three absent railwaymen-the bald teapot holder who was the booking office clerk, a fat ticket collector sucking at a spittle-soaked, homemade cigarette, and a gangling young apprentice porter in jeans and a railway cap wedged on top of lank, ragged hair. The fourth man wore horn-rimmed glasses and a beaming smile. He was the missing taxi- driver, in for a warm and a cup of tea.
Two battered enamel mugs were produced for the guests, blown free of dust, and filled with strong, viscous tea.
Frost introduced Clive as his smart young assistant from London.
'Just taking him around Denton to show him where all the toilets are,' he explained. 'Nothing worse for a rising young cop than to be taken short and caught peeing in the gutter.' He pointed in the direction of the grimy window. 'If you're ever in really dire straits, son, there's one at the end of the platform. You can find it easily in the summer because of the flies buzzing over it. These lazy sods, paid a king's ransom by British Rail, spend all their time guzzling tea instead of cleaning it out.'
'We daren't go in for a week after you've used it,' accused the bald booking clerk. 'Anyway, what are you here for?'
Frost swallowed a mouthful of tea. 'Were you lot on yesterday afternoon?' They nodded. 'I'm trying to trace a man aged about thirty-five, bearded, travels here every Sunday, arriving around two o'clock. Travels back about four.'
The fat ticket collector had a bout of coughing and splattered ash from his homemade cigarette over his waistcoat. 'Vaguely remember him,' he said.
'Light brown hair?' said a voice. 'Dark coat and a scarf?' Frost wheeled round. It was the taxi-driver.
'I pick him up every Sunday, 2:15, regular as clockwork-apart from yesterday. He was an hour late. Said they'd canceled his usual train.'
Frost rubbed his hands in delight. 'Where did you take him?'
'Same place as always-top of Church Lane.'
The inspector could have hugged himself. Church Lane was but a short distance from Vicarage Terrace and the rosy, mirrored ceiling of No. 29.
'That's the bloke.' He turned to the railwaymen. 'What station did he come from?'
'I don't know what station,' said the lanky porter, 'but the only train canceled yesterday was the 1:47 from Cranford, stopping at all stations.'
'That's right,' said the booking clerk. 'The driver didn't turn up. The next train was the 2:47.'
'I've got him!' said the ticket collector. 'Bearded fellow… I've placed him now.' He dived under the table and produced a large tin that once had held Huntley and Palmer's biscuits but was now filled with small packets containing the daily hauls of collected tickets. He rummaged and found a torn half of green pasteboard, which he handed to Frost. 'That's his ticket!'
The outward half of a cheap day return from Lefington, a small village some twelve miles down the line.
A bang shook the door and it was crashed open by a bowler-hatted gentleman with a military mustache and a brick-red angry face. He glared at the tea party. 'Isn't anyone on duty in the ticket office? I've been waiting more than five minutes.'
'Just coming,' said the bald man and bolted out after him.
'Bloody passengers,' observed Frost. 'They seem to think the railway's run for their benefit. Well, we're getting somewhere. We know he came from Lefington. Do you remember him going back?'
The fat porter scratched his head. 'He usually caught the 4:33, but I swear he wasn't on it yesterday.'
'He was an hour late,' said Frost. 'What time was the next one?'
'The 533-but he wasn't on that either. We only had one passenger for that-a woman.'
'Hardly worth keeping the bloody station open,' snorted Frost. 'What train did he catch, then?'
The porter shrugged. 'We went off duty at six,' he said, slamming the door on any further progress in that direction.
But Frost had enough to go on. Lefington was a small village and the booking clerk there should recognize the man from the detailed description. But what- had he done after he'd left Mrs. Uphill? Seemingly he was in no hurry to use the return half of his ticket. But find him first. As soon as they got back to the office he'd teleprint Lefington sub-division and get them to follow it up.
A train rattled through the station and sped on its way. The railwaymen consulted pocketwatches and nodded. The train was on time.
Then Frost realized he hadn't reported back to Inspector Allen after interviewing the mother. Blimey, that'll bring the pains on, he thought.
'Come on, son-work to do.'
Clive, who was being told by the young porter that his suit was fab, drank the remains of his tea and buttoned his coat.
Frost protected his neck with a couple of tight turns of the scarf and opened the door. Outside it was cold. Very cold.
By four o'clock it was too dark to continue and reluctantly, but sensibly, Detective Inspector Allen issued instructions for the search to be called off for the day. He sat alone at a corner table in the canteen with its green and gold Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling and watched the tired, cold men returning to join the shuffling queue for hot, strong tea. The hissing of the urn and the clangor of cups and cutlery almost drowned the low-key dispirited conversations.
Allen was as tired and drained as the searchers. Something was wrong. They should have found her today. Tomorrow he'd have to draw in more men and extend the area of the search, which meant more organizing, more painstakingly detailed work before he could call it a day. He'd been on the go since seven that morning and would be lucky to see his bed before midnight. And he felt ill. He hadn't eaten all day and the thought of food sickened him. The canteen was overbearingly hot. Where the devil was that incompetent fool, Frost. Nothing from him since he was detailed to interview the mother before lunch. And the man an inspector, the same rank as Allen, who was bearing all the worry and responsibility of the search and who would have to accept all the blame if it went sour.
A burst of raucous laughter from the queue by the counter, and there was Frost in his dirty mac, sharing some coarse joke with the woman at the tea urn. No worries, no thought of reporting back to Allen, just straight into the queue for tea.
It was too much. Allen stormed over and jerked his head to the door, waiting in the corridor outside for Frost to follow. Out he came, his scarf bulging out of his pocket, the new chap, Barnard, behind him.
'Bit of luck spotting you,' beamed Frost, completely unabashed. 'I'll give you a verbal report-save all the bother of sticking it on paper.'
Allen exploded. Was he expected to receive important reports casually in the corridor?
'You'll write the bloody thing out properly and bring it to my office. And where the hell have you been?'
'Sorry,' said Frost, surprised at the outburst and wondering why the man was so touchy-although he didn't look well. 'She gave us a lead and we followed it through.'
Allen's eyes blazed. 'You weren't told to follow it through. You were told to report back, you bloody fool. Why don't you do what you're told!'
'Why don't you get stuffed,' asked Frost, turning to go. 'You'll get the report when I've had some tea.'
Something snapped. Allen reached out, grabbed Frost's shoulder, and spun him round. Frost's eyes flashed and knuckles whitened over clenched fists.
God, thought Clive, there's going to be a fight. He prayed that a senior officer would come on the scene before it got out of hand. What was the etiquette for such things? Should he try to break it up or look the other way and pretend it just wasn't happening?
But it didn't happen. Allen gasped and doubled up, his face sickly white and contorted with the pain that tore his stomach.
Frost was immediately full of concern. 'Are you all right?'
Allen straightened up, his brow clammy with sweat. 'Something I've eaten. It'll pass.' He was unsteady on his feet and clutched the wall for support.
'I'll give you a hand to your office.'
'No-I can manage.' He composed himself. Then: 'What happened with Mrs. Uphill?' He listened intently as
