Frost at Christmas (16 page)

   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 you 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'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 vicious 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."