suspect strained his ears, wondering what they were whispering about. Frost patted the constable on the arm and returned.
'Sorry about that, Mick-he just wanted to know how to spell 'dirty bastard'. You broke her nose, you know. Why? A bit vicious wasn't it?'
'Vicious? Vicious?' The voice rose by a major third. 'She was the vicious one. Look!' He thrust out his left hand to show the blistered, inflamed area on the back of the wrist. 'She did that. She clamped her legs tight to trap my hand then brought her lighted cigarette down on it. I had to hit her to get away.'
Frost stroked his own scar. 'Very nasty, Mick. Could have ruined you professionally for life. Come to think of it, someone did say there was a smell of roast pork. But the old dear was pushing thirty. A bit ancient for you, wasn't she?'
Mickey drew down his lips and shrugged. 'Needs must when the Devil drives, Inspector. It was a restricted admission program. They don't let kids in to see those films. In the old days you had good clean family entertainment, but this stuff today… it's filth… pure, unadulterated filth.'
Frost nodded his agreement and went across to the police constable. 'Keep an eye on him, son, would you? I'll send someone in to take his statement. If he was touching up in the Century at six o'clock, I can't see him having anything to do with Tracey, but we'll keep him in mind, just incase.'
Back to the table. 'I'm sending someone else in to take your statement, Mickey. Can't do it myself, I get too excited when I hear about thighs and knickers and things. I can't hold the pencil steady. Oh, I'd better take this.' He picked up the photograph.
'Hold on a minute,' Hoskins took the photograph from him and studied it through magnified eyes. 'Here… this is that missing kid-Tracey Uphill. You surely didn't think that I…?'
'I had to ask, Mick-you'd have been offended otherwise.'
'She's only eight years old.' The voice quivered with indignation. 'I've never touched a kid under ten in my life-well, not knowingly, anyway.'
Outside the interview room Frost grabbed Bill Wells, the station sergeant, who said he'd be pleased to take Hoskins' statement. They talked about old Sam, the tramp, a character who'd been in and out of the station's cells for years and who was now stiff and cold in the morgue and cleaner than he'd ever been in his life. 'It's funny,' observed the sergeant. 'I hated the bloke, he stank and was no bloody good, but I feel choked knowing he's dead. By the way, the new chap's waiting for you in your office.'
Frost frowned. What new chap? Oh-of course, young Barnard. He'd sent him to talk to Mrs. Uphill about the PS2000. There were so many things on his mind. There was the bank door business. That worried him. And the old tramp's dying. Then he had to meet Sandy Lane in the pub for a drink. And there was something else. It was important. He should keep notes, but then he'd forget to look at them. Blimey, yes! Old Mother Wendle, the witch of the woods. He had to ask her to get the spirits to tell him where the kid was. Now he'd remembered what it was, he felt happier. But first, let's see what young Barnard had got from the juicy Mrs. Uphill, the best thirty quid's worth east of Suez.
He trotted down the stone corridor to his office. Somewhere an outer door had been left open and a blast of cold air roared along the passage. He glanced through a window. Still no let-up in the snow, the sky was black, with plenty to come down. Barely twelve o'clock, and every light in the place was on.
Frost read the note again.
I HAVE GOT YOUR DAUGHTER TRACEY UPHILL IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER ALIVE GET PS2000 IN USED FIVE-POUND NOTES AND WAIT BY YOUR PHONE FOR INSTRUCTIONS TELL THE POLICE AND I KILL HER.
It had arrived at Mrs. Uphill's with the first postal delivery. The postmark on the cheap brown envelope showed it had been collected from the main Denton post office in the Market Square at 6:15 the night before. Inside was a sheet of paper which could have been a page torn from a child's exercise book. The writing was in laboriously printed block capitals written with a smudgy ballpoint pen. At first Mrs. Uphill had denied its existence-TELL THE POLICE AND I KILL HER-but Clive had convinced her that she must co-operate. 'Don't worry, Mrs. Uphill. Just leave everything to us.'
Frost took the page carefully by the edges and held it to the light, looking for a watermark. He dropped the sheet on to his desk.
'No watermark, son-not that it would mean anything to me if there was one.' He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms in a yawn. 'Better get it over to Forensic. They'll be able to tell us when the paper was made, the precise location of the pulping mill, when the tree was chopped down, and the exact chemical composition of the ball-point ink. Then they'll put their findings in a twenty-page report which some poor sod will have to read, but they won't be the slightest help in telling us who wrote the bloody thing.'
Clive slid the envelope and letter into a large transparent pocket and made out a requisition for a forensic report.
A brisk knock at the door and Mullett entered, his gleaming tailor-made uniform shaming Frost's office into looking even drabber.
'I hear through the grapevine there's a ransom note, Inspector.'
'I was just about to bring it in to you, sir,' said Frost, who had had no intention of so doing.
The glasses were pushed on the nose and Mullett read the note through the transparent cover. 'Better get this over to Forensic.'
'Good idea,' said Frost. 'Would you do that, son?'
Mullett looked for a chair to sit on, but they were both stacked with unreplaced files. Typical… absolutely typical. 'What's your next move, Inspector?'
'I'm having her phone wired so we can listen in to her calls-so if you're one of her regulars, sir, I'd lay off for a while.'
Mullett's face tightened. He didn't think that the least bit funny.
'Hmm… I suppose you can't make firm plans until you know the arrangements the kidnapper requires for the hand-over of the money. Now this note… do you think it's genuine? Do you think he's really got the girl?'
'I think it's genuine,' said Clive, and Mullett beamed in his direction.
'So do I.' Then, remembering Frost hadn't answered, 'Inspector…?'
Frost pulled a face. 'I'm probably wrong-I usually am-but if she was kidnapped on Sunday, then why the hell did he wait until Monday night before posting his ransom note?'
'The kidnapper may not have had any envelopes and had to wait until Monday to buy them,' suggested Clive.
'My thoughts exactly,' agreed Mullett. 'He may not have had any stamps, either.'
'Or a ballpoint pen,' added Frost.
Not sure if this was sarcasm or not, Mullett gave a wintry smile and left.
'Stupid bastard,' snorted Frost as the door closed. 'Send it to Forensic! What did he think we were going to do with it-wipe our arses on it? Well, nip it along to the post room, son, then get the chap in Control to send a civilian technician over to bug her phone. Tell them to send. someone who hasn't got three tenners to spare. I want a quick and thorough job. And then get back here-we're meeting Sandy in the pub for lunch.''
As he waited for the detective constable to return he tidied up the latest batch of papers that had landed on his desk. There was a file Inspector Allen had been working on concerning a series of thefts at a local electronics factory. He'd have to look at that some time. Then he found a note in his own hand scribbled on the back of an old envelope. It said 'Check Aunt-Tea'. He wasted the rest of the time until dive's return puzzling out what the hell it meant, finally giving up as a bad job.
'I've ordered the lunch,' said Sandy. 'Now what do you want to drink-whiskey?'
'You'd better make it beers,' answered the inspector, 'we haven't got any information for you.'
The beers came with the curry. It wasn't very good curry, doubtful chunks of gristle in a violent yellow sauce, bedded down on gray rice.
'I'm paying,' said Sandy.
'I should hope so,' said Frost, eyeing his plate with grave suspicion.
The reporter slipped in his leading question. 'I understand Mrs. Uphill drew a packet out of her bank today.'
