"I've got a car. I'll go by car."
"You will walk . . . do you understand? Walk on the left-hand side. Just past the antique shop there's a public call box. Wait there for my call. I'll give you further instructions."
A click and the death rattle of the dial tone.
The office phone rang. It was the telephone engineers. Very sorry, but they hadn't been able to trace the call. They were told to monitor the call box outside the antique shop. Frost yelled across for George Martin to get Mrs. Uphill on her phone before she left, then he spun round and ordered Clive to ask Control to send Charlie Alpha two tearing round to the other phone box to wait for Mrs. Uphill. Immediately she received the kidnapper's fresh instructions they were to radio them back to Control.
Frost leaned back in his chair, happy. This is what he could understand, this is what he could do. Action. But something was wrong. George Martin, the phone pressed to his ear, was drumming impatient fingers on his desk.
"Mrs. Uphill isn't answering, Jack."
"You sure you got the right number?"
In reply the detective sergeant leaned over and turned up the volume of the monitor speaker. The ringing tone of his call roared out. He hung up and the ringing tone was replaced by the dial tone.
"All right, turn it down. You've made your point. Couldn't the stupid cow have waited for a minute?"
Barnard, his shoulder hunched to hold the internal phone to his ear, called across. "Message from Charlie Alpha two, sir. They're at the new phone box and are waiting for Mrs. Uphill to arrive."
Frost acknowledged with a nod.
George Martin thumbed some tobacco in his pipe. "We should have someone following her, sir."
"She's on foot," retorted Frost, "and she's going tip Bath Road which is as straight as a bloody die. Anyone following would be spotted a mile off. If this bloke's keeping tabs on her, we'd frighten him away. Apart from that, I didn't bloody-well think of it." He yawned and offered round his cigarettes. Everyone who smoked took one to relieve the tension and the room was soon blue-hazed. No one spoke. The clock ticked. All eyes were on Barnard who was waiting for Control to pass the message from Charlie Alpha that Mrs. Uphill had reached them.
Frost found his chair suddenly hard. He stood and stretched wearily, then looked out of the window. It was snowing again. He flicked ash into the wastepaper basket.
"What was that? Control?"
All eyes swiveled to Clive. They saw him nod, then ease the phone from his ear. "Charlie Alpha, sir - nothing to report."
"Then tell them not to be so bloody efficient. I'm not interested in nothing!"
The minute hand on the hall clock clunked round to the next division.
The warning buzzer sounded in the inspector's brain.
"Something's gone wrong. She should have reached there by now."
Martin tried to reassure him. "You can't walk very quickly in this snow, Jack - especially in high heels."
"She won't give a sod about high heels," snapped Frost. "She'd run to get her kid back . . . she'd run:" He paced up and down, kicking at imaginary balls. The minute hand on the wall clock clunked relentlessly on.
"She's had time to walk all the way to bloody Bath and back by now. Are you sure those two bright herberts are waiting at the right phone box?"
Barnard relayed the query to Control and then reported the reply back to Frost. Charlie Alpha two was waiting in a side road near the phone box by the antique shop. They could see some way down the Bath Road. There was no sign of Mrs. Uphill.
Frost phoned her house again. It was just possible she had returned for something. Brr . . . brr . . . The speaker relayed the sad, lonely sound a phone makes when it isn't going to be answered. He thumped the receiver down. "I remember phoning a girl onc . . ."
But the anecdote was left untold. The hairy face of the station sergeant poked round the door.
"Excuse me butting in, Inspector, but you've got Charlie Alpha two standing by on the Bath Road, haven't you?"
"Yes, Johnnie - why?"
"We've just had a motorist phone in. He's found a woman unconscious at the side of the road. We've sent for an ambulance, but Charlie Alpha could be there in a couple of seconds and I'd like them to get some details."
The silence was electric. Everyone in the room was thinking . . . fearing . . . the same thing.
"Yes - tell Control it's all right, and say that Charlie Alpha has got to wait for me. Come on, son!" He flew out of the room with Barnard hard on his heels. Clive prided himself on his fitness but had a job keeping up with the older man charging across the car park in the snow. By the time Clive had reached the car, Frost had already started up the engine, but he moved to let his detective constable take the wheel.
"Which way, sir?"
"Just follow that ambulance."
The flashing blue light led them through the darkness like a frantic Pied Piper, hurling round corners, ignoring traffic signals. And then, ahead, another flashing blue light. Charlie Alpha. They skidded to a snow-spraying halt, just avoiding running into the back of the ambulance whose brakes were better than Frost's. A police constable, bending over a shape on the ground covered by a police greatcoat, straightened up as the ambulance men ran over with their stretcher and thick red blanket. They moved so quickly, they were sliding the laden stretcher into the back of the ambulance before Frost and Barnard could reach them. The Inspector yelled for them to stop and pulled the blanket from the face. It was Mrs. Uphill. Eyes closed, face chalk white, looking about fifteen years old.
"How is she?"
"She's had a nasty wallop on the head. Don't think the skull's fractured, though. Lucky that chap found her, otherwise she could have frozen to death."
The man, wearing a sheepskin motoring coat, was leaning against a yellow Escort and was being questioned by a policeman.
The rear doors of the ambulance clunked shut and its flashing blue light dwindled to a pinprick along the straight-as-a-die Bath Road.
Clive bent and picked something from the ground. It was Mrs. Uphill's handbag. Frost opened it and flashed his torch inside. The usual female brickabrack, but the change purse that should have been there was missing. Clive was detailed to search the vicinity for the £2000 in the carrier bag, not that Frost had any hopes it would be found.
The man in the sheepskin coat had just finished giving details to the police constable as Frost sauntered over and introduced himself.
"You didn't see anything then, sir?" Frost asked the man when the constable had filled him in.
"No. I just saw her lying there - my headlights picked her out. I thought she'd been knocked down by a hit-and-run. I phoned and waited for your chaps, but I didn't really expect I'd have to stand here and answer all these questions. I've got an urgent appointment and I'm late now."
Frost sympathized with him. "It's usually the way when you try and help, isn't it, sir? Makes us all the more grateful when, in spite of it all, the public still bothers to assist us. You've got the gentleman's particulars, Constable?"
The police driver handed him the man's driving license. Frost flipped through it; it was all in order. Barnard returned from his search and gave the thumbs-down sign.
"You didn't spot a carrier bag, I suppose, sir?" asked Frost on the off-chance.
The man shook his head emphatically. "I'm afraid I can't help you any more." His hand moved to the door handle.
"Just before you go, sir, do you think we could take a look in the boot of the car?"
"The boot? Look - I just stopped to report an accident."
"Won't take a minute, sir. There's some money missing and my superior would take it amiss if I deviated from my usual high standards and let a car go off unsearched. If I could have the keys, sir . . ." He held out a demanding hand. The key-ring was thrown into it.
Frost opened the boot and switched on his torch. "Be over in a flash, sir, I - " And then Frost paused, at a loss for words. The boot was full of small, expensive electronic calculating
machines of the type reported stolen from Buskin's Electronics on the Factory Estate. The case inherited from Inspector Allen. The case that Mullett had ordered him to treat as urgent. A quick radio call to Control confirmed that the serial numbers tallied.
The inspector sighed at the thought of all the paperwork this would involve. "On any other day I'd have been overjoyed to have copped you, sir. Why did it have to be tonight?"
"What rotten stinking luck," snarled the man bitterly. "I could have driven straight past . . . left her there to die and got away with it."
"You couldn't, sir," said Frost, softly, "you're not that sort of person. You're very much like me. We do the right thing and get ourselves into trouble. You wouldn't have a cigarette on you by any chance, would you?"
Frost pressed down his stapler and impaled details of the evening's arrest in a prominent position on the front of the Electronics Theft file which he proudly dumped, with a two-fingered salute, on the Divisional Commander's barren desk. That would wipe the smile off Mullett's face I when he came in the next morning.
What to do now? Barnard was still at the hospital waiting for Mrs. Uphill to regain consciousness, and no lone had time for a chat as they were all busy clearing their desks ready for the next shift to take over at 10:00 p.m.
Sounds of a commotion in the lobby promised a welcome diversion and he followed the unintelligible swearing, grunts, and calls for assistance to find young Keith Stringer struggling with a fat drunken Irishman from the local building site who'd apparently staggered out of a pub, slipped in the snow and broken a leg, and had then dragged himself through the slush to the station where he demanded immediate medical attention and flailed his fists at anyone who tried to get near. As Frost arrived the man was sprawled on the lobby floor, his hands locked round Stringer's legs, trying to crash him down.
Frost ambled over and kicked the laborer's hands away. Small, red-rimmed pig's eyes squinted up with unveiled hatred and the slobbering mouth spewed mindless obscenities. The inspector lit a cigarette and looked down with disgust. The man's clothes were Filthy and sodden and at some stage he had been sick down his coat. He stank of whiskey, vomit, and blind hatred. Anaesthetized by drink, the man felt no pain from the fracture and was able to heave himself up, pulling on Stringer's trouser legs for assistance then, looking slyly apologetic, suddenly swung a meaty fist at Frost which, had it landed, would have felled him. But Frost saw it coming. His foot shot out and hooked round the man's good leg, sending him crashing to the floor with a scream of pain which hinted it hadn't done the broken leg much good.
"What's his beef?" Frost asked Stringer.
"I'll tell you," screamed the Irishman. "He's pinched my wallet."
Oh no! thought Frost, not again, and he turned to Stringer who shook a drawn face in mute denial.
"Fifteen pounds there was in it, sir. Fifteen pounds I had when I came in."
"Shut up!" snapped Frost, steeling himself. He'd have to search the man and the thought of going through the pockets of that sodden jacket churned up his stomach. He wished the Chief Constable's nephew was here so he could give the job to him.
He walked behind the man who followed him with piggy eyes, screwed up to keep him in focus. What a ghastly sight, the enormous seat spread over the floor, the back seam of the trousers gaping where the thread had given up the struggle to contain the vast, flabby girth. And then Frost's eyes narrowed and he spotted a flat bulge in the back pocket.
"Is this your wallet, Paddy?"
The man squinted suspiciously at the brown leather object dangled in front of his face, then something like a smile revealed black stumps.
"Well . . . and how did that get there? I never keep it in my back pocket."
Frost opened it and flipped through the thin wad of notes. "Fifteen . . . All right you drunken sod, count them."
"No need, sir, if you say they're all there . . ."
Frost's foot swung back threateningly. "Count them, you sod."
"Yes, sir, of course, sir, all there, sir. Thank you, thank you . . ."
The young constable expelled an audible sigh of relief.
"Right, son, now call the ambulance and see how soon they can get this stinking rat-bag out of here. If he shows his face again, think of a charge and book him. I'll support you."
Stringer suddenly caught sight of someone behind the inspector's back and his face tic-tacked a warning. It was Mullett, resplendent in a beautifully tailored topcoat, white gloves in hand.
"What's going on here?" he asked, coldly.
Seeing a possible ally, a crafty look crossed the drunk's face. "I broke my leg outside, sir, and I've had nothing but abuse since I've been here. And that man kicked me." , Frost caught Stringer's eye and jerked his head toward the phone. The young constable took the hint and slipped off to call the ambulance. The sooner they got the drunk off the premises, the better.
"Bit of a new development with that skeleton, sir," ventured Frost, hoping to change the subject, but Mullett, deeply concerned with an allegation of police brutality toward a poor injured Irishman, waved the inspector to one side and moved forward to question the man on the floor. At which instant the laborer turned a pale shade of green, gulped, and was copiously sick all over Mullett's shoes.
Frost suddenly felt a warm, friendly, loving feeling toward the drunk and wished he'd been kinder. There's good in all of us, he thought, as Mullett scuttled away to clean himself.
The diversion over, Frost returned to his office for a smoke and a bloody good laugh, when his phone summoned him to the old log cabin where Mullett, who had heard about the attack on Mrs. Uphill, proceeded to give him a roasting. How could Frost, an experienced officer, let her go out on her own with all that money? If that wasn't just asking for trouble - Frost countered by sniffing repeatedly, staring at Mullett's shoes, and asking if they could have the window open. The bloody man never let a wound heal without grinding half a pound of rough salt into it. Of course, he should have had Mrs. Uphill followed, but he couldn't think of everything. He wasn't bloody Gideon of the Yard, he was Detective Inspector Jack Frost, G.C., jumped up from being a lousy sergeant to a lousier inspector. He hadn't asked for promotion.
These silent thoughts were stopped from being put into words by the intervention of the telephone. Mullett handed it to him. It was Clive Barnard from the hospital.
Mrs. Uphill had regained consciousness.
"Right," said Frost, "I'm on my way." Then he turned to Mullett. "By the way, sir," he said, trying to sound casual, "I've put the Electronics Theft file on your desk. We caught the bloke tonight."
"Oh yes?" said Mullett, giving it a curt glance and dropping it in his "Out" tray. "One of Inspector Allen's cases, wasn't it? He had it all but tied up before he went sick."
Frost shut the door carefully behind him, then swore loudly, long, and ineffectively into the empty passage.
TUESDAY (6)
As he pushed through the hospital entrance doors, it all came back to him. The smells - over-cooked food and disinfectant. The sounds - moans, muffled sobs, hushed worried voices. He'd had them, twice a day, for six months when his wife was slowly dying. The end bed with the screens, and "You can stay as long as you like, Mr. Frost."
Clive Barnard, slumped moodily on a hard wooden bench, rose at the inspector's approach and led him into a side ward where a white-faced Mrs. Uphill, head bandaged, lay propped up on plumped-up pillows. Frost dropped his eyes to the chart clipped at the foot of the bed. Temperature a trifle high, pulse slightly fast. She wasn't too badly damaged.
He gave her an encouraging smile. "They're letting you to home tomorrow, Mrs. Uphill."
Her head sank into the starched depths of the pillow. "I want to go home now. I've got to be there when he phones again."
Frost dragged a small wooden bench from under her bed and sat down. "What makes you think he's going to phone again?"
"He's got the money, now he must tell me where Tracey is. That was the bargain." She struggled up,
eyes burning. "She might even be back at the house now, waiting . . ."
"Easy, love, easy . . ." He pushed her down gently, then drew Clive to one side and whispered some instructions. Mrs. Uphill had pointed out something Frost had overlooked. The possibility - the extremely remote possibility - that the alleged kidnapper really did have Tracey and would now return her. Barnard was to contact the station and get them to insure that Mrs. Uphill's phone was still continually monitored and to arrange that the house was kept under permanent surveillance.
Frost returned to the woman, "We'll be watching your house, monitoring your phone, and taking your calls, so don't worry."
"If the police answer, you'll frighten him off."
"No. One of our women P.C.s will take the call. He'll think it's you. Now, tell us what happened."
Her hand plucked at the sheets. "He phoned me. He said - "
Frost cut her short. "We know about the phone call. Go on from there."
"I put the money in a bag, as he said."
"What sort of bag?"
"One of those blue and white plastic carriers from the supermarket. I walked down Vicarage Terrace, then cut through to the Bath Road."
"Were you aware of anyone following or watching you?"
She thought, then shook her head. "No. I don't think so. I just wanted to get to the phone box as quickly as I could. I was afraid he'd ring before I reached it. Half-way down Bath Road I heard a sort of rustling noise behind me, then something hit me." Her hand touched the bandage. "The next thing my head was hurting and I was in here. I don't remember the ambulance or anything."
Frost smiled sympathetically. "Did you have your change purse with you?"
"Yes. It's in my handbag."
"Not any more. He must have helped himself to that as well. What was in it?"
"About twenty pounds in cash, my house keys, and the keys for the car."
The night nurse entered with a sleeping tablet and a glass of water. She glared at Frost, who decided it was time to leave.
Barnard was waiting outside after making his phone call. As they walked down the long corridor to the main entrance, Frost brought him up to date on the interview. "Even nicked twenty quid from her purse. We're not dealing with a kidnapper, son. This is a small-time crook out for anything he can get."
Frost 1 - Frost At Christmas Page 17
