Simms's shoulder. A full-face color photograph of a lovely wide-eyed child, beautiful like her mother, the same ash- blonde hair, brushed and gleaming.
Simms wrote something on the back of the photograph, replaced the cap on his pen, and looked significantly at Jordan, who nodded and stood. 'Just one last thing, Mrs. Uphill. We'd like to search the house.'
They searched the house, starting at the top and working down. They found nothing, but it had to be done. The number of times the missing kid had been found hiding in a cupboard or a shed while armies of policemen scoured the streets… All a big joke to the kid, of course, but there was that terrible lesson of a few years back when, weeks after an intensive search involving hundreds of men, rivers dragged, frogmen in the reservoir, a police officer returned to the child's home and noticed a small box that could have contained books or toys. Far too small, but he looked anyway… and there was the body. The boy had squeezed himself in, pulled down the lid, the catch had caught and trapped him and there was hardly any air. Weeks of searching and he had been in the house all the time. But Tracey wasn't in the house.
Back to the lounge where the woman sat huddled in a chair, systematically shredding a Kleenex tissue. She didn't look up as Jordan spoke.
'Nothing there, Mrs. Uphill, but stay by your phone. As soon as we have any news…'
She nodded.
'And, of course, if she should come back here, you'll let us know at once, won't you?'
Again a nod.
Jordan shrugged, then signaled for the others to follow him out. At the door Clive turned. She looked so pathetic, so defenselessly alone. 'Isn't there anyone who could stay with you, Mrs. Uphill-a relative, a woman friend?'
Beautiful but vacant eyes fastened on his. 'I have no woman friends-or any relations…'A bitter smile. 'But thank you.'
Jordan tapped Clive on the shoulder and jerked his thumb to the front door. Mrs. Uphill pulled another Kleenex from the box.
Back in the car Simms radioed the details to Denton Control for circulation to all patrols. Control instructed them to drop Clive off at his digs and then return to the station with the photograph.
The car retraced its way through the side streets and was soon back on the main road.
'Let's have the benefit of your vast London experience. What do you reckon?' asked Simms.
Clive shrugged. 'It's too early. The kid could turn up at any time.' Then he remembered the question he'd been burning to ask. 'Where's the kid's father-the husband?'
He caught Jordan's smile in the rearview mirror. 'She's not married, Clive. The 'Mrs.' is just a courtesy title.'
Clive frowned. 'Then where does her money come from? The chair I was sitting on must have set her back four hundred quid at least.'
Simms turned in his seat. 'I'll give you a clue. She's self-employed and fee-earning. The money in her lounge was earned in her bedroom.' He saw Clive was still uncomprehending. 'How thick can you get? She's a tart, a whore, a harlot, a pro. She's on the bash.'
Clive's jaw thudded. Not her! Not that virginal child. How simple did they think he was?
'I hope I haven't shocked you,' said Simms. 'I don't suppose you have such wicked women in London. It's a bit naughty, I know, but then, this is a decadent town. It'll be different when the bingo halls are built.' He looked to Jordan for a smile of appreciation, but the driver was lost in his thoughts.
'Sorry,' said Jordan, 'I've just remembered something-the Sunday school.'
'St. Basil's?'
'Yes. You remember the trouble we had there this summer.'
'Blimey,' said Simms. 'The man trying to lure kids into his care with sweets? We never caught him, did we?'
'No,' said Jordan, 'we never caught him.' He spun the wheel and the car deserted the main road for a narrow street of terraced houses. 'Here we are.'
This was Sun Street. Clive's digs were at No. 26, a house that looked no different from any of the others. As he took his suitcases from the car and said his goodbyes, the downstairs curtain behind him twitched and a shaft of light wriggled across the pavement. He watched the area car continue on its way until the darkness swallowed up its rear lights. Then he felt friendless and alone, the way that woman must be feeling now. He turned and, putting his suitcases down on the pavement, knocked at the door.
MONDAY-1
Superintendent Mullett, Commander, Denton Division, give a warning toot on his horn and gently coasted his new blue Jaguar into the crowded police car park. At a few minutes past eight on a cold and dark Monday morning the parking area should have been an expanse of emptiness dotted with the odd car belonging to members of the morning shift, but today it was tightly crammed with a congestion of assorted vehicles: army trucks, a hired coach, the mobile canteen from county headquarters, and two small vans which, at first, Mullett did not recognize until the petulant whinings and yappings from within told him they were the dog handler's transport.
The search party had assembled.
Mullett permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction. To arrive at this early hour and see proof of the efficient way his phoned orders of late last night had been carried out was indeed a tribute to the efficiency of the division and its commander. His smile froze and changed to a frown of intense irritation when he saw that one of the wretched army trucks had commandeered his parking space. Couldn't the fools read? Good Lord, it was clearly narked in bold white paint 'Reserved for Divisional Commander' and was regarded as a sacrosanct place by his own men. Raging inwardly at the stupidity of army drivers, he rammed his car into the first vacant space he found, jammed between the hired coach that had brought in men from a neighboring division and a wall. Too late, he realized it would require some tricky reversing if he were not to mar the gleaming blue paint of his day-old car.
In foul temper he snatched up the black leather briefcase from the rear seat, remembering in time to open the door carefully so it wouldn't crash into the wall, and picked his way through the maze of vehicles to the side street from which he could reach the main entrance of the police station. A rear entrance led directly from the car park, but kings and princes didn't sneak in through back doors and neither did divisional commanders.
The uniformed man on duty in the lobby sprang to attention and snapped him a smart salute. Mullett acknowledged it curtly and moved briskly on, noting that the man was already on the phone to warn the station sergeant of his arrival.
Outside his office his triumphant entry was temporarily halted by one of the cleaning women who was sloshing buckets of disinfectant-tainted water over the stone flags of the corridor. He coughed pointedly and had to wait while she cleared a damp path for him with her mop, pushing back the water as the Red Sea was parted for Moses on another historic occasion.
Mullett's office provided the only touch of splendor in the entire Victorian workhouse of a building. Its walls were paneled in veneered wood like a boardroom, the floor spread with a thick, pale blue Wilton carpet on which sat a splendid 'senior-executive-model' desk in satin mahogany and black. He couldn't understand his counterparts in other divisions who boasted of the meanness of their own offices, thereby degrading their positions. Senior men in industry had the trappings to go with the job, so why not the police?
He opened the clothes cupboard cleverly concealed behind the paneling and hung up his London-tailored overcoat. His reflection in the full-length door mirror restored his good humor. The image before him was indeed something to be regarded with unrestrained approval: a tall, straight-backed figure, glossy black hair with a chiseled parting, commanding eyes, a neatly clipped military mustache, and a complexion glowing with health and good living. And to set. it off, the immaculate fit of the police uniform, its buttons winking and gleaming, the creases lethal, and the shoes, black mirrors. At forty-two years old he looked more like a successful stockbroker than a superintendent of police controlling an area of some thirty-eight square miles and 100,000 inhabitants.
The cupboard door closed and became once again part of the wall paneling. Something caught his eye. On his desk, tucked into the corner of the blotting pad, an envelope. The typing, in red capitals, said 'Strictly Private and
