'Hello, Johnnie.'
'Hello, Jack-sit down.' Yes, definitely trouble. The sergeant wasn't meeting his eye. Johnnie stirred his tea deliberately, then, 'What was that business this afternoon with young Stringer?'
'Oh… a private chat, Johnnie, nothing that would interest you. Is that what you wanted to talk about?'
'No, Jack.' He pushed his tea to one side. 'Did the C.I.D. overtime return go off to County last night?' Frost froze, the cup an inch from his lips. 'Oh God!' 'For Heaven's sake, Jack, it's the second month running. I phoned County this evening to check. It hadn't arrived. They had to make special arrangements to get your men's overtime paid last month-had to get someone in specially to feed the figures to the computer at three o'clock in the morning. They said they'd never do it again.'
Frost rubbed a weary hand over his face. His scar was hurting. 'You know how good I am with paperwork, Johnnie. It was different before. I used to pass all overtime claims through without checking-I trust everyone-but that silly sod Davidson at H.Q. found out and I got a rollocking. Now I'm supposed to check each and every one, but it takes time.'
Johnson took out his tobacco pouch. 'But you've had time, Jack.'
'All right-but it's not a job I like doing,' and his head whirled as he thought of all the other jobs he had left undone for the same reason. 'I suppose they wouldn't like two lots next month?'
Johnnie Johnson lit his homemade cigarette. 'They wouldn't, Jack, and you can't blame them. The men have already missed two months this year because you forgot to send off the forms and its not fair they should have to suffer. They work all hours and they don't do it for charity. Besides,' and he looked away, 'there's been an official complaint.'
Frost flinched as if he had been struck. 'Who to?' 'To me, Jack. I'm the Police Federation man.' 'Am I such a shit they couldn't come to me?' Johnnie shook his head. 'The opposite, Jack. They like you too much and you would have joked your way out of it and they wouldn't have got their money.' His cigarette wasn't drawing well and he had to suck hard to keep it lit. 'As it's been made official, I'm taking it up with the Divisional Commander tomorrow morning,' and he studied the scanty Christmas decorations hanging from the rafters.
Frost spoke quietly with the barest hint of pleading. 'You'd be the answer to his prayers, Johnnie. He's just waiting for a legitimate excuse to bounce me.'
The sergeant stood up. 'I had to tell you first, Jack. I couldn't do it behind your back.' He hesitated, then gripped Frost's shoulder tightly. 'Sorry, Jack…' and was gone.
Frost buttoned his coat. It was cold in the canteen. He sighed. All he seemed to do these days was stagger from one crisis to the next. Overhead, the P.A. system cleared its throat and asked Inspector Frost to go to the nearest telephone.
Clive Barnard, sharing a table with Hazel, heard the message and saw the inspector leave. He pressed the key of his digs in her hand and rose to follow the inspector. 'I'll probably be late, but wait for me. Promise?'
He found Frost on the phone outside the canteen and waited until he had finished. Frost grunted, scribbled some hieroglyphics on the back of the telephone directory, then hung up.
'That was Forensic, son. They've sifted through the crates of earth and found some coins from our skeleton's pockets. The latest coins were dated 1951, so we can forget about his being killed in the war. They've also cut open the steel case chained to his wrist and it contained absolutely sod all. So what was he doing with an empty steel case double-locked to his wrist?'
'Perhaps whatever was in the case had been delivered,' suggested Clive.
'Possible, son, but then you'd have thought they would have unlocked the case from his wrist.' He rasped his chin thoughtfully, '1951! Festival of Britain year. We really went to town here, then-the toilets stayed open an extra half-hour and the Town Hall flagpole was illuminated weekends.' His mind clicked back to the present.
'When's this bloody kidnapper going to phone again? I hope he realizes he's sodding us all up.' He clattered off down the stairs back to his office and Clive had to hurry to keep up.
Frost chucked himself in his chair and riffled the papers on his desk. A couple more Christmas cards had arrived and there was the electronics theft folder with a note from Mullett attached: 'Please treat this as urgent.' He dug deeper and found the overtime return which he quickly checked and initialed, but what was the point? It was too late. The computers at County H.Q. were kept going on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis doing work mainly for the county council, but a few hours each month the police were allowed to squeeze their business in, and the allotted time for wages was this morning. He slipped the return in an envelope and stuck it in this jacket pocket. He'd bung it in the postbox. Too late for this month, but at least it would be out of the office. He dreaded facing Mullett again in the morning, 'Everything I touch goes wrong,' he announced to Clive, who was surprised at the self-pity from a man who gave the impression that nothing on earth could get him down. Clive accepted a cigarette and they lit up.
'I'll tell you something,' continued Frost, confidentially, 'something I've told no one. This tin medal of mine-' he opened his drawer and took the medal out '-do you know why I tackled that gunman? I wanted to get myself killed, that's why. I didn't want to live. It's not a joke son, I'm being serious for a change. They'd just told me, that day, that my wife had cancer… that she'd only last a few months and was going to have a bloody rotten death. That nut-case with the gun was the answer to my prayers. I thought, 'Sod it, I don't care if I live or die, so let's die a bloody hero.' So he fired, and he missed-he was as useless as I am-and I couldn't even get myself killed properly.' Then suddenly, in a puff of expelled smoke, the black mood was gone. 'I'm a morbid bugger, aren't I? Come on, son, let's go to Search Control and find out the latest on the kid.'
Turning the corner at the top of the corridor they bumped into a police dispatch rider, crash-helmeted and water-proofed, his goggles rimmed with unmelted snow.
'Divisional Commander's Office?' he asked. 'I've an urgent package to pick up for Statistical Department.'
Frost directed him, then, as an afterthought asked, 'Are you going back to County Headquarters tonight?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do us a turn, would you?' he fumbled in his pocket for the overtime return envelope. 'Drop this in Accounts. It's the overtime return… should have been in this morning.'
The dispatch rider slid the envelope into a leather pouch. 'You'll be all right, Inspector. They're all behind in Accounts-half of them down with flu. They won't be doing the police wages until tomorrow night.'
Frost almost sweated as warm relief flooded his body. 'I may sod up a lot of things,' he told dive, 'but I have much more luck than anyone's entitled to expect.'
In Search Control, the feeling of standing down. Time to file stuff away and tidy up desks. A photograph of Tracey had been shown on the television news and people had been phoning in all day to report seeing her in London, Cornwall, Dover, on a lorry heading up the Ml motorway, in a cafe in Leeds with a Pakistani, outside a cinema in Bromley… everywhere but in Denton. All well-meaning but probably useless leads, each of which had to be followed up, fortunately mainly by other police divisions who had been sent details by teleprinter.
A phone rang. An agitated Mrs. Uphill, concerned that the alleged kidnapper hadn't been back to her. Frost calmed her down and told her it was important she keep off the phone so the man could make contact. She hung up immediately. Then it occurred to Frost that she had PS2000 lying around loose and if the man didn't have Tracey, his intention might be to break into the house and steal the money. He phoned back to tell her to bolt all doors and windows and not to let anyone in.
'As robbery could be the motive, shouldn't we have someone watching the house?' asked George Martin.
'I daren't frighten him off in case it's genuine, George,' Frost said. 'Don't forget he's threatened to kill the kid if Mrs. Uphill contacts the police.'
Forensic phoned. Could Frost get over to the lab right away? Something interesting.
'You'll remember to switch your radio on, sir, so we can get in touch with you?' asked the detective sergeant.
'Of course,' said Frost, in feigned surprise, 'don't I always?'
In the lobby Johnnie Johnson was taking details of a driving license and insurance-certificate from a truculent youth in a brown leather jacket. Frost nipped over and whispered a few words, telling him about the overtime return.
Johnnie put down his pen and looked at Frost in joyful disbelief. 'You jammy old bastard,' he said.
