Frost At Christmas

by R D Wingfield

“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 suppose 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. I 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?”

  “Yes, once. I couldn’t afford to keep it.”

  “Yes. Red cars are expensive to run. It was red wasn’t it, sir?”

  “No!” shouted Farnham.

  “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” said Frost unconvincingly. He stood up and stretched his arms. “I’d better go and see what that detective constable of mine is doing.”

  Barnard was in the bathroom, shirt-sleeves rolled up, his jacket hanging from the door. The bath panel had come off all right but was refusing to go back on again. With a couple of bangs in the right place from Frost, it was eventually coaxed into place.

  “Not a very good fit, I’m afraid,” said Farnham.

  “Don’t say that, sir,” cried Frost. “It cost him one hundred and seven quid.”

  They went at last. Farnham watched through the curtains until their car turned the corner. He slumped
back in his chair and pleaded with God not to let them check with his aunt. He’d never touch another woman again, he’d never send for another catalog, but please, don’t let them check with his aunt.

  MONDAY (5)

  Detective Inspector Allen rubbed his eyes and concentrated again on the sheet of paper where the list of names blurred, then slowly edged back into focus. He read that all the mothers who had been waiting for their children outside the Sunday school yesterday had been contacted and questioned, but not one of them remembered seeing this mysterious woman in the white fur coat. He dropped the paper into his “Out” tray and snorted with smug satisfaction. His earlier skepticism was justified. The woman didn’t exist. She was conveniently invented by Farnham in an attempt to divert suspicion from himself and, naturally, that gullible fool Frost had swallowed it without question.

  But where was Frost? He should be here by now. A pain jolted through Allen’s body and his head throbbed and banged. He felt terrible. There were some aspirins in his overcoat pocket. He rose to fetch them but two paces across the room and he cried out as the fire in his stomach flared and sent flames of agony rippling through his body. The pain was more than he could stand and the room was spinning and a roaring noise got louder and louder.

  Detective Sergeant Martin heard the crash and dashed into the office. Allen was out cold, sprawled across the polished lino.

  Martin phoned Mullett from the hospital. They were keeping the inspector in for observation. There was some concern, but it was probably a virus of some kind. Blood samples and other tests were in hand but there would be no firm news until a specialist saw him some time tomorrow.

  Mullett put down the phone and thoughtfully drummed a rallying tattoo on the satin mahogany. Why couldn’t Allen have picked a more convenient time? Someone else would have to be put in charge of the search, but who? The division was sadly under strength as it was. Detective Sergeant Martin, Allen’s assistant, would be able to cope, but, of course, he was only a sergeant. If Frost were capable there would be no problem, but he wasn’t, so the idea was unthinkable.

  Mullett scratched his chin, then his eyes brightened. County Headquarters! They were crawling with superfluous staff. It really was a disgrace with so many divisions starved of men. If he could get them to send him a senior officer . . . and once they did, he’d hang on to the man, even after Allen returned to duty.

  But this called for strategy. He would have to go to the top—a direct call to the Chief Constable, no less. Mullett straightened his uniform and smoothed back his hair. When he felt he was presentable, he dialed the Old Man’s home number.

  “Sorry to bother you at this outrageous hour, sir. If anyone’s entitled to some peace and relaxation, it’s you. Me, sir? Oh—I’m still in the office. No rest for us Divisional Commanders, I’m afraid.” He gave a modest, good-natured laugh and explained about Allen. “. . . Which means, of course, sir, I’ll have to put someone else in charge of the Tracey Uphill investigation.” He let his voice trail off, leaving a gap for the Chief Constable to fill with a suggestion to which Mullett could give his whole-hearted agreement.

  “Well,” said the chief, after a pause, “we’ve got no one to spare at County—but you knew that, of course.”

  “Of course,” echoed Mullett sincerely.

  “But I don’t see your problem. You’ve got Frost. I’m surprised you didn’t put him in charge in the first place. He’s a good man.”

  “They come no better,” croaked Mullett. “I’m glad we’re of one mind, sir. I shall put Frost in charge right away.” He put the phone down, then went over the conversation several times in his mind, trying to work out where he had gone wrong, then, bracing himself, he dialed the number of Frost’s office.

  “Where’s Jack Frost?”

  Clive looked up wearily from the jumble of papers from which he was supposed to ferret out details for the crime statistics return.

  The speaker was a uniformed sergeant, a hearty-looking man of forty with a weather-beaten face and a straggly handlebar mustache.

  “He is with the Divisional Commander, Sergeant. I’m his assistant, Detective Con—”

  He was cut short. “I know who you are, lad—flashy suit, wonky nose—the Chief Constable’s nephew, right?”

  Clive bristled. “I also happen to have a name—it’s Barnard.”

  “And I’m Johnson—Johnnie Johnson, Station Sergeant.” There was, of course, a station sergeant for each eight-hour shift.

  Johnson propped himself up against a filing cabinet. “How do you like working for our Jack?”

  Still smarting, Clive snapped, “I’m not used to working for idiots.” He instantly regretted the tactless but honest answer and stiffened for the expected rebuke. To his surprise the sergeant smiled tolerantly.

  “Count your blessings, Barnard. He may be a fool but they don’t come any better. Half the people here are jockeying for promotion, scrambling to get to the top, not caring who they tread on in the process. But not Jack Frost. He’s a man who knows his limitations, who doesn’t pretend to be what he isn’t. You’ll never find him trying to snatch the credit due to someone else—and if you worked for Inspector Allen, you’d know what I mean.”

  Clive ventured another criticism “He’s callous and crude. We’re dealing with a woman whose kid is missing, probably dead, and all he can talk about is how he’d like to get into bed with her.”

  The sergeant rolled himself a cigarette. “Jack’s trouble is, what he thinks, he says. You probably think the same as him but don’t say it.”

  This was true, but Clive hunched his shoulders sullenly. “He’s a bloody mess, like his office,” and he indicated the litter. “By the way, what was that medal I saw in his desk? I didn’t recognize it. It must be a long-service award—obviously it can’t be for good conduct.”

  The sergeant’s tongue traveled along the gummed edge of his cigarette paper and he gave the young man a pitying look. “Two years in the force and you know it all, don’t you, Barnard? Well, two and a half years ago it was headline news. The medal that he keeps tucked away in the blue box so no one can see it is the George Cross.”

  Clive’s mouth opened and closed before he could croak the words out. “The George Cross?”

  “Yes—the civilian equivalent of the Victoria Cross, and it’s his—that bloody mess you were talking about.”

  They hadn’t heard Frost’s footsteps clattering up the corridor. The door burst open.

  “Bloody mess?” he breezed. “Somebody must be talking about me.” And then he greeted the station sergeant with unconcealed delight, but noticing Clive’s crimson face.

  “Hairy Johnnie Johnson! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

  “Spot of leave, Jack,” beamed the sergeant. “Came back on duty Sunday night.”

  “You get leave as well with your job? Who’s been taking the bribes in your absence? I see you’ve met my assistant, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. And how’s your charming and erotic wife?”

  “As charming and erotic as ever, thanks. She wants you to come for a meal one evening.”

  “I daren’t, Johnnie,” demurred Frost. “You know the effect she has on me. But in any case, I can’t go hobnobbing with mere sergeants any more. I’ve just been put in complete charge of the Tracey Uphill investigation.” He folded his arms triumphantly.

  “You?” said Clive, trying not to sound incredulous.

  “Yes, son. I’ve just received the accolade from our lovable horn-rimmed commander in the old log cabin. Poor old Allen’s been taken to hospital—shock from having a bath, if you ask me.”

  The sergeant nodded approvingly. “Congratulations, Jack.”

  “Mind you,” continued Frost, “I’ve been given my orders. I’m to stay away from the press and the TV boys, I’m to report to Mullett every five minutes and do nothing without his written confirmation, but apart from that I’ve got a free hand.” He sniffed. “Blimey, Johnnie, what are you smok
ing—mustache clippings?”

  Johnnie Johnson grinned. “Mr. Mullett wouldn’t have put you in charge if he didn’t think you could do it, Jack.”

  Frost waved this aside. “Come off it, Johnnie, he was forced to give it to me. Who else is there?” He rammed a cigarette in his mouth and blazed the end with his lighter. “Be honest, if it wasn’t for my damn George Cross he’d have had me out on my ear years ago.” He remembered Clive and offered the packet. “Do you know about my medal, son?” He sucked at his cigarette and reflected. “Came in the nick of time it did. Mullett was all ready to give me the tin-tack in appreciation of a couple of my more spectacular balls-ups when I had my little moment of triumph. I must show you my medal sometime. They prefer you to get killed before they give it to you but make an exception if their stocks of them are building up.”

  His cigarette was burning unevenly so he dabbed some spit on one side. “I’m famous now. Every time I get a mention in the local press, like ‘Local Detective Sods Up Court Case,’ they add a little footnote about my medal. And that’s why Mullett is forced to keep me on. The power of the press. He’s afraid of seeing headlines like ‘Handsome Detective Hero Gets Boot. Shabbily Treated by Horn-rimmed Bastard’.”

  “He recommended you for promotion, Jack,” insisted the sergeant.

  Frost sniffed scornfully. “Only because he thought the medal would give the division a bit of prestige. He forgot I was attached to the end of it. I bet he regrets it now, poor sod. Put those papers away, son. Let’s have a look in Search Control.”

  The station sergeant walked with them as far as the charge room where he again pressed Frost to come for a meal. “Peggy insists, Jack . . .”

  Later, Frost confided to Clive why he daren’t accept the invitation. “I respect Johnnie too much. He’s a nice bloke and thinks the world of her, but she’s a bloody sex maniac. Sticks her nipple in your ear as she serves the hors d’oeuvre and rubs thighs under the tablecloth. Makes you dribble your soup. Anyone else but Johnnie’s wife and I’d love it. I happen to know a couple of the lads pop round there when he’s on duty. If he ever found out. . . .” He sighed sadly and let the sentence hang.