Inspector Frost was the sort of navigator who screamed 'Turn right!' just as the car was. passing the appropriate turning. He didn't bother with advance warnings; Clive was forever slamming on the brakes and executing tight U-turns and the gumboots on the back seat kept falling to the floor.
They had left the town and were winding their way eastward down a rutted road running alongside forlorn miserable fields, unfarmed and overgrown, sites compulsorily purchased for the future expansion of Denton New Town.
To the right was one of the search parties, a thin straggle, moving slowly and methodically, poking the undergrowth with sticks, a cumulus cloud of smoky breath hovering over their heads in the cold air. Frost leaned over and honked the horn. One of the searchers turned and waved, then resumed the slow, patient prodding. Even at that distance the mud-splattered Morris was plainly identifiable.
Frost settled back in his seat, then drew dive's attention to a large clearing where a smoke-belching bulldozer was rooting up the stumps of trees.
'Used to be woods there when I was young, son. Thick woods-with birds, squirrels, the lot. Many's the time in the hot fiery days of my youth when I've taken the shy trembling lady of my choice for an advanced anatomy lesson under the green bough.' He sighed deeply. 'That was weeks ago, of course. Oh, we should have turned left back there, son. All right, back a bit. More… more… you've bags of room.'
She was waiting for them on the doorstep, skin scrubbed clean of makeup, ash-blonde hair pulled off her face and tied with a black boot-lace ribbon. She could have been a child, until you got close and saw the lines of worry, the eyes puffy from crying and lack of sleep. When she heard the car pull up outside she was sure they were bringing Tracey back, but when she opened the door she could see there was only two men. Please, please, she thought, don't let it be bad news.
The untidy man with the scarf gave her a reassuring smile. 'No news, I'm afraid, Mrs. Uphill. Couple of questions you might help us on though.'
She led them through to the lounge, buttocks wriggling in tight slacks, even in grief arousing strong sexual responses from the two men.
Frost settled down in an armchair and worried away at his scar for a minute before starting his questions. He was going to have to upset her and he hated upsetting anyone. The question he should ask was, 'Have you killed your daughter, Mrs. Uphill, and hidden her body somewhere?
If so, you might tell us so we can call in those poor sods searching in the cold.' Instead he said, 'Any further thoughts as to where Tracey might have gone, Mrs. Uphill? We've covered all the obvious places.'
She brushed back a straying wisp of hair. 'If I had I'd have phoned the police.'
'You had no quarrel with the child? Any reason why she might have left home?'
'No. We went through all this last night!'
Frost pushed himself up from the chair. 'We'd like to search the house, if you don't mind.'
She looked startled. 'It was searched last night.'
'Children can be devils, Mrs. Uphill. She could have sneaked back in and hidden somewhere.'
'She's not in the house.' The woman hugged herself as though for warmth. The room was hot, but the cold was inside her. Her teeshirt had ridden up showing naked cream beneath. She looked like a frightened, lonely child and Clive wanted to put his arms around her-and not just because he wanted to reassure her.
'We haven't got all sodding day, son,' snapped Frost. 'We'll start at the top and work our way down.'
The upper floor contained two bedrooms and a bathroom. They looked in the main bedroom first. Thick drawn curtains shut out the daylight. Clive found the switch and a tinted bulb slashed the bed with rose-colored light. The large double bed was unmade, a crumpled, flimsy lemon nightdress lying on a pillow. A pyramid of half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray testified to a sleepless night.
They searched the room thoroughly, moving the bed and the large dressing table. Then Clive slid open the door of the built-in wardrobe and his startled gasp of horror sent Frost running over. But it was a doll; an expensive, life-sized, blonde-haired doll, the hidden-away Christmas present Tracey had asked Father Christmas for. Clive braced himself for some biting comment, but Frost mildly remarked, 'Blimey, son, it looks bloody real, doesn't it?'
It was a large wardrobe, but apart from the doll, it held only clothes swaying on hangers; lots and lots of expensive clothes.
Frost pulled back the curtains and looked out on Vicarage Terrace. You could just see the vicarage and the Sunday school at the end of the street. What had happened to the child after she left that Sunday school? He shifted his gaze back to the room and the ceiling…
'Blimey!'
Clive followed his gaze. A mirror was fixed to the ceiling, positioned to reflect the occupants of the bed. The detective constable's mouth went dry as he pictured a naked, writhing Joan Uphill, her body splashed with red light, her hair spread over the pillow…
'Must be a sod to clean that,' said the down-to-earth Jack Frost, adding, as an afterthought, 'Perhaps the man has a feather duster stuck up his arse.'
The other bedroom was the child's, the walls papered in a Tom and Jerry pattern, with nursery characters decorating the lampshade and the door of the white-painted cupboard. A row of dolls sat solemnly on a windowseat staring at the small bed which was neatly made. A small radiator heated the room, but it seemed cold… and empty.
Frost casually opened the cupboard door and an avalanche of toys cascaded to the floor at his feet. He found a Yo-Yo and demonstrated some tricky variations to his detective constable who tried not to show his contempt for Frost's childish behavior.
Frost unhooked the string from his finger and dropped the Yo-Yo back on the heap. 'Tell you what, son, you do one of your thorough London searches in the bathroom while I poke this lot back in the cupboard.'
The large bathroom, with its paneled tangerine bath, toilet, and washbasin, didn't take much searching, but Clive wasn't going to let the inspector show him what he'd missed. It was really too small, but he checked the bathroom cabinet. Just the usual toiletries, body cologne, talcum powder, bath foam, and an electric razor. He unscrewed the cap of the talc and sniffed the loin-stirring Joan Uphill perfume. He put the talc back and closed the cabinet. The only real possibility was the airing cupboard. He opened it up and looked inside. Most of its space was taken up by the hot-water tank and the wooden racks each side holding ironed linen. But they'd taught him to be thorough in London. Sliding out a couple of the wooden racks, he slid his hand around the back of the tank until it was wedged between hot, bare metal and the rough surface of the wall. Nothing hidden there. He could guarantee that. The space above the cylinder? More racks and more clothes. Brushing his new suit free of brickdust and cobwebs, he called across to the inspector that he'd finished.
Frost sauntered over, his mac unbuttoned and flapping. He surveyed the bathroom. 'No bidet? She must chuck her fag-ends down the loo.' He dropped his own cigarette end to a sizzling death, lowered the toilet seat, plonked himself down on it, and lit up a fresh one, his eyes flitting about the room.
'That was quick, son. Congratulations.'
There was something in the way he said it that put Clive on his guard. Had he missed anything? Of course he hadn't, how could he? But he still felt uneasy.
Frost pumped out a mouthful of smoke.
'Did you have much trouble getting the bath panel off?'
Clive groaned inwardly. He could have kicked himself. The bath was boxed-in with plastic panels screwed to internal battens. A screamingly obvious hiding place, so obvious he'd missed it. But the scruffy old fool had spotted it.
Frost gave an understanding smile and handed Clive a screwdriver produced from the depths of the mac pocket.
After a token display of reluctance, the screws turned easily and he dropped them, one by one, into Frost's palm for safe-keeping, then off came the panel to be rested up against the other wall. The space revealed was large enough for two or three bodies but contained only dust, a heap of wood shavings, and a wet patch where the waste-pipe had been leaking.
'Nothing, sir.'
Frost beamed. 'I found the loot from six break-ins once, hidden behind bath panels. We knew it was in the bathroom. One brave lad even stuck his hand down the S-bend of the lav. I won't tell you what he found, but it
