Frost At Christmas Read online

  The cupboard door closed and became once again part of the wall paneling. Something caught his eye. On his desk, tucked into the corner of the blotting pad, an envelope. The typing, in red capitals, said “Strictly Private and Confidential”. He slit it open with his stainless-steel paper knife, slipped on his horn-rimmed glasses, and read it. His eyes hardened. He dropped down into his chair and read it again.

  It was trouble. A complaint against one of his officers, Detective Inspector Frost.

  He thudded the satin mahogany with a clenched fist. Damn the man; nothing but trouble from the start. He’d have him out of the division tomorrow if he could. He looked at his watch. Nearly time for the briefing meeting; Frost would have to wait. The letter was refolded along its original creases, replaced in the envelope, and locked in the top right-hand drawer of his desk.

  He rang for Miss Smith, his secretary, but of course she wasn’t in yet. Mullett’s usual hours were from 10:00 a.m. until 6:30 p.m. Today was different, with the briefing meeting at 8:15 and the Chief Constable’s nephew reporting for duty at 9:00. The Chief Constable’s nephew . . . Mullett permitted himself a smug smile of satisfaction. With his future promotion in the balance it would do him no harm to have the division under the old man’s careful eye. His musings were interrupted by a polite tap at the door. Bill Wells, station sergeant for the morning shift, entered.

  “Ah, Sergeant Wells. Come in. Sit down.”

  Wells perched himself on the edge of a chair. He found Mullett’s wood-lined office overpowering. A sad-faced, balding man of thirty-eight, he’d been in the force for seventeen years and had been a sergeant for the past six. He despaired of ever making inspector.

  Mullet leaned forward. “Nothing on the girl, I suppose?”

  The sergeant’s sad face went even sadder. “No, sir.”

  “It’s been sixteen hours, Sergeant. Too long, far too long.”

  “Sixteen hours of darkness, sir; we need the daylight.”

  Mullett nodded grudgingly and consulted his window. It was just about light enough now, and by four o’clock it would be too dark again. But with luck they would find the kid long before then. He dealt with one or two minor problems raised by the sergeant, then reached for his briefcase to go to the meeting. He remembered the letter of complaint festering in his drawer.

  “Is Detective Inspector Frost in the briefing room, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir,” said Wells, putting his chair back against the wall. “He hasn’t arrived yet.”

  Typical, thought Mullett. Everyone else gets here on time, but Frost . . . Masking his anger with a tight smile, he sighed audibly. “Ah well, we’ll just have to start without him, won’t we?” As he moved to the door, Wells cleared his throat.

  “You won’t be needing me at the meeting then, sir?” It was a rhetorical question. He’d already been told he wasn’t wanted. Woundingly hurtful, but it didn’t surprise him. He had no doubt at all that it was Mullett who’d been blocking his promotions from going through, and excluding him from the meeting was clearly the commander’s way of keeping him in his place.

  Sensing the man’s resentment, Mullett was lavish with reassurances. “I wish I could spare you, Sergeant, but I can’t. I must have someone I can trust to keep the station running. Which reminds me, I’ve got an important job for you.”

  Sergeant Wells looked up expectantly.

  “You might pass the word to our army friends that they are not to use my parking space. One of their damn lorries is parked there and they couldn’t have missed the sign.”

  A reassuring smile and he was gone, leaving Wells nothing to do but swear silently at the vacated “senior-executive” desk.

  The briefing room was packed. Extra chairs had been brought in, but even so, one or two latecomers had to stand at the back.

  A thick haze of cigarette smoke rolled round the room like a Baker Street fog. The low murmur of nervous conversation stopped and all assembled jumped to their feet as the Divisional Commander breezed into the room.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Good to see such a full turnout. Please sit down.”

  Those with chairs sat. Mullett looked around the room as he extracted some papers from his briefcase. Most people there he recognized, the majority being from his own division, including those called back from their rest day. No sign of Detective Inspector Frost, he noted grimly. A friendly nod to the army officers whose men, including the usurper of his parking space, would be stoking up on tea and sandwiches in the upstairs canteen. Those two chaps in the corner would be the dog handlers from the police kennels at Rushfield, but who was that red-faced man smiling at him? Oh yes, a detective sergeant from one of the neighboring divisions whose commander had spared so many of his hard-pressed personnel to join the search for Tracey Uphill.

  “I won’t keep you long. We’re not short of help, for which I thank you, but we will be short of daylight. She’s been missing now for over sixteen hours. If you heard the weather forecast this morning you’ll know we’re due for some very severe weather. So we’ve got to find her quickly. It won’t be an easy search. We’ve got woodlands, lakes, a canal, gravel pits, derelict houses, builders’ sites—a thousand and one places where a child could be concealed. We will have to be methodical, not haphazard. For that reason, I have put Detective Inspector Allen in charge of the operation. And as he is in charge, I will now shut up and let him take over.”

  Some forced laughter at this mild joke and a shifting of positions on the hard wooden seats. Mullett moved democratically to the chair left for him in the corner of, the front row and sat with his chin on his knuckles and his brow furrowed to show he was giving his full attention to everything Detective Inspector Allen was saying.

  Allen was lean, wiry, and inflexibly tough, with sparse hair above a thin-lipped gaunt face. His flights of humor never soared higher than biting sarcasm. Coldly efficient, he was universally hated as a man but grudgingly admired as a first-rate detective. He jabbed a bony finger at a wall map of the district.

  “I’ve divided the area into sections. We’ll start at the most likely places near the child’s home and work out from there. As the Divisional Commander has pointed out, it’s a tricky area to search, so we’re going to have to be bloody methodical. You will be allocated an area to search. When you have finished you will report in to me at Search Control. You will not move on to a fresh area until instructed by me to do so.” He glanced at his watch. “Time’s against us, so I’ll be brief. I’ll just let you know the forces we’ll have at our disposal. Apart from yourselves we’ve been promised another hundred men from the army camp. We’re already got a few civilian volunteers and we’ll be appealing for more if necessary. The local fire brigade has pledged us a dozen or so men and at nine o’clock there’ll be a party of sixth-formers from the local comprehensive school. Enough people to get in everybody’s way and sod the whole thing up, which is why you must pander to my megalomania and do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  As he paused for breath the phone rang. All heads turned to stare accusingly at it. It rang again, a loud, insistent, grating ring.

  Mullett frowned. “I told them to hold all calls,” he said peevishly.

  It rang again.

  “Well, answer it someone, for Christ’s sake,” roared Allen. “That’s the only way to stop it.”

  A detective sergeant picked it up. His eyes widened.

  “It’s the Chief Constable, sir.” He hastily got rid of the phone to Mullett who took it reverently. The meeting studiously pretended not to be listening.

  “Good morning, sir. No . . . not yet, but we’ll find her. Yes, sir, the fullest possible co-operation. I don’t think we’ll be needing any more help at this stage.” An inquiring glance to Inspector Allen who shook his head emphatically. His searchers would be falling over each other as it was.

  “What’s that, sir? I say, that’s splendid. Thank you very much, sir . . . yes, that’s really marvelous.” The phone was replaced on t
he sidetable.

  “That,” said Mullett, as if announcing the Second Coming, “was the Chief Constable.” A pause to let the import sink in. “And we’re getting a helicopter.”

  A babble of excitement. Inspector Allen’s eyes glittered. If they couldn’t find the kid with a helicopter . . . But back to the meeting.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, it’s a help, but not the great solution to our problems. It can’t poke about in sewage pipes and dung heaps. You need highly trained policemen for that. As you leave you’ll be given your initial areas of search. Any questions at this stage?”

  A hand shot up—one of the Rushfield men.

  “I understand the mother’s a prostitute, sir?”

  “Yes,” replied Allen straight-faced. “She hasn’t mentioned a reward, but I imagine whoever finds the kid will be on to a good thing.”

  A ripple of laughter. The Rushfield man waited for it to subside. “I was wondering if any of our local child molesters might have got the wrong idea—like mother like daughter, that sort of thing . . .”

  Allen sniffed. “A good point, but it’s been covered. I’ve got men out already checking every known sex offender in the division. Any more questions? Right. Off you go . . . and good luck.”

  MONDAY (2)

  Detective Constable Clive Barnard’s orders were to report for duty to Superintendent Mullett, Denton Police Station, nine o’clock sharp. The superintendent, he was told, was a stickler for punctuality, so he allowed himself plenty of time. He set the alarm for 7:15 and went to bed early. But sleep eluded him. At four o’clock he was still awake; the bed was lumpy, there weren’t enough blankets to keep out the cold, his mind was a whirl of ash blondes and missing children, and some damn sadistic church clock punctuated his sleeplessness with clanking chimes every quarter-hour.

  The exhausted sleep into which he eventually plunged was so deep that the alarm clock rang itself hoarse and he didn’t hear it. He overslept. If his landlady hadn’t banged on his door at 8:20 he’d be sleeping still.

  So, no time for breakfast, just one mad rush to avoid the shameful crime of reporting late on his first day. A perfunctory buzz with the electric razor. Not perfect, but with his fair beard he’d get away with it. On with the brand-new gray suit with the red stripe, the one he’d bought especially for C.I.D. work from that little shop near Carnaby Street. He’d been told that clothes were important. Wear a tatty suit and you got the tatty assignments; good clothes earned the superior ones. So he’d bought this suit. It had cost him £107, a lot more than he usually paid, but it was an investment, and why not let the Denton yokels see a bit of London quality for a change?

  He opened his suitcase for the light blue shirt, moving his lawbooks to reach it. He was studying for a law degree in his spare time. He was determined to make it to the top by the quickest route and had realized that many of the younger senior men had law degrees. And he’d have plenty of time in this dead-and-alive hole to study his law books during the long winter evenings when he was without a female companion to run her gentle fingers down the ridged slope of his sexy broken nose.

  By 8:45, his empty stomach complaining, he was thudding down Bath Hill, pushed by a cold wind. He wondered if they’d found Tracey Uphill. There certainly seemed to be an unusual amount of police activity for such an early hour. Three police cars had roared past him already.

  Bath Hill led into Market Square where there was another policeman examining the door of a bank, but Clive gave him no more than a fleeting glance. Most of the shops had not yet opened and the tall Christmas tree outside the public lavatories was swaying in a wind that rattled its colored electric lights. He clattered over the cobbled road to reach Eagle Lane and the police station.

  And there it was, red-bricked and solid, the welcoming blue lamp over swing doors leading into the lobby where the wall clock in its wooden case showed 8:54. He’d made it. The familiar police station smell of disinfectant, polish, and cooking from the canteen met his nose as, panting with relief, he advanced to the inquiry desk where a sad-faced, balding sergeant was on the phone.

  Bill Wells, station sergeant for the 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. shift, was in temporary charge of the front office. He’d sent the duty constable, young P.C. Stringer, upstairs to the canteen for his breakfast and was keeping an eye on things until his return. The damn phone would have to ring: a woman with some rambling story about teenagers smashing her window two weeks ago and she’d only just decided to report it and what were the police go ing to do about it? A blast of air sent his papers flying as the lobby doors opened, but he trapped them with a practiced elbow and looked up at the visitor. A young chap with a crooked nose and smart overcoat. He looked supercilious enough to be someone important, so Wells cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, “Be with you in a moment, sir.”

  Clive nodded curtly. As he had managed to arrive in good time he hoped the sergeant wouldn’t take too long on the phone and make him late for his appointment with the Divisional Commander. He roamed the lobby, studying the posters on the wall. Missing Persons, Foot and Mouth Disease Movement Restriction Orders and, everybody’s favorite, the Colorado Beetle poster.

  His heavy overcoat felt cumbersome, so he slipped it off and carried it over his arm. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the murky glass of the swing door. It brought him to an abrupt halt.

  The new suit! It shrieked!

  In the dim lighting of the shop it had seemed tastefully conservative with, perhaps, a barely audible refined whisper of trendiness, but in the somber surroundings of the station the trendy whisper was a raucous shout. It was a disaster, and no time to race back and change. He huddled himself into a dark corner.

  P.C. Stringer, the duty desk man, returned to his post replete with bacon, beans, tea, and two slices. With his honest, open, freshly scrubbed schoolboy’s face sur mounted with dark curly hair, he looked more like a sixth former than a policeman. He smiled at Clive with an air of helpful inquiry.

  “I’m attending to the gentleman,” hissed the sergeant from one corner of his mouth while carrying on his phone conversation with the other. The young constable shrugged good-naturedly and settled down to peck out a report on an ancient black Underwood.

  At last the sergeant slammed down the phone and rubbed a sore ear. He turned to Clive with almost obsequious politeness.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  It occurred to Clive that the sergeant was mistaking him for someone important. It also occurred to him that the sergeant wouldn’t take too kindly to the knowledge that he had been abasing himself before the lowest of the low, a raw detective constable whose forehead still bore a ridge from a helmet. A quick explanation was vital.

  “Actually, Sergeant, I’m Detective Constable—”

  On the first syllable of “constable” the sergeant’s smile froze solid: it shriveled to a tight glitter on the second and vanished chillingly on the last. The expression “his face went ugly” could have been invented for this moment. Clive plowed bravely on . . .

  “—Detective Constable Barnard. I have to report to Superintendent Mullett at nine o’clock, sir.”

  So this was Barnard. This is the young bastard who’s going to make it because of his uncle while people with seventeen years bloody service but without influential relatives . . . Wells twisted his neck to wall clock. A minute before nine. Pity. It would have been a pleasure to bawl him out for un-punctuality.

  Another blast of wind ruffled the papers on the desk as a figure in military uniform hurtled through.

  “Meeting?” he barked.

  “Third door on the left, sir.” The man was already on his way. Wells returned his attention to his victim.

  “Oh, yes. Barnard . . . I remember. The Chief Constable’s nephew, isn’t it? I should have recognized the broken nose.”

  Clive tightened his lips, said nothing, and stared at a spot just above the sergeant’s balding head. Wells moved his gaze downward . . . and then he sa
w it—

  “Good God! Where on earth did you get that suit?”

  Clive flushed. “In London, Sergeant.”

  “London? The last time I saw a suit like that Max Miller was wearing it. How much did you pay for it?”

  A deep breath. “£107, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant’s jaw thudded. “£107! For that? Take my tip, Barnard, don’t wear it in the daylight. There’s some very nervous people about.” Shoulders shaking at his own witticism and his good humor restored, Wells jerked a thumb toward a polished wooden bench and bade Clive sit.

  “The Divisional Commander’s tied up at the moment. I’ll tell you when he’s free.”

  Clive sat. The bench was hard. You were not meant to be comfortable sitting in a police station. Above his head was the Colorado Beetle Indentikit, on the opposite wall a blackboard in a wood frame. It was headed: DENTON DIVISION—ROAD ACCIDENTS. The board contained columns in which were chalked the monthly running totals of accidents and fatalities in the division as compared with the previous year.

  Clive sat and waited. The bench got harder, his suit louder. Then an icy blast as the swing doors crashed back on their hinges and a scruffy individual in a dirty mac, un-pressed trousers, and a long trailing maroon scarf burst in. He was in his late forties, with a pink, weather-beaten farmer’s face flecked with freckles, warm blue eyes, and a freckled balding head, the pate surrounded by fluffy light brown hair. He went straight over to the board, picked up the chalk, and increased by one the number of accidents.