'Keep trying. Any luck with Wonder Woman?'
'Not a dicky bird!'
'Bloody cow's useless.' Wells ripped the sheet from his pad. 'See if you can get Mr. Mullett on this number.'
Lambert frowned. 'This is the same number I'm trying for Mr. Allen, sarge.'
Wells looked at it again. Lambert was right. 'Mullett ii and Allen, both out together at eleven o'clock at night. I wonder where?'
'A cut-price knocking shop?' suggested a familiar voice, helpfully.
Frost! Jack Frost in his crumpled mac and maroon scarf beaming at them.
'Jack!' cried a delighted Wells. 'I thought you were on holiday.'
'I am. I've just nipped in for some fags. Did you get my comic postcard?' He struck a pose and declaimed:
'I cannot get my winkle out Now there's a funny thing. The more I try to pull it out The more I push it in!'
Wells grinned. 'I stuck it on the notice-board, but Mullett made me take it down. He said it was near pornographic'
'There's nothing pornographic about a man eating winkles,' said Frost. 'So what's all the panic?'
'Patriot Street. Body in a dustbin sack.'
Frost grimaced. 'Where did people hide bodies before dustbin sacks were invented? We find more bloody bodies than rubbish in them these days.'
'This one's a kid,' said Wells, 'a boy, seven years old. We've got a murder investigation, a detective constable in sole charge, the pathologist on his way and Mullett and Allen conveniently unobtainable. A proper sod-up!'
'Not as good as some of my sod-ups,' said Frost, 'but I'm glad I'm on holiday. I'll just nick some of Mullett's fags and go.' He disappeared up the corridor.
Seeing Wells with nothing to do, the man in the camel-hair coat sprang across to the desk.
'Perhaps you can now spare me some time. I've lost my car a metallic grey Rover, registration number '
'Stolen car, right,' said Wells, pulling the forms towards him. The quickest way to get shot of him was to take the details.
'I didn't say it was stolen. I just don't know where it is. I drove down from Bristol for the firm's function. I parked it down a side street somewhere. I must have got confused I can't find it. My wallet, credit cards, everything, are inside it.'
'It's probably been pinched by now,' said Wells cheerfully.
'I'm sure it hasn't, sergeant. It's fitted with anti-thief devices.'
'And you've no idea where you left it?'
'If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?'
Wells put his pen down. 'So what do you want us to do about it?'
The man sighed as if explaining to an idiot. 'I would have thought that was obvious, sergeant. If one of your men could drive me around the side streets, we could look for it.'
'I've got a better idea.' Frost had returned with one of Mullett's best cigarettes dangling from his lips. 'Why don't you piss off and go and look for it yourself? We've got more important things to do.'
The man spun round angrily, jabbing a finger at Frost. 'I'll have you,' he spluttered. 'I've got friends in high places. I want your name.'
'Mullett,' said Frost. 'Superintendent Mullett.'
'Right,' said the man, scribbling this down. 'You haven't heard the last of this.' He stamped out of the station.
'You bloody fool, Jack,' said Wells.
'He won't take it any further,' said Frost, but now beginning to have doubts himself. 'Anyway,' he brightened up, 'I'm on holiday so Mullett won't suspect me.'
'If you were dead he'd still suspect you,' said Wells grimly.
Lambert slid up the dividing hatch to the Control
Room. 'Still nothing from that number, sarge. I got the exchange to trace it for us. It's the Clarendon Arms, that big pub and restaurant over at Felstead.'
Wells's eyes narrowed. 'What the hell are they doing there? Those two are up to something, you mark my words. Why isn't anyone answering the phone?'
Lambert shrugged. 'There could be a fault on the line. We'll have to send someone over there to pick Allen up.'
'We can't spare a bleeding car,' said Wells. He groaned. There was no other option. 'AH right send Charlie Baker. We want Allen back here. Tell him it's a murder enquiry.'
The hatch slammed shut. Wells spun round quickly, just in time to catch Frost before he sidled out. 'Hold it, Jack.'
'I'm on holiday until the end of the week,' said Frost.
'We've got to have a senior officer over there… Please, Jack. I only want you to hold the fort until Allen arrives fifteen minutes, half an hour at the most…'
'All right,' sighed Frost reluctantly. 'But if he's not there in half an hour, I'm off.'
'You're a diamond,' said Wells.
'I'm a prat,' said Frost.
The door was closing behind him when Lambert slid up the hatch. 'I've got hold of Liz Maud, sarge.'
Detective Sergeant Maud was late arriving at the house. She still didn't know her way around Denton and the ancient, well-thumbed street map Sergeant Wells had given her was falling to pieces with lots of the street names unreadable. After twice retracing her route, she pulled up outside the front door just as the doctor was leaving. 'Kiddy's not too badly hurt,' he told her. 'Couple of superficial wounds to the upper arm, which only required a dressing.' He glanced back and winced at the hysterical shrieking and sobbing from inside. 'That's the mother. She's in a worse state than the kid. I offered her a sedative, but she chucked it at me.' He edged past her. 'I wish I could stay, but I've got other calls.' He plunged out into the street, relieved to get away from the noise.
Liz switched off her radio. She didn't want her interview with an overwrought mother interrupted by trivial messages. She homed in on the crying which was now accompanied by a banging noise. It led her to the child's bedroom, a small room with a single cot, its walls decorated with nursery wallpaper.
The banging was caused by a middle-aged man who was hammering nails into the window frame which had been forced open by the intruder. A young woman, the mother, jet black hair, slightly olive skin, was sitting in a blue-painted chair, rocking from side to side, moaning and sobbing continuously. Liz sighed. She obviously wouldn't be much help.
A plumpish woman in her fifties was standing next to the mother, holding the child, wrapped in a blanket. The child, a boy, barely a year old, his face flushed and tear-stained, had cried himself to an exhausted sleep.
'Detective Sergeant Maud,' announced Liz, holding out her warrant card.
'Took your time getting here,' said the man, knocking in one last nail and putting down the hammer. He gave the window frame a testing shake. 'That should keep the bugger out.'
'If you could try to avoid touching things,' said Liz. 'There could be fingerprints.'
'You wouldn't need fingerprints if you got here earlier and caught him,' said the man.
Liz ignored this. 'Are you the husband?'
'I'm her next-door neighbour George Armitage.' He nodded at the woman with the baby. 'And that's my wife.'
Liz addressed the mother. 'What's your name, love?'
It was Mrs. Armitage who answered her. 'Lily Lily Turner. She's in a bit of a state, I'm afraid.'
'Is there a husband?'
'Well there's a father. Not sure if he's actually her husband, if you follow my meaning.' She lowered her voice. 'He's inside… doing eighteen months stealing radios from cars.'
Liz gently touched the mother's arm. 'Lily, I'm from the police. Can you tell me what happened?'
The mother's only response was to moan louder.
Liz turned to the other woman. 'Perhaps you can tell me what happened, Mrs. Armitage.'
