Frost at Christmas (3 page)

   Jordan and Simms continued methodically with their questions. At this stage there was no real need for panic. Three hours wasn't all that long for a kid to be astray; she'd probably wandered a bit farther afield than she had intended and couldn't find her way back. Put all patrols on the alert and they should have her back within the hour. And then his eye was drawn by the window, where the curtains had been pulled back. Outside, a tree by the lamppost twitched and shuddered in a wind of growing strength. What if they didn't find her quickly? The real danger was the weather. At night the temperature plummeted to below zero. If she was out in the open and wasn't properly dressed . . .

   He cut across the uniformed men's questions.

   "How was Tracey dressed when she went out, Mrs. Uphill?"

   Hostile glares from the other two as she jerked her head toward him, brushing a wisp of ash-blonde hair from her eyes.

   "A thick blue coat and a scarf . . ."

   "If I could butt in," snapped Jordan icily. He glowered at Clive. "We've already got that information. We haven't the time to hear it twice.''

   Clang, thought Clive, that's me in my place. But he was relieved the kid was well wrapped up. It could make the difference between life and death.

   "Do you have a photograph of Tracey?" asked Simms. "We want to make certain we bring the right one back."

   She forced a smile at the joke and rummaged in a drawer, haste making her clumsy. Inwardly she was ready to scream. Why all these questions? Why didn't they just go out and look? And why three of them? Why couldn't two go out and search while the other one asked the questions? She found the snapshot. Clive peered at it over Simms's shoulder. A full-face color photograph of a lovely wide-eyed child, beautiful like her mother, the same ash-blonde hair, brushed and gleaming.

   Simms wrote something on the back of the photograph, replaced the cap on his pen, and looked significantly at Jordan, who nodded and stood. "Just one last thing, Mrs. Uphill. We'd like to search the house."

   They searched the house, starting at the top and working down. They found nothing, but it had to be done. The number of times the missing kid had been found hiding in a cupboard or a shed while armies of policemen scoured the streets . . . All a big joke to the kid, of course, but there was that terrible lesson of a few years back when, weeks after an intensive search involving hundreds of men, rivers dragged, frogmen in the reservoir, a police officer returned to the child's home and noticed a small box that could have contained books or toys. Far too small, but he looked anyway . . . and there was the body. The boy had squeezed himself in, pulled down the lid, the catch had caught and trapped him and there was hardly any air. Weeks of searching and he had been in the house all the time. But Tracey wasn't in the house.

   Back to the lounge where the woman sat huddled in a chair, systematically shredding a Kleenex tissue. She didn't look up as Jordan spoke.

   "Nothing there, Mrs. Uphill, but stay by your phone. As soon as we have any news . . ."

   She nodded.

   "And, of course, if she should come back here, you'll let us know at once, won't you?"

   Again a nod.

   Jordan shrugged, then signaled for the others to follow him out. At the door Clive turned. She looked so pathetic, so defenselessly alone. "Isn't there anyone who could stay with you, Mrs. Uphill - a relative, a woman friend?"

   Beautiful but vacant eyes fastened on his. "I have no woman friends - or any relations . . ."A bitter smile. "But thank you."

   Jordan tapped Clive on the shoulder and jerked his thumb to the front door. Mrs. Uphill pulled another Kleenex from the box.

   Back in the car Simms radioed the details to Denton Control for circulation to all patrols. Control instructed them to drop Clive off at his digs and then return to the station with the photograph.

   The car retraced its way through the side streets and was soon back on the main road.

   "Let's have the benefit of your vast London experience. What do you reckon?" asked Simms.

   Clive shrugged. "It's too early. The kid could turn up at any time." Then he remembered the question he'd been burning to ask. "Where's the kid's father - the husband?"

   He caught Jordan's smile in the rearview mirror. "She's not married, Clive. The 'Mrs.' is just a courtesy title."

   Clive frowned. "Then where does her money come from? The chair I was sitting on must have set her back four hundred quid at least."

   Simms turned in his seat. "I'll give you a clue. She's self-employed and fee-earning. The money in her lounge was earned in her bedroom." He saw Clive was still uncomprehending. "How thick can you get? She's a tart, a whore, a harlot, a pro. She's on the bash."

   Clive's jaw thudded. Not her! Not that virginal child. How simple did they think he was?

   "I hope I haven't shocked you," said Simms. "I don't suppose you have such wicked women in London. It's a bit naughty, I know, but then, this is a decadent town. It'll be different when the bingo halls are built." He looked to Jordan for a smile of appreciation, but the driver was lost in his thoughts.

   "Sorry," said Jordan, "I've just remembered something - the Sunday school."

   "St. Basil's?"

   "Yes. You remember the trouble we had there this summer."

   "Blimey," said Simms. "The man trying to lure kids into his care with sweets? We never caught him, did we?"

   "No," said Jordan, "we never caught him." He spun the wheel and the car deserted the main road for a narrow street of terraced houses. "Here we are."

   This was Sun Street. Clive's digs were at No. 26, a house that looked no different from any of the others. As he took his suitcases from the car and said his goodbyes, the downstairs curtain behind him twitched and a shaft of light wriggled across the pavement. He watched the area car continue on its way until the darkness swallowed up its rear lights. Then he felt friendless and alone, the way that woman must be feeling now. He turned and, putting his suitcases down on the pavement, knocked at the door.

Superintendent Mullett, Commander, Denton Division, give a warning toot on his horn and gently coasted his new blue Jaguar into the crowded police car park. At a few minutes past eight on a cold and dark Monday morning the parking area should have been an expanse of emptiness dotted with the odd car belonging to members of the morning shift, but today it was tightly crammed with a congestion of assorted vehicles: army trucks, a hired coach, the mobile canteen from county headquarters, and two small vans which, at first, Mullett did not recognize until the petulant whinings and yappings from within told him they were the dog handler's transport.

   The search party had assembled.

   Mullett permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction. To arrive at this early hour and see proof of the efficient way his phoned orders of late last night had been carried out was indeed a tribute to the efficiency of the division and its commander. His smile froze and changed to a frown of intense irritation when he saw that one of the wretched army trucks had commandeered his parking space. Couldn't the fools read? Good Lord, it was clearly narked in bold white paint "Reserved for Divisional Commander" and was regarded as a sacrosanct place by his own men. Raging inwardly at the stupidity of army drivers, he rammed his car into the first vacant space he found, jammed between the hired coach that had brought in men from a neighboring division and a wall. Too late, he realized it would require some tricky reversing if he were not to mar the gleaming blue paint of his day-old car.

   In foul temper he snatched up the black leather briefcase from the rear seat, remembering in time to open the door carefully so it wouldn't crash into the wall, and picked his way through the maze of vehicles to the side street from which he could reach the main entrance of the police station. A rear entrance led directly from the car park, but kings and princes didn't sneak in through back doors and neither did divisional commanders.

   The uniformed man on duty in the lobby sprang to attention and snapped him a smart salute. Mullett acknowledged it curtly and moved briskly on, noting that the man was already on the phone to warn the station sergeant of his arrival.

   Outside his office his triumphant entry was temporarily halted by one of the cleaning women who was sloshing buckets of disinfectant-tainted water over the stone flags of the corridor. He coughed pointedly and had to wait while she cleared a damp path for him with her mop, pushing back the water as the Red Sea was parted for Moses on another historic occasion.

   Mullett's office provided the only touch of splendor in the entire Victorian workhouse of a building. Its walls were paneled in veneered wood like a boardroom, the floor spread with a thick, pale blue Wilton carpet on which sat a splendid "senior-executive-model" desk in satin mahogany and black. He couldn't understand his counterparts in other divisions who boasted of the meanness of their own offices, thereby degrading their positions. Senior men in industry had the trappings to go with the job, so why not the police?

   He opened the clothes cupboard cleverly concealed behind the paneling and hung up his London-tailored overcoat. His reflection in the full-length door mirror restored his good humor. The image before him was indeed something to be regarded with unrestrained approval: a tall, straight-backed figure, glossy black hair with a chiseled parting, commanding eyes, a neatly clipped military mustache, and a complexion glowing with health and good living. And to set .it off, the immaculate fit of the police uniform, its buttons winking and gleaming, the creases lethal, and the shoes, black mirrors. At forty-two years old he looked more like a successful stockbroker than a superintendent of police controlling an area of some thirty-eight square miles and 100,000 inhabitants.

   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.