Jack.'
Frost waved this aside. 'Come off it, Johnnie, he was forced to give it to me. Who else is there?' He rammed a cigarette in his mouth and blazed the end with his lighter. 'Be honest, if it wasn't for my damn George Cross he'd have had me out on my ear years ago.' He remembered Clive and offered the packet. 'Do you know about my medal, son?' He sucked at his cigarette and reflected. 'Came in the nick of time it did. Mullett was all ready to give me the tin-tack in appreciation of a couple of my more spectacular balls-ups when I had my little moment of triumph. I must show you my medal sometime. They prefer you to get killed before they give it to you but make an exception if their stocks of them are building up.'
His cigarette was burning unevenly so he dabbed some spit on one side. 'I'm famous now. Every time I get a mention in the local press, like 'Local Detective Sods Up Court Case,' they add a little footnote about my medal. And that's why Mullett is forced to keep me on. The power of the press. He's afraid of seeing headlines like 'Handsome Detective Hero Gets Boot. Shabbily Treated by Horn-rimmed Bastard'.'
'He recommended you for promotion, Jack,' insisted the sergeant.
Frost sniffed scornfully. 'Only because he thought the medal would give the division a bit of prestige. He forgot I was attached to the end of it. I bet he regrets it now, poor sod. Put those papers away, son. Let's have a look in Search Control.'
The station sergeant walked with them as far as the charge room where he again pressed Frost to come for a meal. 'Peggy insists, Jack…'
Later, Frost confided to Clive why he daren't accept the invitation. 'I respect Johnnie too much. He's a nice bloke and thinks the world of her, but she's a bloody sex maniac. Sticks her nipple in your ear as she serves the hors d'oeuvre and rubs thighs under the tablecloth. Makes you dribble your soup. Anyone else but Johnnie's wife and I'd love it. I happen to know a couple of the lads pop round there when he's on duty. If he ever found out…' He sighed sadly and let the sentence hang.
Search Control, housed in the old recreation room next to Mullen's office, was a tribute to Allen's organizing ability. Extra phone lines had been installed. There were teleprinters, photostat and duplicating machines, loudspeakers relaying messages from Divisional Control, large-scale wall maps marking the exact position of all search parties, cars, mobile and foot patrols, etc. Every incoming phone call was automatically timed and recorded on cassette. There was a direct line through to the G.P.O. Engineers in case any calls needed tracing. Color televisions, with stand-by black-and-white sets, monitored all news broadcasts. Nothing had been left to chance. In the event of a power failure a mobile generator came immediately into operation.
Frost, the one contingency Allen hadn't allowed for, walked into the room, looked helplessly at the meticulous order and efficiency and, to everyone's relief, announced he would be leaving Allen's assistant in charge. The assistant was Detective Sergeant George Martin, a slow-talking, deep-thinking individual with a gurgling pipe that always set Frost's teeth on edge.
Throughout the day Search Control had hummed with activity, phones continually busy with a constant stream of calls from the public, ever anxious to help with reports of sightings of the missing girl. Some of the sightings sounded hopeful, the majority just impossible, but all had to be logged, checked, and investigated. But with the dark came calm. Phones rang only occasionally. Tired men were able to catch up on their paperwork, grab a meal, plan for the next long day.
Frost wandered over to George Martin. 'Any luck with the woman in the fur coat?'
Cinders erupted as Martin blew down his pipe stem. 'Nothing yet, Jack.' He pulled the pipe from his mouth and worried at it with a straightened paperclip. 'You know…' poke, poke, '… I was thinking… Has Mrs. Uphill got a white fur coat?'
Clive's eyes blazed. 'You're surely not suggesting-'
But Frost cut across him.
'Mrs. Uphill? Now there's a thought.' He considered it then shook his head. 'No, George. It couldn't have been her who Farnham saw. He'd just left her in bed, counting her thirty quid, and he was galloping away all eager to have tea with his aunt. Which reminds me…' He jabbed a finger at Clive. 'We've got to check with auntie, son, don't forget.' He turned to Martin. 'Tell you what we must do, George. Give details about the woman in the fur to the press.'
'Already done, Jack. Mr. Allen pushed it out as soon as he got your report.'
That efficient sod would, thought Frost. Aloud he said, 'Just testing you, George.'
George smiled tolerantly and made disgusting bubbling noises in his pipe.
'I'd get a plumber on to that,' said Frost.
A uniformed man at a desk in the corner finished a phone call then waved a half-eaten sandwich to attract attention. 'Inspector!'
Frost ambled over to him.
'I've had my tea, thanks, Fred.'
The man grinned. 'Something interesting, sir. You know we've been checking on child molesters and sexual offenders who've been involved with children. We want to find out where they were yesterday afternoon around 4:30.'
'I know I'm dim,' moaned Frost, 'but you don't have to explain everything to me. And what's in that sandwich-dead dog?'
'Bloater-paste sir.' He took a bite. 'We've traced most of them and obtained statements.' A wodge of handwritten foolscap was shaken free of crumbs. 'Would you like to read them?'
'No, I bloody-well wouldn't,' cried Frost. 'If I had the time to read I'd read a dirty book. What do they say?'
'Most of them have alibis, sir, which we're checking on. But there was one chap we couldn't get hold of. Mickey Hoskins didn't turn up for work today.'
Frost's eyebrows soared. 'Mickey Hoskins?' He whistled softly.
'The area car's been to his digs a few times, but no one seems to be in. The neighbors say his landlady, Mrs. Bousey, is up in town shopping. They don't know about Mickey though. Haven't seen him since yesterday morning.'
'I want that car parked on Ma Bousey's doorstep,' snapped Frost.
'On its way, sir-Inspector Allen's orders.'
Double-sod Inspector Allen, thought Frost.
The area car returned at 9:07. This time the hall light was on and the milk had been taken in. Mrs. Bousey was back from her shopping expedition, but there was no light from the upstairs room occupied by her lodger, Mickey Hoskins.
It was P.C. Mike Jordan's turn to knock. He put on his peaked cap and walked over to the house. A rat-tat at the knocker. Mrs. Bousey wheezed up the passage, flung open the door, and the stale smell of kippers escaped thankfully into the street.
'Yes?' She was a short, fat woman with scragged-back hair and tiny deep-set eyes.
'Mick in, Mrs. Bousey?'
'Ain't been in since Sunday.'
'Oh?' Jordan took out his notebook. 'What happened Sunday, then?'
She coughed, holding the door handle for support. 'Had his dinner, went out, never came back.'
'Unusual, wasn't it?'
'He's paid his rent till Friday, so why should I worry?'
'Can I take a look at his room?'
'If you like. But it won't be available until Friday.'
He followed her into the stuffy kipper-scented atmosphere and up the worn linoed stairs. Mickey's room contained a bed, a wardrobe, a table, and a chair. On the table lay a paperback book with a lurid cover; a folded toffee paper acted as a bookmark. Alongside the book was an expensive all-wave transistor radio. A single suit of clothes and some ladies' underwear stolen from washing-lines swayed in the wardrobe.
Jordan took out his personal transmitter and radioed Control.
'Highly mysterious,' said Frost when George Martin brought him the news. 'Nip down to records and get Mickey Hoskin's form-sheet, son.'
Martin waved Clive back. He'd brought the form-sheet in with him. Inspector Allen would have expected it
