voice. Frost nodded his thanks.
Back to the car where Clive was fighting with sleep.
"The station, son."
Clive reversed and the car bounced over the cobbles.
"What do you think, son," said Frost. "Your girlfriend has just drawn out two thousand quid in fivers."
"Two thousand?" Clive whistled softly. "What do you think, sir? Blackmail?"
Frost gave him an old-fashioned look. "At the risk of soiling your lady's good name, she's more likely to be the one doing the blackmailing. No, son, I don't think so. But what about ransom money?"
The station sergeant's internal phone buzzed. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. He knew who it was. Mullett had buzzed five minutes earlier and five minutes before that.
"Wells. No, sir, I'm afraid Inspector Frost still hasn't arrived."
Mullett droned and crackled in the earpiece. The sergeant held the phone away from his ear until the sound had finished. "Yes, sir, of course, sir, the minute he arrives." He'd heard it all before. But where the hell had Frost got to?
P.C. Stringer, looking out of the window to the snow-covered car park, reported the prodigal's return.
"Inspector Frost's car pulling into the car park, Sarge."
Wells swiveled his chair to confirm this sighting and saw the car door open and a single figure, scarf streaming behind him, streak over to the rear entrance of the station. Then the car backed up, turned, and drove off.
"After him - don't let him escape," roared the sergeant, and Stringer darted up the corridor to head off the inspector. He returned with Frost at his heels, the pride of capture on his face.
"What's all the fuss about?" asked Frost, taking off his coat and shaking snow all over the newly swept floor,
"The briefing meeting," said the sergeant in a voice charged with significance.
Frost sagged and his eyes widened in horror. "Blimey! Oh Gawd, I forgot it again."
"You were supposed to be running it - in Inspector Allen's absence," said Wells.
"Yes, I know," sighed Frost. He got out his cigarette packet. "Mr. Mullet reminded me last night. I suppose he's upset."
"Upset," cried Wells, "he's spitting blood. It was a shambles. And to make matters worse, the Chief Constable turned up."
"Oh Gawd!" said Frost again.
The internal phone buzzed and Frost backed away as if it were a bomb. Stringer picked it up, listened, and then handed it to Sergeant Wells.
"Yes, sir, his car has just come in . . . this very minute. He's on his way, sir." He dropped the phone and smiled sweetly. "Our Divisional Commander wonders if you could spare him a few minutes of your valuable time?"
"I shall wear my medal," said Frost. "He's too much of a coward to sack a gallant hero."
He darted up the corridor to Mullett's lair and bumped into three men coming the opposite way, two in uniform. The man in the middle wore a crumpled suit and peered with frightened eyes through thick steel-rimmed spectacles.
"Hello, hello, hello . . . and what have we here? A visitor gracing our presence?"
The trio stopped. "This is our friendly neighborhood child molester, sir. You asked us to invite him in."
It was Mickey Hoskins, missing from his digs since Sunday.
"Now what's this all about?" he squeaked, his eyes darting from side to side as if seeking a way of escape.
"We appreciate your co-operation, Mickey," said Frost, opening the door of the interview room and bowing him in. "Won't be a minute, make yourself at home." He closed the door and turned to the two constables.
"Good work, lads. Where did you find him?"
"In the public library, sir."
"The library?"
"Yes, sir. It's warm in there. I imagine he's been sleeping rough to keep out of our way. The snow's driven him out of cover."
Frost nodded. Sleeping rough . . . like that poor old tramp. He wondered if the station sergeant knew old Sam was dead.
"Have you told him what it's all about?"
"No, sir."
"That's right, let him sweat. Give him a cup of tea and leave him on his own. I've got to see the Divisional Commander to have my goolies chewed off, so I'll chat him up as soon as that treat's over." A cheery wave and he ambled off to Mullett's room.
As dogs grow to look like their masters, so his secretary emulated Mullett's varying moods. Miss Smith's face was sour, with drawn-together eyebrows and tightly pursed lips. If only that coarse Inspector Frost would show some signs of contrition for the distress he caused the commander she could soften toward him. She understood he was very well liked in the station, but all she could say was they must see an entirely different side of the man.
Frost barged in cheerfully and asked if Santa was in his grotto.
"He's waiting for you, Inspector." She spat out the words in a manner she felt would merit the full approval of her master and resumed her finger-blurring typing.
"You look beautiful when you're angry, Ida," chirped Frost, sailing into the Divisional Commander's inner sanctum.
Mullett was furious. He was shaking with the anger and the humiliation of it all. The meeting had been a complete and utter shambles. They'd started late after waiting twenty minutes for Frost, and then the Chief Constable had turned up, unannounced and unexpected. "Didn't want you to lay anything special on for me, Commander, just want to see the normal run of things." Lots of forced laughter and increased perspiration levels as the fiasco blundered on. The various progress reports and detailed instructions for the search parties couldn't be found. Eventually Detective Sergeant Martin located them buried under other papers on Inspector Frost's desk. By then, the outside volunteers had decided that the weather would preclude searching for the day, and most of them had drifted off, while the Chief Constable's snorts were becoming more and more pointedly audible.
The meeting finally died horribly. The Chief Constable had taken Mullett quietly to one side and suggested that he ought to get a little more involved in detail instead of leaving everything to others. And as a parting shot he had made that ridiculous suggestion about the spiritualist woman. A shameful, degrading morning and all because of that untidy shuffling figure before him.
He fixed Frost with an icy stare. "We started the meeting without you, Inspector--your meeting, your bri
efing meeting. I hope you didn't mind? We waited twenty minutes in case you decided to come, but had to go ahead. Everyone else was there on time, you'll be glad to know, including the Chief Constable." He paused to compose himself as the bitter recollection of his humiliation fueled the flames of his fury.
Frost composed his face into what he hoped was an expression of penitent contrition and did his best to look attentive while switching off his ears. He could kick himself for missing the lousy meeting, but all the screaming and shouting in the world wouldn't put it right now. And look at Mullett, his mouth opening and shutting, his eyes popping, just like a bloody fish. Anyway, it was just as well he hadn't turned up if the Chief Constable had been there, with all the others toadying up to him, lighting his fags, fetching his tea, laughing at his jokes, and making polite conversation, while he, Frost, would have been stuck in the corner seat at the back, deeply conscious of the fact that his suit hadn't been pressed for a week.
Mullett droned on, his face getting redder and redder.
Blimey! thought Frost - the Bank! He'd nipped in there for some cash, but the sight of Mrs. Uphill with her two thousand in used bills had driven it clean from his mind. All he had on him was a few pence and he was meeting Sandy Lane in the pub at lunch time. He wondered if he could chance his arm and tap Mullett for a couple of quid until the afternoon, but felt that the moment was not opportune. Mullett was thumping his fist on his desk, reaching the climax of his tirade. Frost opened his ears slightly to let the sound slowly creep in.
". . . just not good enough. And if it happens again I shall make a personal request to the Chief Constable for you to be transferred away from this division. Do I make myself clear?"
The inspector fought back a near irresistible urge to say "Sorry, sir, what was that? - I wasn't listening", but didn't want to be the only one laughing so he nodded with as chastened and earnestly repentant a look as he could muster.
His hangdog expression was so good that even Mullett was touched, thinking, Poor devil, losing his wife like that must have a lot to do with it. Time to let him off the hook.
"What were you doing this morning?"
Frost told him about dragging the lake and searching the vicarage.
Mullett pressed his mustache into place. "That's another thing, Inspector. Now you're in charge I don't expect you to be doing house searches yourself. I want you doing the paperwork, controlling the operation."
"Yes, sir. Oh - something else. Mrs. Uphill withdrew £2000 in five-pound notes from her bank this morning."
"Did she?" exclaimed Mullett. "A ransom demand do you think?"
"More than likely, sir. I've sent young Barnard down to her house to chat her up about it."
"Barnard! His second day with the division and you sent him? You should have gone yourself."
"Yes, sir, but on the basis of whatever I did was wrong, I decided to send him and obey your summons to see you. By the way, we've picked up Mickey Hoskins. He's in the interview room. I thought I'd question him - if that's all right with you, of course."
"It's your case, Inspector," said Mullett, ignoring the sarcasm. "Er . . . there was one thing the Chief Constable suggested . . . might be worth following up. I said we would, as a matter of fact, even though it's a little unusual . . ." He seemed embarrassed and fiddled with his paperknife, looking anywhere but at Frost. "It seems the Chief Constable is interested in spiritualism. Did you know that?"
"I heard he was a bit cranky, sir, but I didn't know in which direction."
"Er . . . yes. His wife is a leading light in their local spiritualist church. It's quite a thing these days I understand. I must confess, I used to scoff in the past, but now . . ."
But now you know the Chief Constable's wife is interested, thought Frost.
"There's a woman called Martha Wendle. Do you know her?"
"I know of her, sir. A weird old cow - always writing to say she can get the spirits to solve our cases for us."
Mullett smiled tolerantly. "We shouldn't shut our eyes to things just because we can't understand them, Inspector. She's supposed to have second sight - like that Dutch chap who helps the police in Holland." The superintendent found an interesting piece of graining on his desk, top and followed it with his finger. "The chief wants . . . suggests . . . er . . . feels we should see this woman. Ask if she can help us find Tracey Uphill. It can't do any harm . . . after all, you've no positive lead at the moment."
Frost's jaw crashed. "You mean we're to ask the bloody ghosts to help us?"
Mullett showed his palms. "I know it's a bit . . . unorthodox . . . but a Chief Constable's entitled to his whims, so let's humor him! Just go along and see her . . . I ... er . . ." He showed his teeth. "I told him you'd see her yourself and make it a number-one priority."
He rose from his chair to signify the interview was over. The great thing after tearing chaps off a strip was to end on a happy note, show them you were behind them. He gave Frost's arm a little squeeze. "Cheer up . . . er . . . Jack . . . it's not the end of the world."
He carried on with his letter-signing as Frost slouched out. From Miss Smith's office he heard a startled cry of annoyance, a guffaw from Frost who said, "How's that for center, Ida?" He wondered what it was all about.
Mickey Hoskins lit another cigarette. He didn't want it, it tasted hot and bitter, and the ones he had already smoked had coated his mouth with thick acidy nicotine, but he had to do something. He'd been in this damned interview room for over half an hour, just waiting. It was all part of the softening-up process, of course, to get you jumpy, twitchy, wondering how much they knew. Well, he wasn't going to let it affect him.
But he wished he had something to do. Just sitting in this miserable room with its dull green walls and the tiny window too high to see out of. But, at least it was warm. These coppers sure liked their warmth. A cylinder of ash dropped from his cigarette. How many had he left? He checked. One! And he was saving that for the interview. With a cigarette in his hand he felt better. It gave him something to do, time to think when the questions got a bit too near the mark.
But how much longer had he to wait? They had no right to keep him here against his will. He hadn't been charged, he could just stand up and walk out of that door and into the street and they couldn't do anything to stop him. He'd give them five minutes and not a second more. Twelve minutes later Inspector Frost breezed in wearing the same battered suit Mickey remembered from years past.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mickey boy, but I've got so many ventures of great pith and moment on the boil, I completely forgot about you."
A young uniformed man slid in after him and stood by the door. Frost dragged a chair from under the table and sat opposite Mickey who blinked at him warily through those thick lenses.
"Right, Mickey. First of all I must have a fag." He lit one slowly, but didn't offer the packet, then he took a photograph from his inside pocket and laid it face down on the table. He pushed it over to the other man with his forefinger.
"Turn it over, Mick."
Mickey regarded Frost suspiciously, then looked down at the blank back of the photograph. What trick was this?
"What is it?"
"Turn it over and look."
Gingerly he flipped it over. It showed a young girl, a schoolgirl, in color. She looked vaguely familiar. He screwed his face. Was it one of his? He couldn't remember.
"Well, Mickey?"
"Well, what? It's a photograph of a kid." His tongue traveled along dry lips.
"Does she look anything like her photograph?"
"How should I know - I've never seen her."
"Never seen her!" Frost barked out the words as if they were of the utmost significance, then turned to the young constable who was making shorthand notes in a spiral-bound notebook. "Get that down, Constable, and underline it - he's never seen her!" Back to Hoskins. "You'd sign that, of course, wouldn't you, Mickey? I wouldn't want people to think I'd tricked you. You'd sign a statement saying you'd never seen
her?"
Mickey wriggled in his chair. Frost always managed to get him confused. "I might have seen her . . . I mean, it's a small town. I could have seen her without knowing it was her. Who says I've seen her? I mean, I couldn't actually swear on a Bible . . ." The eyelids were fluttering wildly behind the lenses. "When am I supposed to have seen her?"
"How about Sunday?" suggested Frost.
"No!"
"Show me your hand, Mick. Come on, I want to see your hand."
He held out his hand. It wouldn't keep still. Frost grabbed it, squeezing the wrist in a vise-like grip. Mickey was glad the young constable was in the room. If one of them got you alone, he beat you up.
Frost was shaking the wrist. "Look at this, Constable." The young man raised his eyes from the notebook. "Have you ever seen such a soft, warm hand? Look at these long, sensitive fingers. A really beautiful hand, that is, Mick. How many knicker legs has it slipped inside, eh?" Hoskins tried to pull free, but was held firm. "How many warm young thighs has that explored, eh Mick?"
"Stop it!" This time he managed to snatch his hand away. He massaged the white pressure marks of Frost's fingers.
"Getting you excited, is it?"
"No, of course not." Time for a cigarette. His hand shook as he lit it.
Frost rose from his chair and walked round the table to stand behind him. "Did you have a go at her on Sunday, Mick? Did she like it? Did you like her?"
Almost a scream. "Stop it! I never saw her on Sunday."
"You don't have to shout, Mick." The voice now gentle. "You can lie just as well in a quiet voice. You haven't been in your digs since Sunday."
"So? It's not a crime, is it?"
"Afraid to go back after what you did? Come on, Mick, tell us. Have the thrill of telling, then you can live it all again. What did you do to her?"
Mickey sucked at the cigarette, then blinked up at his tormenter. "I want my solicitor."
"You have but to ask, Mick," said Frost with a friendly smile. He picked up the phone, dialed for an outside line, then handed the receiver to the huddled man.
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