life the previous night, Sandy's lower jaw dropped, then a smile traveled from one large ear to the other. 'You're an ugly old sod, Jack, but I love you,' and snatching up the phone he dictated a new story direct to a typist. The headline was to be 1951 KILLER STRIKES AGAIN- AMAZING STORY. The various facts and figures he was able to pluck from his fingertips paid tribute to an elephantine memory. Finished at last he spun his chair round to face the inspector. 'What chance of an early arrest. Jack?'
'We're following up several leads,' trotted out Frost, trying to think of just one.
'Tomorrow, Jack, we'll have a proper lunch The sky's the limit-up to a tenner a head. Now, off the record, what leads have you got?'
'Damn all,' said Frost, 'and that's exaggerating. You keep your lunch and give me some information instead. Do you remember a bloke called Powell, Manager of Bennington'sback back in 1951?'
'Stuck-up sod.' recalled Sandy. ''His son killed himself.'
Frost stripped the cellophane from a fresh packet and offered a cigarette to the reporter. 'Tell me about the son.'
Sandy tugged an ear in thought. 'A bloody hero during the war but a near crook after it. He started up this dubious investment company, then blew most of his clients' money on horses and women. Criminal charges, would have been preferred if the old man hadn't stepped in and made his losses good. Had to sell his house and they now live in a wooden hut in Denton Road.'
Ash dropped from Frost's cigarette to his coat. He spread it about with his hand. 'And, in spite of the old man's sacrifices, he kills himself?'
'Yes-in front of a tube train. They had to scrape him off the rails. He still owed a couple of thousand then, but the old man dug a little deeper and got it together somehow and all the creditors were satisfied.' He looked up. 'Hello-that bloke with the wonky hooter-isn't he your assistant?'
And it was Clive, wending his way through the maze of desks, a scowl of urgent agitation on his face. Frost excused himself to Sandy and hurried over to the detective constable.
'What's up, son?' Then he noticed the smoldering anger.
'Not here, sir-outside,' and Clive spun on his heels leaving Frost to trot dutifully after him. In the street the young man stopped and, with eyes blazing, almost snarled at his superior officer.
'You and your bloody hunches!'
When the hospital phoned him about his wife, he knew. Before he picked up the phone, he knew… and he knew now. He held his breath to still the churning turmoil within.
'What is it, son?'
'Tracey Uphill. They've found her. She's dead!'
The wind groaned and wailed.
He knew where they'd found her, but he had to ask.
'Where, son?'
'Where do you bloody-well think? Stuffed in that trunk at the vicarage, along with the filthy books and the pornographic photographs.'
WEDNESDAY-5
The car screamed round the corner and juddered to a halt outside the front door of the vicarage where other cars were parked, including the Divisional Commander's blue Jaguar with its damaged rear wing.
A uniformed man at the door saluted 'Second floor, Inspector, first door.'
They took the stairs two at a time and pushed into the vicar's photographic studio where a silent group of men clustered around the opened cabin trunk Frost barged through and looked down into the staring, frightened eyes of eight-year-old Tracey Uphill, who was no longer pretty. A swollen tongue protruded obscenely from her twisted mouth. She wore her warm blue coat but would never be warm again. Frost gently touched the marble flesh with probing fingertips. The flesh was soft. He spotted the doctor at the back of the group and looked to him in mute enquiry.
'Rigor mortis has gone, Jack, so I reckon she's been dead since Sunday. You'll need a P.M. to pin it down to the hour, but the pathologist should be here shortly. We've had to drag him from a Christmas dance.''
Frost dropped his eyes to the tortured white face. 'How was she killed, Doc?'
'Manual strangulation.' The doctor moved the head slightly to show the marks on the throat. 'No attempt at sexual assault as far as I can see, but I don't want to disturb her too much. You know what a fussy devil that bloody pathologist is.'
A uniformed man coughed to attract Frost's attention. 'We found these in that corner cupboard, sir,' and he pointed to a stack of dirty books and nude photographs. 'We imagine they were removed from the trunk to make room for the body.'
Frost gave them a fleeting glance and grunted 'The property of the vicar,' said Mullett loudly, deciding it was time to make his presence felt 'We can see the sort of person he is.'
'Yes,' snapped Frost, still looking at the girl, 'exactly the same sort as the rest of us.' He waved the books away. The constable was hurt, wanting the inspector to examine them and realize their enormity. 'There's nude pictures of young girls, sir-local girls.'
'I know,' said Frost, impatiently, 'I saw them when we searched here the other day.' And not a very thorough search, he reflected bitterly, remembering how he'd hustled Clive Barnard along, and the body must have been here all the time. Then he realized Mullett was talking to him.
'Did I understand you to say you saw these books and photographs, Inspector?' The voice was shocked. 'There was no mention of them in your report-such as it was.'
Frost lit a cigarette and shrugged. 'No, sir, I didn't think it relevant at the time.' His eyes went back to the body.
Mullett's voice rose to shrill and accusing incredulity. 'You saw these pieces of filth, and you didn't think them relevant?'
But Frost, deep in thought, flicked an impatient hand at his Divisional Commander. 'Later sir, later Everyone in the room stiffened. Mullett was ready to explode but managed to control himself in time. He took several deep breaths, determined not to create a scene in front of the others, but as soon as he got Frost back to the station…
'Who found the body?' asked Frost, completely unaware of the tension in the room.
The area car driver who had answered the 999 call stepped forward. 'The vicar's wife, sir. She went to that cupboard to see if she could find any spare hymnbooks for the carol service and found the obscene books and photographs heaped on the floor. She suspected they had come from the trunk. She opened it, and there was the kid.'
Mullett reasserted himself. 'The vicar's in his study downstairs, Frost. His wife's in the lounge. She's very upset and I thought it better to keep them apart at this stage.'
'Has the vicar said anything?' asked Frost.
The area car driver pulled out a notebook. 'Another bloody memory man,' snorted Frost, but undeterred the constable flicked through until he found the right page. He cleared his throat and read.
'The vicar said he had no idea how the child had got there. He last used the room about a week ago and last saw the child when she left Sunday school last Sunday afternoon. His wife, Mrs. Bell, was hysterical and I couldn't get much sense out of her, but she said-' and he dropped his eyes to the notebook for the exact words, '-'I knew it would come to this one day, I just knew it'.' He shut the book with a snap and replaced it in his breast pocket.
Frost made no move.
'Well, Inspector,' said Mullett with forced heartiness, 'I expect you'll want to question the vicar right away. We'll hang on here until the pathologist arrives.'
Frost ignored him and sank to his knees by the trunk. Heedless of the shocked protests, he turned the body to one slide and plucked something from the back of the blue coat, then he jerked his head abruptly at Clive.
'Come here, son. You want bloody facts, do you? Here's a bloody fact.' He pointed then looked up at Mullett. 'I don't want to speak to the vicar, sir, and I don't need any bloody pathologist to tell me who killed this kid.' He
