theme of the collection was young girls.
Frost became engrossed in a paperback whose cover depicted a large, leather-knickered, bare-chested Amazon thrashing the posterior of a buxom, bare-buttocked blonde. The blonde wore a schoolgirl's hat. 'What Katy did at school,' he muttered, reading with moving lips a choice passage at random.
They emptied out the trunk. More books of the same type. 'All right, son. Bung them back. Who said vicars aren't human? They're as dirty-minded as you or I, or even old Mullett.' He reluctantly tossed in the paperback.
If Clive hadn't noticed the slight bulge under the brown paper lining at the bottom of the trunk, they would have missed the envelope. It contained photographs. Black and white enlargements of Mrs. Uphill in full, unretouched nudity. It also contained photographs of an undressed, nubile twelve-year-old Audrey Harding sprawling provocatively on this self-same sheet-draped cabin trunk. This time the head wasn't torn off.
Frost was looking through the photographs for the fourth time when Clive asked, 'What now, sir?'
Frost sighed. 'Stick them back in the trunk and say nothing, son. Don't look surprised. He hasn't committed a crime, you know.'
Clive squeaked with indignation, 'The girl's under age!'
Frost shrugged. 'Look at the photographs. Tell me what part of her is under age. We've got more important things to do, son, than drag this poor sod to court for corrupting the morals of a twelve-year-old slut who was more corrupt than him to start with. Blimey, she could probably corrupt me, and that takes some doing!'
They carefully replaced everything exactly as they had found it, but as Frost tried to relock the lid, his skeleton key snapped off inside the padlock. He faked it shut, covered the trunk with the sheet, and hoped the vicar wouldn't notice.
Down to the next floor, but by now the inspector was becoming bored with the search. He hustled Clive along, leaning against the wall and smoking sulkily whenever the younger man tried to be thorough.
A pair of doors opened on to a large hall with a stage, benches, and the components of trestle tables stacked along the walls. This was the vicarage hall, home of the Sunday school, Boy Scouts, Girl Guides, amateur dramatic society, and similar local functions. Clive found a trapdoor on the stage and lay flat on his stomach, probing the space beneath with his torch. He was still putting the trapdoor back when Frost was impatiently pounding down the next flight, anxious to get this time-wasting job over so he could get to his over-heated little office, drink tea, and snarl at the paperwork.
At last they reached the ground floor. The smell of cooking drew them to the kitchen and the vicar's wife, a fluttering woman with a once pretty face and a nervous laugh. She constantly apologized. She apologized for the mess, for the snow, for the lack of heat. A saucepan boiled over and she apologized for that. She offered to show them around the living quarters and invited them to stay for lunch. Frost eyed what was in the saucepan and declined both offers hastily.
The Bell's living quarters were warm and comfortable, the walls adorned with more framed photographs- Scout groups, cuddly kittens with balls of wool, gnarled trees against a setting sun. 'He should stick to nudes,' said Frost dismissively.
All interest in the search now gone, Frost would barely let Clive poke his head round a door before bundling him off to the next room. 'I'm a good starter, son, but a poor finisher. At least, that's what my lady friends keep telling me. But we're wasting our time. The kid's not here. I feel it…'
The only room to arouse his curiosity was the Bell's connubial bedroom. He sat on the bed, bouncing up and down on the mattress, wondering to Clive if it made the same creaking during the couple's nocturnal activities.
On the bedside table stood a silver-framed wedding photograph of a much younger version of the vicar, his beautiful girl-wife clutching his arm proudly. She looked incredibly young, almost a child. She didn't look much older than Audrey Harding.
TUESDAY-2
Clive slammed the brakes on hard and spun the wheel to control the skid as a little red Mini shot out of a side-turning smack in the path of the inspector's Morris, then did a sharp right turn to disappear into the swirling curtain of snow ahead.
'Bloody woman driver,' he croaked, gripping the wheel hard to stop his hands shaking.
Frost smirked. 'And I thought she could do no wrong in your eyes. Didn't you recognize her, son? Your girlfriend, Mrs. Uphill. I wonder why she's in such a hurry? Some poor devil needs her services urgently, I suppose.'
On to the Market Square where decorated shop windows appealed in vain to stay-at-home shoppers. Frost remembered he wanted to cash a check and asked Clive to stop at Bennington's Bank. Clive eased the car to the curb, and found he was parked alongside an empty red Mini. Frost dashed across the pavement to the bank where the fat detective sergeant from the previous morning was again examining the splintered door. He spun round rapidly at Frost's approach and guarded his rear with his hand. 'I had enough of you yesterday, Jack,' he protested.
'You know you like it, Arthur,' replied Frost. 'What's this then-another attempted break-in?'
The fat detective gave his head a puzzled scratch.
'Looks like it. Two nights running now and roughly at the same time. I think I'll get the duty chap to rearrange his beat so he's waiting for him.'
'Good idea, Arthur-you don't have to be thin to have brains, do you?…' Frost's voice trailed off. He was looking over Hanlon's shoulder into the bank where Mrs. Uphill was having a wad of notes counted out to her by the cashier. Excusing himself, he slid inside, pressed himself into a corner and pretended to study the astronomical figures, with infinite noughts, contained in the bank's Annual Balance Sheet, framed on the wall. The click of heel across the tiled floor was Mrs. Uphill leaving. He sped over to the cashier and flashed his warrant card. The cashier looked to left and to right, then leaned across and spoke in a low voice. Frost nodded his thanks.
Back to the car where Clive was fighting with sleep.
'The station, son.'
Clive reversed and the car bounced over the cobbles.
'What do you think, son,' said Frost. 'Your girlfriend has just drawn out two thousand quid in fivers.'
'Two thousand?' Clive whistled softly. 'What do you think, sir? Blackmail?'
Frost gave him an old-fashioned look. 'At the risk of soiling your lady's good name, she's more likely to be the one doing the blackmailing. No, son, I don't think so. But what about ransom money?'
The station sergeant's internal phone buzzed. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. He knew who it was. Mullett had buzzed five minutes earlier and five minutes before that.
'Wells. No, sir, I'm afraid Inspector Frost still hasn't arrived.'
Mullett droned and crackled in the earpiece. The sergeant held the phone away from his ear until the sound had finished. 'Yes, sir, of course, sir, the minute he arrives.' He'd heard it all before. But where the hell had Frost got to?
P.C. Stringer, looking out of the window to the snow-covered car park, reported the prodigal's return.
'Inspector Frost's car pulling into the car park, Sarge.'
Wells swiveled his chair to confirm this sighting and saw the car door open and a single figure, scarf streaming behind him, streak over to the rear entrance of the station. Then the car backed up, turned, and drove off.
'After him-don't let him escape,' roared the sergeant, and Stringer darted up the corridor to head off the inspector. He returned with Frost at his heels, the pride of capture on his face.
'What's all the fuss about?' asked Frost, taking off his coat and shaking snow all over the newly swept floor, 'The briefing meeting,' said the sergeant in a voice charged with significance.
Frost sagged and his eyes widened in horror. 'Blimey! Oh Gawd, I forgot it again.'
'You were supposed to be running it-in Inspector Allen's absence,' said Wells.
'Yes, I know,' sighed Frost. He got out his cigarette packet. 'Mr. Mullet reminded me last night. I suppose he's upset.'
'Upset,' cried Wells, 'he's spitting blood. It was a shambles. And to make matters worse, the Chief Constable
