Then Frost realized he hadn't reported back to Inspector Allen after interviewing the mother. Blimey, that'll bring the pains on, he thought.
"Come on, son-work to do."
Clive, who was being told by the young porter that his suit was fab, drank the remains of his tea and buttoned his coat.
Frost protected his neck with a couple of tight turns of the scarf and opened the door. Outside it was cold. Very cold.
By four o'clock it was too dark to continue and reluctantly, but sensibly, Detective Inspector Allen issued instructions for the search to be called off for the day. He sat alone at a corner table in the canteen with its green and gold Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling and watched the tired, cold men returning to join the shuffling queue for hot, strong tea. The hissing of the urn and the clangor of cups and cutlery almost drowned the low-key dispirited conversations.
Allen was as tired and drained as the searchers. Something was wrong. They should have found her today. Tomorrow he'd have to draw in more men and extend the area of the search, which meant more organizing, more painstakingly detailed work before he could call it a day. He'd been on the go since seven that morning and would be lucky to see his bed before midnight. And he felt ill. He hadn't eaten all day and the thought of food sickened him. The canteen was overbearingly hot. Where the devil was that incompetent fool, Frost. Nothing from him since he was detailed to interview the mother before lunch. And the man an inspector, the same rank as Allen, who was bearing all the worry and responsibility of the search and who would have to accept all the blame if it went sour.
A burst of raucous laughter from the queue by the counter, and there was Frost in his dirty mac, sharing some coarse joke with the woman at the tea urn. No worries, no thought of reporting back to Allen, just straight into the queue for tea.
It was too much. Allen stormed over and jerked his head to the door, waiting in the corridor outside for Frost to follow. Out he came, his scarf bulging out of his pocket, the new chap, Barnard, behind him.
"Bit of luck spotting you," beamed Frost, completely unabashed. "I'll give you a verbal report-save all the bother of sticking it on paper."
Allen exploded. Was he expected to receive important reports casually in the corridor?
"You'll write the bloody thing out properly and bring it to my office. And where the hell have you been?"
"Sorry," said Frost, surprised at the outburst and wondering why the man was so touchy-although he didn't look well. "She gave us a lead and we followed it through."
Allen's eyes blazed. "You weren't told to follow it through. You were told to report back, you bloody fool. Why don't you do what you're told!"
"Why don't you get stuffed," asked Frost, turning to go. "You'll get the report when I've had some tea."
Something snapped. Allen reached out, grabbed Frost's shoulder, and spun him round. Frost's eyes flashed and knuckles whitened over clenched fists.
God, thought Clive, there's going to be a fight. He prayed that a senior officer would come on the scene before it got out of hand. What was the etiquette for such things? Should he try to break it up or look the other way and pretend it just wasn't happening?
But it didn't happen. Allen gasped and doubled up, his face sickly white and contorted with the pain that tore his stomach.
Frost was immediately full of concern. "Are you all right?"
Allen straightened up, his brow clammy with sweat. "Something I've eaten. It'll pass." He was unsteady on his feet and clutched the wall for support.
"I'll give you a hand to your office."
"No-I can manage." He composed himself. Then: "What happened with Mrs. Uphill?" He listened intently as Frost told him. He didn't think the nude photograph was relevant but was very interested in the bearded man.
"I want to know immediately there's any news from Lefington. And I want a typed report on my desk tonight." He trotted briskly down the stairs. Whatever had been wrong with him seemed to have passed.
"I won't half pay for that when his promotion comes through," Frost told Clive blandly, pushing the swing doors to re-enter the canteen, but no sooner had they joined the end of the queue when the P.A. system gave a metallic cough.
"Telephone call for Inspector Frost."
There was a phone in the corridor. The call was from Lefington sub-division. Good news. The railway booking clerk not only recognized the description, but was able to turn up an application the bearded man had made for a season ticket. It contained his full name and address. He was Stanley Farnham, a schoolmaster, who traveled daily by train to Cranford where he taught English at the comprehensive school.
Frost scribbled the address down on the back of a cigarette packet and was profuse with thanks, praise, and offers of reciprocation. The face he turned to Clive beamed with delicious anticipation, like a cat's on finding the door to the canary's cage open.
"No time for tea, son. We've got a beard to interview."
He tugged the scarf from his mac pocket and reeled it round his neck.
"You'll be letting Inspector Allen know, sir?" asked Clive anxiously.
"But of course. He gets touchy if he thinks I'm ignoring him. I don't know why he should feel jealous-after all, we're both the same rank." He dialed Allen's office on the internal phone, but it was Detective Sergeant George Martin, Allen's assistant, who answered.
"Oh, hello, George," chirped Frost. "Is your esteemed chief there by some unfortunate chance? Gone home for a bath? Well, about time. I'm not a fussy man, but… Look, when he gets back, you might tell him we've traced Mrs. Uphill's weekly customer and we're on our way to interview him. No, I don't think I should ask him first. He likes people to act on their own initiative. Have I done what? The crime statistics? God, is it time for them already? Due in last week? Clang! Well, thanks for the whisper. I'll do them when we get back."
He hung up and swore softly at the wall. Damn those bloody statistics. Mullett was such a stickler for them going out to H.Q. on time and they were a time-wasting nuisance. There was no problem if your office was organized like Inspector Allen's; you just went to a file and extracted the figures. But if your papers were unfiled and your office was a rubbish tip…
"As soon as we get back, son, we'll do the crime statistics. Be good training for you."
When they reached the car the inspector realized he'd left his other packet of cigarettes in the office and Clive, spilling over with resentment at being used as a messenger boy, was sent back for them.
The muddle and disorder of Frost's office made him shudder. Since they were last in, fresh deliveries of paperwork had arrived and had been stacked on top of earlier layers on the inspector's desk, held down under the weight of his glass ashtray. The top item under the ashtray looked interesting. A sheet of thick, deckle-edged notepaper scrawled with spidery writing in pale green ink. Clive sat at ' the desk to read it when young P.C. Keith Stringer breezed in with roneoed copies of the new duty roster for January.
"In the boss's chair already?" he grinned, adding a roneoed sheet to the rising paper mountain.
Clive decided not to admit to being engaged in the menial task of fetching cigarettes and countered with a question of his own. "I thought your shift finished at two?"
"Overtime. We're men short on the search and I need the money."
"Tell me something," said Clive. "What time do you reckon he'll be letting me go?" — "How do you mean?"
Clive checked his watch. "I've been on now for nearly eight hours. We've got to interview a man-say another couple of hours-then he's talking about coming back for a jolly session with the crime statistics. To hear him talk you'd think the day had just started."
Keith's grin widened. "Haven't you been told about Mr. Frost? He's a smashing bloke and we all like him, but he never wants to call it a day. Since his wife died there's nothing for him to go home for, I suppose, but he doesn't think anyone else has a home either. If you're home before midnight, you'll be lucky. First in and last out,
that's him, so say goodbye to your sex life." He dropped a duty roster on Frost's desk and sailed out of the office.
Clive seethed. Midnight! Well, he wasn't going to put up with that; he'd see Mullett first thing tomorrow morning. Then his heart sank. He couldn't, of course. He was the Chief Constable's nephew. They'd say he was after special treatment.
So where were those bloody cigarettes? He worked his rage off on the desk drawer by jerking it out and was taken by surprise when it shot out easily, spilling its contents all over the floor.
Down on the knees of his flash trousers to pick them up. "Damn and sod the man," he cursed, chucking the useless junk back in the drawer. Bad enough to spend all day with the uncouth idiot without spending half the night as well.
One of the things that had fallen to the brown lino was curious. A blue box about the size of a packet of twenty cigarettes, with a crest embossed in gold on the front. It rattled when he shook it, so he peeped inside. A medal of some kind, in the shape of a cross and attached to a dark blue ribbon, nestled on a velvet bed. A long-service award perhaps. It was engraved "To Jack Edward Frost."
Clive tossed it in the drawer, found the cigarettes, and raced back to the car.
Stanley Farnham dumped the exercise books for marking on the hall table and picked up the letters from the mat. Two of them, one his monthly statement from Barclay-card, and the other… His pulse quickened. Hanging his overcoat in the hall closet he looked again at the envelope. It bulged. It must be the catalog he'd sent off for last week. Still in the hall, he ripped it open and pulled out the contents. Yes, a large catalog entitled Sex Aids and Sex Toys. He thumbed quickly through it. He would savor it at his leisure later, but just had to see… What's this? A price list for contraceptives, all makes, all colors, all nationalities. He pushed it aside impatiently; he couldn't work up much excitement for latex rubber-wear. A leaflet advertising books-Sexual Positions. This was more promising…
A warning bell inside him rang a fraction of a second before the doorbell screamed.
He wheeled round, nearly dropping the envelope. Two shadows through the frosted glass of the front door.
His heart banged and raced. The envelope! He stuffed it and the catalog into the shallow drawer of the hall table.
The bell shrilled again. A loud bang at the door.
"Who is it?"
"Police."
The police! Oh God… surely they weren't checking his mail? When the postman had handed him that packet last week, he had been sure there had been a knowing smirk on the man's face.
He fastened the chain on the door and opened it cautiously. He wasn't taking any chances. Sometimes men, pretending to be police officers…
"Mr. Stanley Farnham? Sorry to trouble you, sir. We're from Denton C.I.D. May we come in…?"
This was the elder of two men, a shabby-looking character with a scarred face. The other, much younger, wore a shortie overcoat over a flashy suit and seemed to have a broken nose. A right pair of thugs! He was thankful he'd thought to put the chain on.
He asked to see their warrant cards. This seemed to present some difficulty to the scarred man who spent ages fumbling through wodges of dog-eared papers, but the young man instantly produced a wallet which he flipped open. A brand-new, clean warrant card proclaimed him to be Detective Constable Barnard. Then the other man found his and held it alongside.
"Or if you want to see a dirty one…" he said.
Farnham unhooked the chain and ushered them quickly past the hall table and into the lounge.
"What's this all about? I've only just got in from the school."
Detective Inspector Frost hung his scarf on the back of a chair and sat down. The other man remained standing.
"Nice little place you've got here, sir." The inspector's eyes crawled around the tasteful room, taking in the block-mounted abstract prints, the tightly packed bookshelves, the Tippett Knot Garden recording on top of the stereo record player. "Nice and compact. You took your time answering the door?"
The accusation slipped out so silkily, Farnham wasn't ready with an answer. "Oh. I… I… I was doing something — "
A hard stare from the inspector. "How many rooms have you got here, sir?"
"Rooms? Oh… this room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom."
"Just enough," nodded Frost, approvingly. "No point in having more than you need. You don't mind if my col league from London has a look round, sir? Shouldn't take long."
Farnham felt a nerve in his face writhe and twitch. What were they looking for? What a fool he'd been sending for that stuff: it stood to reason that some of those advertisements had been bending the law.. that last book was positively pornograhic. It wasn't in the bookcase, thank God! The inspector's eyes were on him, watching that damn nerve pulsate and throb. Well, he wasn't going to make it easy for them; they'd have to drag him to the scaffold.
"Yes, I do mind. I'm not answering any questions without my solicitor."
Frost received this with benign equanimity. "Very wise, sir. Call him on the phone. We've plenty of time."
They were playing with him. Oh God, what if it was that other business? But they couldn't have found out. The room was closing in, he felt cornered; he wanted to run, to get away. Now he knew why the young detective had remained standing. He was blocking the door, preventing Farnham from getting out. They had him trapped. He was finding it difficult to breath. The inspector was staring at him.
"Are you all right, Mr. Farnham?"
"Yes, of course I'm all right." It was hot. The heat was stifling. He loosened his tie.
"You've nothing to hide, have you, sir?"
"Hide? Of course not. What… what is this all about?"
"You know a woman called Joan Uphill, Mr. Farnham?"
His heart skipped a beat. Surely they didn't know about her? "Uphill?" The face screwed in concentration. "No, I can't recall…."
"No. 29 Vicarage Terrace, Denton, sir. Thirty pounds a time, tea included."
He managed to look mystified. "I'm sorry, I don't know her."
Frost stood up and adjusted his scarf. "You'd better phone your solicitor, sir. We'd like you to meet the lady.
' She reckons you were with her yesterday afternoon. In view of what you say, she must be lying, so the sooner we sort it out-"
Farnham tried to light a cigarette, but his lighter wouldn't work. The detective produced his and waited patiently until the cigarette stopped shaking.
"All right. Yes, I do know Mrs. Uphill. What has happened to her?"
"Why should anything have happened to her, sir?"
"These women, they do get attacked, you know. But she was all right when I left her." The cigarette stuck to his lip and tore the skin. His tongue tasted salty blood.
"It's not the mother, sir. It's the daughter."
"Tracey?"
"You know her?"
"I've seen her once or twice. What about her?"
"You must surely know what's happened. It was on the news, in all the papers."
The younger man spoke. "There's your today's paper, sir." It was on the coffee table.
"Yes, but I haven't read it."
Frost reached for it and frowned. The crossword on the back page was completed. He showed it to Farnham, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, I do the crossword while I'm eating breakfast. I don't look at the front page, or the inside, until evening."
Frost turned the paper over, unfolded it and passed it to Farnham. The headline and photograph were half-way down on the right.
POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL.
Farnham's lips moved as he skimmed through the story.
"Good Lord! How terrible. I never knew…" He paused as the penny dropped. "You think she's here? You want to search because you think she's here?" The relief was overwhelming. "Go on then, search. I've got nothing to hide."
A nod from the inspector and Clive sidled out of the room. Frost settled back in his chair.
"You left Mrs. Uphill's about half-past
four, sir. I sup pose you didn't meet Tracey coming out of Sunday school?"
"I didn't meet her.'I saw her, though."
Frost jerked forward excitedly. He'd seen her! They'd found someone who'd actually seen her! "Where was this, sir?"
"Walking away from the Sunday school."
"Toward her house?"
Farnham sucked more salt from his lip. "No. The opposite direction. She was with a woman."
Frost wriggled in his chair. They could have done with this information hours ago. He'd radio it through to Allen the minute they were back in the car.
"Can you describe this woman?"
"Well… I didn't take an awful lot of notice. I was in a hurry, and it was dark. Medium height, wearing a white fur coat."
A white fur? Well, that was something.
"How old was she?"
"No idea."
"Did you see where they went?"
"No. 1 soon out-paced them. I didn't particularly want Tracey to see me. As I said, I was in a hurry."
"Why were you in a hurry, sir?"
The questions came bouncing back hard on his answers, but his brain was working quicker now. They'd obviously checked at the railway station and found he hadn't taken the first train out.
"I had to visit my aunt. She's an old lady of seventy-eight, or so. Lives in the senior citizens' bungalows on the Southern Housing Estate. I was due there for tea."
The inspector sniffed. "Your Sundays are one Long round of pleasure, sir. First Mrs. Uphill, then tea with your aunt. I'd like her address if you don't mind."
Farnham was startled. "You won't go round worrying her. She's an old lady, and her heart's not too good."
"I specialize in old ladies with weak hearts, sir-have no fear."
Frost wrote the address down on a scrap of paper he found in his pocket, then he tried to dig a hole in his cheek with a finger. Something was worrying him.
"Do you own a car, Mr. Farnham?"
"No."
"A red car?"
"No."
"Some time ago we had reports of a bearded man in a red car trying to pick up young kids outside that Sunday school.", His eyes bored into Farnham. "Have you ever owned a car?"
Frost at Christmas djf-1 Page 7