of his neck stir and rise.
'Where are you buried?' This from Frost.
'Woods
Frost stiffened. 'Where in the woods?'
More breathing, slower, shallower. He repeated the question. 'Where in the woods?'
'Hollow… in front of tree… Hollow… Dead Man's Hollow.'
'Were you murdered?' A moan of pain. Frost jerked his hand from the woman's grip and shook her shoulders. 'Answer me, was it murder?'
'No, sir,' protested Clive urgently. 'If you bring her out of a trance too soon, it can kill her.'
'Then I'll apologize,' snapped Frost. 'Light that lamp.'
A match flared and the oil-lamp glowed. The room blinked and came to life. Cats yawned and scratched and licked. In her chair, the woman was bolt upright, her body rigid, her eyes staring but sightless.
Frost shook her roughly. 'Miss Wendle!' She blinked, then looked at him in puzzlement. 'Who are you? Oh-the policeman.'
'Who killed Tracey?' barked Frost.
'Is she dead?' She got up and stabbed the fire in the heart with the poker. It roared instantly into life.
'You told us she was buried in Dead Man's Hollow.'
She squeezed out a thin vinegary smile. 'No, Inspector. The spirits told you, not me. I was in a trance. They simply used my mouth to utter their words, words of which I have no knowledge.'
'I see,' said Frost. 'Well, you can tell your bloody spirits that if I find Tracey buried where your mouth said she was, then you'll be holding your next seance in the nick on a charge of murder. Come on, son.'
He spun on his heel and stamped out. A cat clawed at him as he passed. The woman didn't move, but as Clive squeezed by to get to the door he was able to see beyond the acid hate that uglied her face. Martha Wendle was frightened, terribly frightened.
Outside they sucked down lungfuls of clean air, like submariners unexpectedly saved from a suffocating death. The wind had dropped for the return journey, but hit out with a cold blast from time to time to let them know it was still lurking.
'I hope I haven't caught anything from those lousy cats,' said Frost, sniffing at his coat. 'Do you have intuitions, son?'
'Sometimes, sir.'
'I have them all the time. That woman's a killer!'
'Where's your proof, sir?'
'You're proof-mad son! All I want is a suspect. Forget this 'innocent until proved guilty' caper. Find your suspect and then prove he or she did it. Saves sodding about with lots of different people.'
They reached the fork in the path and Frost used his torch to light the way over the slithering plunge to Dead Man's Hollow. 'Well, this is it, son.'
His torch beam crawled over virgin snow, through which the branches of stunted trees protruded like the hands of drowning men.
'Shall we go down there, sir?' asked Clive.
'Waste of bloody time, son. We haven't got shovels.'
Clive took a deep breath. 'Then why did we come, sir?'
'I wanted to get the feel of the place. Now shut up for a minute, there's a good boy.'
The wind had a spasm and shook snow from branches, then went quiet. A match flared as Frost lit a cigarette.* 'The kid's not here, son.'
Clive looked at him, amazed. 'How on earth do you know that, sir?'
'I don't know-I only feel it.'
Clive gave a scornful snort. 'More intuition?'
'Yes, son-more of my stupid intuition. We'll probably have to dig just to satisfy Mullett and Uncle Chief Constable, but she's not here.'
Clive grabbed his arm. 'Sir-on that bush-shine your torch to the left… do you see it?'
Something small and white and insignificant fluttered on the branch. The snow was thigh-deep at that point but Clive plunged over to the bush. He snatched the object and waded back to the inspector in triumph. Frost looked at the treasure, a small square of waxed paper-the wrapping from a boiled sweet.
'It could have been chucked there by the kid,' said Clive eagerly, like a puppy that has brought the ball back for the first time.
Frost raised his eyes to heaven. 'A sweet wrapper,' he exclaimed. 'The spirits are vindicated-a bloody sweet wrapper.' He found a crumpled transparent envelope in his pocket and poked the wrapper inside. 'If you weren't looking so pleased with yourself, son, I'd chuck it away, but I suppose I'm setting you enough bad examples as it is, so we'll let Forensic tell us what flavor the sweet was and how much a pound they are.'
Back at the car the radio was going blue in the face pleading for Inspector Frost to answer. He sighed and slid into his seat. 'They don't let you alone when you're lovable, do they, son?' He slowly lit a cigarette just to show the radio who was master, then announced his whereabouts into the microphone.
'Inspector Frost? We've been trying to contact you for ages sir. Can you get back to the station at once? The kidnapper has phoned Mrs. Uphill.'
TUESDAY-4
The take-up spool on the tape recorder slowly revolved, pulling tape across the replay head. First the hissing of virgin tape, then … Brr… brr… Brr… br-hardly two rings before the receiver was snatched up.
'Demon 2346.' Mrs. Uphill, pathetically eager.
Pay-phone pips, then the chunk of money.
'Mrs. Uphill?' A man's voice, nondescript, distorted by the phone.
'Yes.'
'You got my letter?'
'Yes… Please… where is she?'
'All in good time. Have you got the money?'
'Yes-exactly as you said.'
'And you've told no one?'
'No-no one.'
'Good, I'd hate to have to carry out my promise. Now listen carefully-'
But Mrs. Uphill cut across him, 'I've got to know about Tracey. How is she?'
'All right-considering… She cries a lot, doesn't she? She's got a bit. of a cold and she keeps whining for her mother, but apart from that…'
'Please,' and her voice was a barely steady whisper, 'what do you want me to do?'
'I want-'
A click, then the dial tone. Frost's head jerked up. Detective Sergeant Martin waved him to silence; there was a little more.
'Hello… hello…' Mrs. Uphill, almost hysterical as she jiggled the receiver rest. 'Hello…' The relentless purr of dial tone going on and on. A click as the receiver was replaced, then the hiss and crackle of virgin tape.
Martin banged down the Stop key. 'That's it.'
Frost dragged off his scarf and draped it over the radiator to dry. 'So what happened? Was he cut off?'
'I don't think so, Jack. Listen carefully to the end of the tape.' Martin turned the volume control to its maximum and wound the tape back a few inches. He pressed the Start key. Tape background roared and sizzled and distorted voices boomed.
'Please, what do you want me to do?'
'I want-click… dial tone, 'Again,' snapped Frost.
Martin kept repeating the last few seconds of the recording. 'I want-' click… 'I want-' click… 'I want-'
