“Let’s see if one of these will open it,” murmured Frost, producing the bunch of Skeleton keys he always carried with him. The third key he tried did the trick. Clive flung back the lid and they peered inside, almost fearful of what they might see.
Books. The trunk was tight-packed with books of all shapes and sizes, none of which seemed to warrant the expense of a heavy brass padlock.
They took them out. Old hymnbooks with the covers hanging by a thread. A copy of Mr. Midshipman Easy presented to Master James Graham Bell, Cooperley Primary School, June 1946, for good work. There were some bound volumes of The Boys’ Own Paper dating from the turn of the century that Frost flipped through with interest. “Could be worth a few bob, son. Wonder if he’d miss them.”
The next layer brought forth more ancient treasures including volumes of The Strand Magazine containing the Sherlock Holmes stories with Sidney Paget drawings of spade-bearded men in hansom cabs.
But in the next layer . . . Here the unexpurgated Fanny Hill was the tamest of the collection. Filthy books, obscene books. The sort of books kept under the counter in grubby little back-street Soho bookshops. The general theme of the collection was young girls.
Frost became engrossed in a paperback whose cover depicted a large, leather-knickered, bare-chested Amazon thrashing the posterior of a buxom, bare-buttocked blonde. The blonde wore a schoolgirl’s hat. “What Katy did at school,” he muttered, reading with moving lips a choice passage at random.
They emptied out the trunk. More books of the same type. “All right, son. Bung them back. Who said vicars aren’t human? They’re as dirty-minded as you or I, or even old Mullett.” He reluctantly tossed in the paperback.
If Clive hadn’t noticed the slight bulge under the brown paper lining at the bottom of the trunk, they would have missed the envelope. It contained photographs. Black and white enlargements of Mrs. Uphill in full, unretouched nudity. It also contained photographs of an undressed, nubile twelve-year-old Audrey Harding sprawling provocatively on this self-same sheet-draped cabin trunk. This time the head wasn’t torn off.
Frost was looking through the photographs for the fourth time when Clive asked, “What now, sir?”
Frost sighed. “Stick them back in the trunk and say nothing, son. Don’t look surprised. He hasn’t committed a crime, you know.”
Clive squeaked with indignation, “The girl’s under age!”
Frost shrugged. “Look at the photographs. Tell me what part of her is under age. We’ve got more important things to do, son, than drag this poor sod to court for corrupting the morals of a twelve-year-old slut who was more corrupt than him to start with. Blimey, she could probably corrupt me, and that takes some doing!”
They carefully replaced everything exactly as they had found it, but as Frost tried to relock the lid, his skeleton key snapped off inside the padlock. He faked it shut, covered the trunk with the sheet, and hoped the vicar wouldn’t notice.
Down to the next floor, but by now the inspector was becoming bored with the search. He hustled Clive along, leaning against the wall and smoking sulkily whenever the younger man tried to be thorough.
A pair of doors opened on to a large hall with a stage, benches, and the components of trestle tables stacked along the walls. This was the vicarage hall, home of the Sunday school, Boy Scouts, Girl Guides, amateur dramatic society, and similar local functions. Clive found a trapdoor on the stage and lay flat on his stomach, probing the space beneath with his torch. He was still putting the trapdoor back when Frost was impatiently pounding down the next flight, anxious to get this time-wasting job over so he could get to his over-heated little office, drink tea, and snarl at the paperwork.
At last they reached the ground floor. The smell of cooking drew them to the kitchen and the vicar’s wife, a fluttering woman with a once pretty face and a nervous laugh. She constantly apologized. She apologized for the mess, for the snow, for the lack of heat. A saucepan boiled over and she apologized for that. She offered to show them around the living quarters and invited them to stay for lunch. Frost eyed what was in the saucepan and declined both offers hastily.
The Bell’s living quarters were warm and comfortable, the walls adorned with more framed photographs—Scout groups, cuddly kittens with balls of wool, gnarled trees against a setting sun. “He should stick to nudes,” said Frost dismissively.
All interest in the search now gone, Frost would barely let Clive poke his head round a door before bundling him off to the next room. “I’m a good starter, son, but a poor finisher. At least, that’s what my lady friends keep telling me. But we’re wasting our time. The kid’s not here. I feel it . . .”
The only room to arouse his curiosity was the Bell’s connubial bedroom. He sat on the bed, bouncing up and down on the mattress, wondering to Clive if it made the same creaking during the couple’s nocturnal activities.
On the bedside table stood a silver-framed wedding photograph of a much younger version of the vicar, his beautiful girl-wife clutching his arm proudly. She looked incredibly young, almost a child. She didn’t look much older than Audrey Harding.
TUESDAY (2)
Clive slammed the brakes on hard and spun the wheel to control the skid as a little red Mini shot out of a side-turning smack in the path of the inspector’s Morris, then did a sharp right turn to disappear into the swirling curtain of snow ahead.
“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.”
<
br /> 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 briefing 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 y
ou 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 At Christmas Page 12
