Frost’s jaw crashed. “You mean we’re to ask the bloody ghosts to help us?”
Mullett showed his palms. “I know it’s a bit . . . unorthodox . . . but a Chief Constable’s entitled to his whims, so let’s humor him! Just go along and see her . . . I . . . er . . .” He showed his teeth. “I told him you’d see her yourself and make it a number-one priority.”
He rose from his chair to signify the interview was over. The great thing after tearing chaps off a strip was to end on a happy note, show them you were behind them. He gave Frost’s arm a little squeeze. “Cheer up . . . er . . . Jack . . . it’s not the end of the world.”
He carried on with his letter-signing as Frost slouched out. From Miss Smith’s office he heard a startled cry of annoyance, a guffaw from Frost who said, “How’s that for center, Ida?” He wondered what it was all about.
Mickey Hoskins lit another cigarette. He didn’t want it, it tasted hot and bitter, and the ones he had already smoked had coated his mouth with thick acidy nicotine, but he had to do something. He’d been in this damned interview room for over half an hour, just waiting. It was all part of the softening-up process, of course, to get you jumpy, twitchy, wondering how much they knew. Well, he wasn’t going to let it affect him.
But he wished he had something to do. Just sitting in this miserable room with its dull green walls and the tiny window too high to see out of. But, at least it was warm. These coppers sure liked their warmth. A cylinder of ash dropped from his cigarette. How many had he left? He checked. One! And he was saving that for the interview. With a cigarette in his hand he felt better. It gave him something to do, time to think when the questions got a bit too near the mark.
But how much longer had he to wait? They had no right to keep him here against his will. He hadn’t been charged, he could just stand up and walk out of that door and into the street and they couldn’t do anything to stop him. He’d give them five minutes and not a second more. Twelve minutes later Inspector Frost breezed in wearing the same battered suit Mickey remembered from years past.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mickey boy, but I’ve got so many ventures of great pith and moment on the boil, I completely forgot about you.”
A young uniformed man slid in after him and stood by the door. Frost dragged a chair from under the table and sat opposite Mickey who blinked at him warily through those thick lenses.
“Right, Mickey. First of all I must have a fag.” He lit one slowly, but didn’t offer the packet, then he took a photograph from his inside pocket and laid it face down on the table. He pushed it over to the other man with his forefinger.
“Turn it over, Mick.”
Mickey regarded Frost suspiciously, then looked down at the blank back of the photograph. What trick was this?
“What is it?”
“Turn it over and look.”
Gingerly he flipped it over. It showed a young girl, a schoolgirl, in color. She looked vaguely familiar. He screwed his face. Was it one of his? He couldn’t remember.
“Well, Mickey?”
“Well, what? It’s a photograph of a kid.” His tongue traveled along dry lips.
“Does she look anything like her photograph?”
“How should I know—I’ve never seen her.”
“Never seen her!” Frost barked out the words as if they were of the utmost significance, then turned to the young constable who was making shorthand notes in a spiral-bound notebook. “Get that down, Constable, and underline it—he’s never seen her!” Back to Hoskins. “You’d sign that, of course, wouldn’t you, Mickey? I wouldn’t want people to think I’d tricked you. You’d sign a statement saying you’d never seen her?”
Mickey wriggled in his chair. Frost always managed to get him confused. “I might have seen her . . . I mean, it’s a small town. I could have seen her without knowing it was her. Who says I’ve seen her? I mean, I couldn’t actually swear on a Bible . . .” The eyelids were fluttering wildly behind the lenses. “When am I supposed to have seen her?”
“How about Sunday?” suggested Frost.
“No!”
“Show me your hand, Mick. Come on, I want to see your hand.”
He held out his hand. It wouldn’t keep still. Frost grabbed it, squeezing the wrist in a vise-like grip. Mickey was glad the young constable was in the room. If one of them got you alone, he beat you up.
Frost was shaking the wrist. “Look at this, Constable.” The young man raised his eyes from the notebook. “Have you ever seen such a soft, warm hand? Look at these long, sensitive fingers. A really beautiful hand, that is, Mick. How many knicker legs has it slipped inside, eh?” Hoskins tried to pull free, but was held firm. “How many warm young thighs has that explored, eh Mick?”
“Stop it!” This time he managed to snatch his hand away. He massaged the white pressure marks of Frost’s fingers.
“Getting you excited, is it?”
“No, of course not.” Time for a cigarette. His hand shook as he lit it.
Frost rose from his chair and walked round the table to stand behind him. “Did you have a go at her on Sunday, Mick? Did she like it? Did you like her?”
Almost a scream. “Stop it! I never saw her on Sunday.”
“You don’t have to shout, Mick.” The voice now gentle. “You can lie just as well in a quiet voice. You haven’t been in your digs since Sunday.”
“So? It’s not a crime, is it?”
“Afraid to go back after what you did? Come on, Mick, tell us. Have the thrill of telling, then you can live it all again. What did you do to her?”
Mickey sucked at the cigarette, then blinked up at his tormenter. “I want my solicitor.”
“You have but to ask, Mick,” said Frost with a friendly smile. He picked up the phone, dialed for an outside line, then handed the receiver to the huddled man.
Hoskins took it, poked his finger toward the dial, then, almost in tears with frustration, slammed it back on its rest.
“You know I haven’t got a solicitor,” he bleated petulantly. “I’ve got no money. Only the rich can afford the law.”
Frost nodded his agreement. “We live in an unfair society, Mick. Still, I bet the richest man in the world hasn’t been up as many knicker legs as you. But back to the old police persecution. I want to know about Sunday. Come on, give us a cheap thrill.”
Mickey thought for a while then asked for a cigarette. Frost gave him one. He took two deep drags, then he spoke. “I didn’t think she’d mind. Some of them don’t—they lap it up, they love it. She was sitting on her own, so I moved over and sat next to her.”
The inspector frowned. “Where was this?”
It was Mickey’s turn to look puzzled. “The pictures. The Century Cinema in Lexton. That’s what you’re on about, isn’t it?”
Frost assured him that it was, wondering how the hell eight-year-old Tracey Uphill could have got over to Lexton and into the Century Cinema on her own. “So you sat next to her . . . ?”
“Yes. Like I said, I didn’t think she’d mind. She let me get my hand right up her leg before she screamed. If she didn’t want it, why didn’t she complain earlier?”
“Perhaps she didn’t want to miss a good bit of the film, Mick,” suggested Frost. Then he saw that the young constable was trying to attract his attention. He went over to him.
“This incident,” the young man whispered, “it’s been reported—a man tried to molest a woman, she screamed, he hit her in the face, breaking her nose. There was a chase. They nearly got him when he couldn’t get the exit doors open, but he burst through. The woman was about thirty, sir. He’s not talking about Tracey.”
Thirty years old? Mickey’s hands usually favored much fresher meat. At the other side of the room their suspect strained his ears, wondering what they were whispering about. Frost patted the constable on the arm and returned.
“Sorry about that, Mick—he just wanted to know how to spell ‘dirty bastard’. You broke her nose, you know. Why? A bit vicio
us wasn’t it?”
“Vicious? Vicious?” The voice rose by a major third. “She was the vicious one. Look!” He thrust out his left hand to show the blistered, inflamed area on the back of the wrist. “She did that. She clamped her legs tight to trap my hand then brought her lighted cigarette down on it. I had to hit her to get away.”
Frost stroked his own scar. “Very nasty, Mick. Could have ruined you professionally for life. Come to think of it, someone did say there was a smell of roast pork. But the old dear was pushing thirty. A bit ancient for you, wasn’t she?”
Mickey drew down his lips and shrugged. “Needs must when the Devil drives, Inspector. It was a restricted admission program. They don’t let kids in to see those films. In the old days you had good clean family entertainment, but this stuff today . . . it’s filth . . . pure, unadulterated filth.”
Frost nodded his agreement and went across to the police constable. “Keep an eye on him, son, would you? I’ll send someone in to take his statement. If he was touching up in the Century at six o’clock, I can’t see him having anything to do with Tracey, but we’ll keep him in mind, just incase.”
Back to the table. “I’m sending someone else in to take your statement, Mickey. Can’t do it myself, I get too excited when I hear about thighs and knickers and things. I can’t hold the pencil steady. Oh, I’d better take this.” He picked up the photograph.
“Hold on a minute,” Hoskins took the photograph from him and studied it through magnified eyes. “Here . . . this is that missing kid—Tracey Uphill. You surely didn’t think that I . . . ?”
“I had to ask, Mick—you’d have been offended otherwise.”
“She’s only eight years old.” The voice quivered with indignation. “I’ve never touched a kid under ten in my life—well, not knowingly, anyway.”
Outside the interview room Frost grabbed Bill Wells, the station sergeant, who said he’d be pleased to take Hoskins’ statement. They talked about old Sam, the tramp, a character who’d been in and out of the station’s cells for years and who was now stiff and cold in the morgue and cleaner than he’d ever been in his life. “It’s funny,” observed the sergeant. “I hated the bloke, he stank and was no bloody good, but I feel choked knowing he’s dead. By the way, the new chap’s waiting for you in your office.”
Frost frowned. What new chap? Oh—of course, young Barnard. He’d sent him to talk to Mrs. Uphill about the £2000. There were so many things on his mind. There was the bank door business. That worried him. And the old tramp’s dying. Then he had to meet Sandy Lane in the pub for a drink. And there was something else. It was important. He should keep notes, but then he’d forget to look at them. Blimey, yes! Old Mother Wendle, the witch of the woods. He had to ask her to get the spirits to tell him where the kid was. Now he’d remembered what it was, he felt happier. But first, let’s see what young Barnard had got from the juicy Mrs. Uphill, the best thirty quid’s worth east of Suez.
He trotted down the stone corridor to his office. Somewhere an outer door had been left open and a blast of cold air roared along the passage. He glanced through a window. Still no let-up in the snow, the sky was black, with plenty to come down. Barely twelve o’clock, and every light in the place was on.
Frost read the note again.
I HAVE GOT YOUR DAUGHTER TRACEY UPHILL IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER ALIVE GET PS2000 IN USED FIVE-POUND NOTES AND WAIT BY YOUR PHONE FOR INSTRUCTIONS TELL THE POLICE AND I KILL HER.
It had arrived at Mrs. Uphill’s with the first postal delivery. The postmark on the cheap brown envelope showed it had been collected from the main Denton post office in the Market Square at 6:15 the night before. Inside was a sheet of paper which could have been a page torn from a child’s exercise book. The writing was in laboriously printed block capitals written with a smudgy ballpoint pen. At first Mrs. Uphill had denied its existence—TELL THE POLICE AND I KILL HER—but Clive had convinced her that she must co-operate. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Uphill. Just leave everything to us.”
Frost took the page carefully by the edges and held it to the light, looking for a watermark. He dropped the sheet on to his desk.
“No watermark, son—not that it would mean anything to me if there was one.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms in a yawn. “Better get it over to Forensic. They’ll be able to tell us when the paper was made, the precise location of the pulping mill, when the tree was chopped down, and the exact chemical composition of the ball-point ink. Then they’ll put their findings in a twenty-page report which some poor sod will have to read, but they won’t be the slightest help in telling us who wrote the bloody thing.”
Clive slid the envelope and letter into a large transparent pocket and made out a requisition for a forensic report.
A brisk knock at the door and Mullett entered, his gleaming tailor-made uniform shaming Frost’s office into looking even drabber.
“I hear through the grapevine there’s a ransom note, Inspector.”
“I was just about to bring it in to you, sir,” said Frost, who had had no intention of so doing.
The glasses were pushed on the nose and Mullett read the note through the transparent cover. “Better get this over to Forensic.”
“Good idea,” said Frost. “Would you do that, son?”
Mullett looked for a chair to sit on, but they were both stacked with unreplaced files. Typical . . . absolutely typical. “What’s your next move, Inspector?”
“I’m having her phone wired so we can listen in to her calls—so if you’re one of her regulars, sir, I’d lay off for a while.”
Mullett’s face tightened. He didn’t think that the least bit funny.
“Hmm . . . I suppose you can’t make firm plans until you know the arrangements the kidnapper requires for the hand-over of the money. Now this note . . . do you think it’s genuine? Do you think he’s really got the girl?”
“I think it’s genuine,” said Clive, and Mullett beamed in his direction.
“So do I.” Then, remembering Frost hadn’t answered, “Inspector . . . ?”
Frost pulled a face. “I’m probably wrong—I usually am—but if she was kidnapped on Sunday, then why the hell did he wait until Monday night before posting his ransom note?”
“The kidnapper may not have had any envelopes and had to wait until Monday to buy them,” suggested Clive.
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Mullett. “He may not have had any stamps, either.”
“Or a ballpoint pen,” added Frost.
Not sure if this was sarcasm or not, Mullett gave a wintry smile and left.
“Stupid bastard,” snorted Frost as the door closed. “Send it to Forensic! What did he think we were going to do with it—wipe our arses on it? Well, nip it along to the post room, son, then get the chap in Control to send a civilian technician over to bug her phone. Tell them to send someone who hasn’t got three tenners to spare. I want a quick and thorough job. And then get back here—we’re meeting Sandy in the pub for lunch.”
As he waited for the detective constable to return he tidied up the latest batch of papers that had landed on his desk. There was a file Inspector Allen had been working on concerning a series of thefts at a local electronics factory. He’d have to look at that some time. Then he found a note in his own hand scribbled on the back of an old envelope. It said “Check Aunt—Tea”. He wasted the rest of the time until Clive’s return puzzling out what the hell it meant, finally giving up as a bad job.
“I’ve ordered the lunch,” said Sandy. “Now what do you want to drink—whiskey?”
“You’d better make it beers,” answered the inspector, “we haven’t got any information for you.”
The beers came with the curry. It wasn’t very good curry, doubtful chunks of gristle in a violent yellow sauce, bedded down on gray rice.
“I’m paying,” said Sandy.
“I should hope so,” said Frost, eyeing his plate with grave suspicion.
The reporter slipped in his leading
question. “I understand Mrs. Uphill drew a packet out of her bank today.”
Clive fired a glance at the inspector. How the hell did Sandy know that? Frost didn’t bat an eyelid; he chewed solidly on a lump of rubbery meat.
“If this is chicken curry, I’ve got one of the claws,” he announced gloomily.
“Come off it, Jack,” persisted the reporter. “Give me a break. I’ve spent my entire expense allowance on this lunch. We haven’t got the resources of the big London dailies you know.”
Frost pushed his plate away and rinsed the taste down with beer. “Did I tell you the joke about the bloke who drank the spittoon for a bet?”
“Yes—what delightful bloody table talk you’ve got.
Now come on, Jack. She drew out two thousand quid—why?”
“Ask your mate in the bank,” said Frost, lighting a cigarette. “I’m sorry, Sandy, as soon as there’s anything I can give you, you’ll have it. You don’t deserve it for such a stinking lunch, but you might find something interesting in tomorrow’s Magistrate’s Court. Mickey Hoskins. He touched up some female in the pictures and she gave him a different sort of thrill from what he expected by stubbing her fag out on his hand.”
Sandy brightened up and scribbled a note in his diary. “A crumb, but acceptable.”
Frost sipped his beer. “I wish our canteen tea was as warm as this.” Then he put his glass down and nudged Sandy. “The bird in the leopard-skin coat—don’t look round so obviously—at the bar.”
The reporter swiveled his eyes. “Cynthia Collard,” he whispered and Frost nodded in confirmation. Clive eased his head round to see who they were taking so much interest in.
She had the dark olive skin of a brunette, but her hair was bleached blonde. Thick makeup couldn’t conceal the dark rings under the eyes or the pinched lines around the mouth and nose. Now in her late hard-faced thirties, she must have been demurely pretty once, but now cold predatory eyes scoured the room as she sat cross-legged on the barstool, a cheap imitation leopard-skin coat cloaked over her shoulders. An overweight mustached man in the corner read the invitation in her glance and beckoned her to join him. She sauntered over with a smug smile.
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