Frost at Christmas djf-1

by R D Wingfield

  "You might pass the word to our army friends that they are not to use my parking space. One of their damn lorries is parked there and they couldn't have missed the sign."

  A reassuring smile and he was gone, leaving Wells nothing to do but swear silently at the vacated "senior-executive" desk.

  The briefing room was packed. Extra chairs had been brought in, but even so, one or two latecomers had to stand at the back.

  A thick haze of cigarette smoke rolled round the room like a Baker Street fog. The low murmur of nervous conversation stopped and all assembled jumped to their feet as the Divisional Commander breezed into the room.

  "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Good to see such a full turnout. Please sit down."

  Those with chairs sat. Mullett looked around the room as he extracted some papers from his briefcase. Most people there he recognized, the majority being from his own division, including those called back from their rest day. No sign of Detective Inspector Frost, he noted grimly. A friendly nod to the army officers whose men, including the usurper of his parking space, would be stoking up on tea and sandwiches in the upstairs canteen. Those two chaps in the corner would be the dog handlers from the police kennels at Rushfield, but who was that red-faced man smiling at him? Oh yes, a detective sergeant from one of the neighboring divisions whose commander had spared so many of his hard-pressed personnel to join the search for Tracey Uphill.

  "I won't keep you long. We're not short of help, for which I thank you, but we will be short of daylight. She's been missing now for over sixteen hours. If you heard the weather forecast this morning you'll know we're due for some very severe weather. So we've got to find her quickly. It won't be an easy search. We've got woodlands, lakes, a canal, gravel pits, derelict houses, builders' sites-a thousand and one places where a child could be concealed. We will have to be methodical, not haphazard. For that reason, I have put Detective Inspector Allen in charge of the operation. And as he is in charge, I will now shut up and let him take over."

  Some forced laughter at this mild joke and a shifting of positions on the hard wooden seats. Mullett moved democratically to the chair left for him in the corner of, the front row and sat with his chin on his knuckles and his brow furrowed to show he was giving his full attention to everything Detective Inspector Allen was saying.

  Allen was lean, wiry, and inflexibly tough, with sparse hair above a thin-lipped gaunt face. His flights of humor never soared higher than biting sarcasm. Coldly efficient, he was universally hated as a man but grudgingly admired as a first-rate detective. He jabbed a bony finger at a wall map of the district.

  "I've divided the area into sections. We'll start at the most likely places near the child's home and work out from there. As the Divisional Commander has pointed out, it's a tricky area to search, so we're going to have to be bloody methodical. You will be allocated an area to search. When you have finished you will report in to me at Search Control. You will not move on to a fresh area until instructed by me to do so." He glanced at his watch. "Time's against us, so I'll be brief. I'll just let you know the forces we'll have at our disposal. Apart from yourselves we've been promised another hundred men from the army camp. We're already got a few civilian volunteers and we'll be appealing for more if necessary. The local fire brigade has pledged us a dozen or so men and at nine o'clock there'll be a party of sixth-formers from the local comprehensive school. Enough people to get in everybody's way and sod the whole thing up, which is why you must pander to my megalomania and do exactly what I tell you to do."

  As he paused for breath the phone rang. All heads turned to stare accusingly at it. It rang again, a loud, insistent, grating ring.

  Mullett frowned. "I told them to hold all calls," he said peevishly.

  It rang again.

  "Well, answer it someone, for Christ's sake," roared Allen. "That's the only way to stop it."

  A detective sergeant picked it up. His eyes widened.

  "It's the Chief Constable, sir." He hastily got rid of the phone to Mullett who took it reverently. The meeting studiously pretended not to be listening.

  "Good morning, sir. No… not yet, but we'll find her. Yes, sir, the fullest possible co-operation. I don't think we'll be needing any more help at this stage." An inquiring glance to Inspector Allen who shook his head emphatically. His searchers would be falling over each other as it was.

  "What's that, sir? I say, that's splendid. Thank you very much, sir… yes, that's really marvelous." The phone was replaced on the sidetable.

  "That," said Mullett, as if announcing the Second Coming, "was the Chief Constable." A pause to let the import sink in. "And we're getting a helicopter."

  A babble of excitement. Inspector Allen's eyes glittered. If they couldn't find the kid with a helicopter… But back to the meeting.

  "All right, ladies and gentlemen, it's a help, but not the great solution to our problems. It can't poke about in sewage pipes and dung heaps. You need highly trained policemen for that. As you leave you'll be given your initial areas of search. Any questions at this stage?"

  A hand shot up-one of the Rushfield men.

  "I understand the mother's a prostitute, sir?"

  "Yes," replied Allen straight-faced. "She hasn't mentioned a reward, but I imagine whoever finds the kid will be on to a good thing."

  A ripple of laughter. The Rushfield man waited for it to subside. "I was wondering if any of our local child molesters might have got the wrong idea-like mother like daughter, that sort of thing…"

  Allen sniffed. "A good point, but it's been covered. I've got men out already checking every known sex offender in the division. Any more questions? Right. Off you go… and good luck."

  MONDAY-2

  Detective Constable Clive Barnard's orders were to report for duty to Superintendent Mullett, Denton Police Station, nine o'clock sharp. The superintendent, he was told, was a stickler for punctuality, so he allowed himself plenty of time. He set the alarm for 7:15 and went to bed early. But sleep eluded him. At four o'clock he was still awake; the bed was lumpy, there weren't enough blankets to keep out the cold, his mind was a whirl of ash blondes and missing children, and some damn sadistic church clock punctuated his sleeplessness with clanking chimes every quarter-hour.

  The exhausted sleep into which he eventually plunged was so deep that the alarm clock rang itself hoarse and he didn't hear it. He overslept. If his landlady hadn't banged on his door at 8:20 he'd be sleeping still.

  So, no time for breakfast, just one mad rush to avoid the shameful crime of reporting late on his first day. A perfunctory buzz with the electric razor. Not perfect, but with his fair beard he'd get away with it. On with the brand-new gray suit with the red stripe, the one he'd bought especially for C.I.D. work from that little shop near Carnaby Street. He'd been told that clothes were important. Wear a tatty suit and you got the tatty assignments; good clothes earned the superior ones. So he'd bought this suit. It had cost him I

  PS107, a lot more than he usually paid, but it was an investment, and why not let the Denton yokels see a bit of London quality for a change?

  He opened his suitcase for the light blue shirt, moving his lawbooks to reach it. He was studying for a law degree in his spare time. He was determined to make it to the top by the quickest route and had realized that many of the younger senior men had law degrees. And he'd have plenty of time in this dead-and-alive hole to study his law books during the long winter evenings when he was without a female companion to run her gentle fingers down the ridged slope of his sexy broken nose.

  By 8:45, his empty stomach complaining, he was thudding down Bath Hill, pushed by a cold wind. He wondered if they'd found Tracey Uphill. There certainly seemed to be an unusual amount of police activity for such an early hour. Three police cars had roared past him already.

  Bath Hill led into Market Square where there was another policeman examining the door of a bank, but Clive gave him no more than a fleeting glance. Most of the shops had not yet opened
and the tall Christmas tree outside the public lavatories was swaying in a wind that rattled its colored electric lights. He clattered over the cobbled road to reach Eagle Lane and the police station.

  And there it was, red-bricked and solid, the welcoming blue lamp over swing doors leading into the lobby where the wall clock in its wooden case showed 8:54. He'd made it. The familiar police station smell of disinfectant, polish, and cooking from the canteen met his nose as, panting with relief, he advanced to the inquiry desk where a sad-faced, balding sergeant was on the phone.

  Bill Wells, station sergeant for the 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. shift, was in temporary charge of the front office. He'd sent the duty constable, young P.C. Stringer, upstairs to the canteen for his breakfast and was keeping an eye on things until his return. The damn phone would have to ring: a woman with some rambling story about teenagers smashing her window two weeks ago and she'd only just decided to report it and what were the police go ing to do about it? A blast of air sent his papers flying as the lobby doors opened, but he trapped them with a practiced elbow and looked up at the visitor. A young chap with a crooked nose and smart overcoat. He looked supercilious enough to be someone important, so Wells cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, "Be with you in a moment, sir."

  Clive nodded curtly. As he had managed to arrive in good time he hoped the sergeant wouldn't take too long on the phone and make him late for his appointment with the Divisional Commander. He roamed the lobby, studying the posters on the wall. Missing Persons, Foot and Mouth Disease Movement Restriction Orders and, everybody's favorite, the Colorado Beetle poster.

  His heavy overcoat felt cumbersome, so he slipped it off and carried it over his arm. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the murky glass of the swing door. It brought him to an abrupt halt.

  The new suit! It shrieked!

  In the dim lighting of the shop it had seemed tastefully conservative with, perhaps, a barely audible refined whisper of trendiness, but in the somber surroundings of the station the trendy whisper was a raucous shout. It was a disaster, and no time to race back and change. He huddled himself into a dark corner.

  P.C. Stringer, the duty desk man, returned to his post replete with bacon, beans, tea, and two slices. With his honest, open, freshly scrubbed schoolboy's face sur mounted with dark curly hair, he looked more like a sixth former than a policeman. He smiled at Clive with an air of helpful inquiry.

  "I'm attending to the gentleman," hissed the sergeant from one corner of his mouth while carrying on his phone conversation with the other. The young constable shrugged good-naturedly and settled down to peck out a report on an ancient black Underwood.

  At last the sergeant slammed down the phone and rubbed a sore ear. He turned to Clive with almost obsequious politeness.

  "Can I help you, sir?"

  It occurred to Clive that the sergeant was mistaking him for someone important. It also occurred to him that the sergeant wouldn't take too kindly to the knowledge that he had been abasing himself before the lowest of the low, a raw detective constable whose forehead still bore a ridge from a helmet. A quick explanation was vital.

  "Actually, Sergeant, I'm Detective Constable-"

  On the first syllable of "constable" the sergeant's smile froze solid: it shriveled to a tight glitter on the second and vanished chillingly on the last. The expression "his face went ugly" could have been invented for this moment. Clive plowed bravely on…

  "— Detective Constable Barnard. I have to report to Superintendent Mullett at nine o'clock, sir."

  So this was Barnard. This is the young bastard who's going to make it because of his uncle while people with seventeen years bloody service but without influential relatives… Wells twisted his neck to wall clock. A minute before nine. Pity. It would have been a pleasure to bawl him out for un-punctuality.

  Another blast of wind ruffled the papers on the desk as a figure in military uniform hurtled through.

  "Meeting?" he barked.

  "Third door on the left, sir." The man was already on his way. Wells returned his attention to his victim.

  "Oh, yes. Barnard… I remember. The Chief Constable's nephew, isn't it? I should have recognized the broken nose."

  Clive tightened his lips, said nothing, and stared at a spot just above the sergeant's balding head. Wells moved his gaze downward… and then he saw it-

  "Good God! Where on earth did you get that suit?"

  Clive flushed. "In London, Sergeant."

  "London? The last time I saw a suit like that Max Miller was wearing it. How much did you pay for it?"

  A deep breath. "PS107, Sergeant."

  The sergeant's jaw thudded. "PS107! For that? Take my tip, Barnard, don't wear it in the daylight. There's some very nervous people about." Shoulders shaking at his own witticism and his good humor restored, Wells jerked a thumb toward a polished wooden bench and bade Clive sit.

  "The Divisional Commander's tied up at the moment. I'll tell you when he's free."

  Clive sat. The bench was hard. You were not meant to be comfortable sitting in a police station. Above his head was the Colorado Beetle Indentikit, on the opposite wall a blackboard in a wood frame. It was headed: DENTON DIVISION-ROAD ACCIDENTS. The board contained columns in which were chalked the monthly running totals of accidents and fatalities in the division as compared with the previous year.

  Clive sat and waited. The bench got harder, his suit louder. Then an icy blast as the swing doors crashed back on their hinges and a scruffy individual in a dirty mac, un-pressed trousers, and a long trailing maroon scarf burst in. He was in his late forties, with a pink, weather-beaten farmer's face flecked with freckles, warm blue eyes, and a freckled balding head, the pate surrounded by fluffy light brown hair. He went straight over to the board, picked up the chalk, and increased by one the number of accidents.

  "What happened?" asked Sergeant Wells, watching this with concern.

  "Hit the back of a bloody car as I drove in," said the scruffy man. "Some silly sod had poked it in my parking space. Who owns a blue Jaguar?"

  Wells went white. "Not a blue Jaguar, Jack? You didn't hit a blue Jaguar? That's Mr. Mullett's car. Brand new… delivered Saturday."

  The scruffy man was unimpressed. "Mullett's? At this hour of the morning? Come off it, he's at home polishing his buttons." He sniffed. "Hello… either meat pudding for dinner or Mabel's boiling her drawers."

  "This is serious, Jack," insisted the sergeant. "That is Mullett's car. He's here for the briefing meeting on the search for the missing kid. You were phoned about it last night. He's been asking for you."

  The man paused, then smote his brow in horrified "The meeting! Blimey! I forgot all about it."

  The station sergeant, who appeared to find happiness in other's misfortunes, tried to reassure him. "Never mind, Jack, after smashing up his car, missing his meeting will seem trivial. Did you do much damage?"

  He thought about it. "Not much… a slight knock on the rear wing. Hardly noticeable. His rear lamp's a bit smashed and there's the odd scratch and a couple of dents… Pity it was so new, actually." He hitched up his scarf. "Look, Bill, you haven't seen me; I haven't been in yet. I'm going to hide my car round the corner." He scuttled out a side passage.

  "Who was that?" asked Clive.

  "That, Detective Constable Barnard," replied the station sergeant stiffly, "was Detective Inspector Jack Frost."

  A detective inspector? That slovenly mess? Clive began to feel much happier about his future prospects. After all, if they made tramps like that up to inspectors…

  The phone rang. Stringer stopped his typing and answered it. He listened then muffled the mouthpiece against his tunic.

  "Sergeant. It's the Divisional Commander. He wants to know if Inspector Frost is in yet."

  "Tell him no," said the sergeant. "And tell him there's a gentleman in a PS107 suit waiting to see him."

  "Send him in," snapped Mullett and banged down the phone. He stuck the "Private and
Confidential" envelope back in his drawer. He had hoped to get the unpleasant interview with Frost over before he saw the new man. He shook his head in despair. How could you run an efficient station with men like Frost? And now, because of Inspector Allen's involvement with the search, Mullett was going to be forced to put the Chief Constable's nephew-the Chief Constable's actual nephew-under the dubious care of Inspector Jack Frost. It could spoil everything. True, the Chief Constable had a soft spot for Frost, but then he didn't have to work with him, to tolerate his appalling lapses, the unforgivable untidiness of his office, the tat tered clothes he wore, his hatred of paperwork and the system, his forgetfulness… But why go on? He was only working himself up. So long as the Chief Constable had faith, albeit misplaced, in Frost, then Mullett would conceal the man's true nature from him.

  Mullett, like Clive, was a career man, determined to rise to the top of his chosen profession. He'd joined the Force as a constable and, according to his charted plan, had steadily and diligently worked his way up the ranks, passing with ease all the necessary exams. In his spare time he, too, had taken a law course and was now a qualified solicitor.

  Because of his flair for leadership and organization, which he had taken pains to bring to the right people's notice, he'd been promoted three years ago to superintendent and given command of Denton Division. But this was but a stepping stone. In a few years' time the station would be demolished to make way for the enlargement of the new town and the force would move to a modern building currently under construction and would cover a much enlarged division. Whoever was in charge of the new division would be promoted to chief superintendent and would be in line for an even more glittering position when the Assistant Chief Constable retired.

  Mullett had planned that he would be the next Assistant Chief Constable. He was only too aware how easy it was to slip from grace when so near the summit, but this was not going to happen to him. The decisions and actions he took were made solely in the light of what was best for his career. Sometimes this was not the best thing for the division. But the division would survive: one wrong move and he wouldn't. For this reason, having the Chief Constable's nephew here was a bonus to be cherished. The chief was definite that he wanted the lad to be shown no favors, but Mullett knew how to interpret that. He would see that Barnard was recommended for early promotion entirely on his own merits. It might upset some of his own men with stronger claims, but it was a tough world and there was always another time.