Frost at Christmas (2 page)

   So far the improving hand of progress hadn't transformed the old market town, but it was not a reprieve, just a stay of execution. The planners were leaving that tasty titbit on their plates until the last.

   Denton Police Station was in the old town and it was to the police station that Detective Constable Clive Barnard, his brand-new warrant card nestling in his wallet, was to report for duty at nine o'clock sharp Monday morning.

   No one else got out at Denton Station, and the carriage door had no sooner closed behind him than the train, eager to get away, rumbled off to more exciting venues. Clive watched its lights disappear and felt bitter, deep-seated resentment toward it for abandoning him to this miserable place on a chill and friendless Sunday evening.

   A yawning ticket collector held out a hand for Clive's ticket, not bothering to lift his eyes from the pages of the
Sunday Mirror.
Clive humped his case to the booking hall, dimly lit and empty. They'd promised someone would meet him, but what could you expect in a dump like this? Then, with a screech of brakes, Able Baker four pulled into the curb, its flashing blue light reproaching him for his unworthy doubts. The driver, P.C. Jordan, a tall, thin twenty-six year old with a black mustache, opened the rear door and with a jerk of the thumb motioned Clive to get in. He briefly introduced himself and his observer, P.C. Simms, the moonfaced man at his side. That ceremony over, the car jerked away, heading for the lodgings assigned to Clive. An icy reception, he thought to himself. He hoped his new digs wouldn't be equally cold.

   "What's up with your nose?" asked Simms after a couple of minutes of silence.

   It had been broken on Clive's first day out on foot patrol. He'd tried to act the peacemaker between two brawling drunks and had been set upon by both of them for his trouble.

   Simms grunted at the explanation. "I always let them fight it out to the bitter end, then I arrest the winner. It means hiding round the corner until they've finished, but at least it keeps your nose in one piece." A few more moments of prickly silence, then Simms slipped in his leading question. "How's your uncle?"

   Clive sighed. So it was out in the open, the cause of the hostility. He might have known he'd have trouble with the rustics. In London it had been treated as a big joke. The odd bit of leg-pulling, but they'd known he'd worked his way up to the dizzy heights of detective constable from scratch, expecting and getting no favors. But out here in turnip country he was the brash, spoiled kid from the big city, the one with the influential relative.

   "Are you referring to the Chief Constable?" he asked innocently.

   Simms feigned surprise. "Oh, is
he
your uncle? That would account for the similarity of the names, of course  . . ."

   "And for the fact that we're acting as your bloody chauffeur," added Jordan, sounding his horn at a dog that was taking its time crossing the road. "We couldn't expect the Chief Constable's nephew to take the common bus, of course . . ."

   "Let's get this straight," snapped Clive hotly. "I never asked to be met, and if you think he gives me any favors, then I can assure you I'd have asked to be posted to anywhere but this one-eyed stinking dump."

   A pause, during which tension crackled. The two uniformed men exchanged glances. "One-eyed stinking dump?" said Simms. "You must have been here before." He offered around his cigarettes and the atmosphere thawed slightly. "You're quite right, Clive," he continued, and Clive noted with pleasure the use of his first name, "this place is a dump . . . in fact it's a dump and a half. It was a little dump before they started to develop it, now it's a big dump."

   "It's not so bad," said Jordan, as they waited for the traffic lights to change, although there was no other vehicle in sight. The road was deserted. It was not only criminals who preferred to stay indoors in this weather.

   "I understand I'll be working under Detective Inspector Allen," remarked Clive, trying to balance some ash on the overflowing ashtray. "What's he like?"

   "In a word, he's a sod," muttered Simms.

   Jordan was more generous. "He's not so bad - a stickler for the book, but do it his way and you won't go far wrong. Mind you, he's got a bit of a sharp tongue, which he has been known to use on the lazy and slovenly, as my friend and colleague here has discovered to his cost."

   "What about Mr. Mullett, the Divisional Commander?"

   "Superintendent Mullett is a stuck-up, pompous know-nothing sod," answered Simms.

   Again Jordan differed. "He's got his faults, but he's fair. How long were you in uniform?"

   "Twenty-four months."

   Jordan grinned. No one could be considered for C.I.D. until they had spent a minimum of two years in uniform. Clive had spent the bare minimum. "Couldn't you wait to get out of it?"

   "I joined the Force with one idea and one idea only - to go into C.I.D. No disrespect, but to my mind C.I.D. is what police work is all about."

   A left turn at a roundabout. "You'll never get me to change," said Jordan. "For my money you can't beat the uniformed branch. Mind you, it was different years ago. Then they reckoned the chap on the beat was thick, clumsy, and slow - like my mate here--employed by the C.I.D. elite to stand outside the door and bar unauthorized entry during their investigations. He might be allowed to fetch the tea and bring back the right change and work all the hours that God sent without complaining, but that was all . . ."

   "It's exactly the same now," muttered Simms, "except we do complain."

   Jordan snorted. "You know it isn't. We're a self-motivated team in this car, expected to work on our own initiative. I bet we do more basic detection work in a day than your average C.I.D. man does in a month. And unlike the C.I.D. we work regular hours."

   "Sounds a good job," smiled Simms, "I think I'll join." He turned to Clive. "I don't know what you've been used to in town, but I'm afraid your digs are a bit tatty. They're hard to come by these days - and us uniformed lads get the cream, as you would expect."

   Clive was about to answer when Simms stiffened, flicked his hand for silence, and touched the knob of the radio to bring up the volume.

   Denton Control was calling Able Baker four.

   Simms answered and reported their location. They were requested to go immediately to No. 29 - repeat 29 -  Vicarage Terrace and interview a Mrs. Joan Uphill who had reported that her eight-year-old daughter, Tracey Uphill, had not returned home from Sunday school since 4:30.

   Even before Simms had acknowledged, Jordan had spun the car around and was heading back in the direction of Vicarage Terrace.

She'd tried all the likely places - phoned them, visited them. Then she'd tramped the streets, calling Tracey's name, hair streaming, her unbuttoned fur coat flapping in the wind. She hadn't meant to go far but in the distance, very faint, barely audible, came the shrill burble of children's voices, leading her on like a will-o'-the-wisp. Just one more corner, and the next. But when tiredness forced her to stop, and the clatter of her footsteps died in the empty street, no matter how hard she listened, the children's voices transmuted themselves into the vague murmurings of the wind.

   She was too far from the house. What if Tracey went back and she wasn't there? Fear made her hurry. Her legs ached from calf to thigh, but she forced them to go faster. Outside the house, no sign of Tracey. She called and only the wind answered. She let herself in and, without taking off her coat, slumped by the phone and dialed Tracey's friends again. The other mothers, their own children safe, tried to reassure her. "I wouldn't worry, Mrs. Uphill, she'll turn up, you'll see. Now if you'll excuse me . . . the tea . . ." The last call made and nothing more to do. The house, emptier than ever, seemed different somehow, as if adjusting itself to the fact that the child would never come back. She felt drained, lost, helpless. There was no one she could turn to: no friends, no relatives, no one. She leaned forward and cooled her forehead on the telephone. In the center of the dial it said "Police--ring 999."

   She dialed. The operator put her through to Denton Police Station. It was 7:06.

   "Denton Police. Can we help you?"

   Her call was answered by P.C. Ronald Lambert, twenty-three years old, bearded and unmarried. It was the thirty-eighth call he'd taken since coming on duty at two o'clock that afternoon. He hated front office work. It was freezing in the lobby after the steamy warmth of the canteen. Waiting for the caller to answer, he logged the time of the call. 1906 hours. The caller was a distraught woman. At first he couldn't make out what she was saying. Something about a girl and a Sunday school. With the patience born of practice, he asked her to repeat it, slowly.

   "My little girl hasn't come home . . . looked everywhere . . . everywhere . . ."

   He calmed her down and methodically extracted the vital details. "Since 4:30 you say? You should have phoned us earlier, mother. But hold on . . ."

   Behind him a sliding wall panel connected the lobby to the control room. He slid it back. P.C. Philip Ridley, who was talking to the station sergeant, looked up expectantly.

   "I've got a Mrs. Uphill on the phone. No. 29 Vicarage Terrace. Her daughter, Tracey Uphill, eight years old, left St. Basil's Sunday School at 4:30 and hasn't returned home. The mother's very worried."

   Vicarage Terrace. Ridley didn't need to refer to the wall map to know it was in C Beat, one of two beats covered by police car Tango Charlie one. But Tango Charlie one was already out on a call, a husband and wife punch-up, known as "a domestic". So what else had we? Ah - the area car, Able Baker four. It wasn't doing anything vital, only taking the Chief Constable's precious nephew to his digs. Well, he could wait. It wouldn't do the pampered swine any harm to see a spot of real police work for a change.

   He flicked the switch on his transmitter and called Able Baker four. The monitor speaker crackled and Simms's voice answered.

   "Hello Control . . . Vicarage Terrace? We can be there in four minutes."

   On the other side of the panel, P.C. Lambert uncupped his hand from the mouthpiece. "Mrs. Uphill? Sorry for the delay. Stay put, Mrs. Uphill, a car's on its way round to you now. Don't worry, we'll sort it out."

   He dropped the receiver back on its rest and shut the sliding panel, then he and the controller, each in his separate room, logged the incident and settled down to wait for the next call. A pretty boring Sunday up to now. The station sergeant thought he'd take advantage of the lull and have his tea break.

"Sorry about this," shouted Jordan, swinging the area car through mazes of side streets choked with parked vehicles. "It could take some time. Would you like us to drop you off somewhere?"

   Clive shook his head. He was in no hurry to get to his digs. He'd be spending the rest of the dreary evening there anyway, and it was barely past seven now. If they didn't mind he'd like to follow the call through with them.

   "You can point out where we go wrong," said Simms, scribbling the details on his log-sheet.

   The car. curb-crawled Vicarage Terrace looking for number 29 among the darkened porches. This probably wouldn't take more than a few minutes. Usually the lost kid and the police turned up at the same time, the kid to be walloped and hugged, the police to be apologized to:

   "Now say you're sorry to the policeman." To which the police usually replied, "That's what we're here for, madam. Glad it's turned out this way."

   Usually . . . not always.

   "That should
be
it," cried Simms, pointing, and in confirmation a street door opened and a teenaged girl waved frantically.

   The two uniformed men got out, putting on their peaked caps, which were not worn in the car. Simms took a clipboard and a pen from the glove compartment and made sure he had his personal radio. Clive followed at a respectful distance. He couldn't take his eyes from the girl in the doorway with her ash-blonde hair and the simple lavender-blue woolen dress hugging the soft curves of her young virginal body. The missing girl's sister, he reasoned, but she was simply fantastic - the flawless naive innocent of his dream-world erotic fantasies.

   But Jordan addressed her as Mrs. Uphill! How could this child have a daughter of eight? But she wasn't a child. She was a woman. Twenty-four years old and worried to desperation.

   "Yes, I'm Mrs. Uphill. Have you found her?" The voice was on the verge of hysterical.

   Jordan smiled sympathetically and shook his head.

   "Not yet, Mrs. Uphill. Give us a chance, we've only just received your message. Do you think we could come in?"

   She led them through to the lounge, an expensively furnished room with rosewood paneling, an off-white deep-pile wall-to-wall carpet screaming money, an enormous projection color TV, and a corner bar with a genuine reproduction pub counter and beer engine.

   They settled down in cream-colored armchairs smelling richly of leather, Simms, with his clipboard poised on his knee, asking most of the questions.

   "The boring bit first, Mrs. Uphill. The details. When did you last see her? Outside the Sunday school? I see. You took her there yourself? Good. And what time would that be?"

   As Simms extracted the necessary information, Clive let his eyes wander around the room. There was money in the house, even a newly appointed detective constable could see that. It shouted its opulence. But where was the husband? There had been no mention of him. Perhaps she was a widow, or divorced. Whatever it was, Mr. Uphill had left her well provided for. Those shelves behind the bar were crammed with any drink you cared to name; the cigarette boxes were brim-filled - name your brand - filter-tipped or plain, we have it; and there was a drum of large red-and-gold-banded cigars on the bar counter. Plenty of provisions for a man, but no mention of him. His eyes moved to the girl's face. She was listening intently to Simms, her moist lips parted, her skin flawless without makeup. He felt sexual stirrings within himself and immediately suppressed them, chiding himself for being a dirty-minded slob. At a time like this . . . that poor helpless creature. If only he could offer her some comfort, some protection.