R. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

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."

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-"

It was just about audible through the background mush, the faint "Pee-paw, pee-paw" of a police car on the road outside the telephone kiosk.

"One of our cars passed the kiosk while he was on the phone," said Martin, scratching his head with the stem of his pipe. "He must have thought we were on to him and bolted."

Frost buried his head in his hand. "Bloody police," he moaned. "When you want them, you can't find them; when you don't they roar past and scare your suspects away." Then he noticed a stiffening of everyone's shoulders and his eye caught the gleam of burnished silver buttons.

"Afternoon, Super," he said.

"Heard the recording?" asked Mullett.

"Yes, sir."

"What are we going to do about it?"

Frost ruffled his hair. "Blowed if I know. Did the telephone engineers manage to trace the call?"

Martin sprang forward. "I was just coming to that Jack-er-Inspector. They did. It came from a call box on the main eastern highway, by the junction with Beehive Lane. Charlie Alpha two was in the vicinity, so Control sent him over to investigate."

"Charlie Alpha two!" snorted Frost. "It was probably those silly sods who scared him off in the first place."

"They were on patrol, Inspector," cut in Mullett, icily, ever protective of the reputation of his uniformed men, "and fully entitled to be where they were."

"With you one hundred per cent, Super-all the way-they're the salt of the earth," murmured Frost, blandly. Mullett was convinced Frost was being sarcastic, but before he could think of a suitable rebuke, bearing in mind that there were others present, Control buzzed through on the internal phone. Charlie Alpha two was reporting in.

Frost signaled for Clive to switch on the monitor speaker.

"Hello, Control. Charlie Alpha two. We're at the phone box at the junction of Beehive Lane and Eastern Highway. We've had a good look round. No one in the vicinity."

Frost spoke over the internal phone to the controller and asked if there was any way Charlie Alpha could keep the phone box under observation without being seen. Control relayed the message and the reply came over the monitor speaker.

"Yes-there are some trees a little way up the road. We can tuck the car behind them. It's some distance from the phone box, but we'll have a clear view."

"Right, they can wait there until he comes back," ordered Frost.

"Bloody heck!" acknowledged the voice over the speaker before Control cut it off.

Frost stripped the cellophane from his second packet of twenty that day and offered them around. "We can't do much until he phones again."

Martin shook his head gloomily. "The odds are he'll use another phone box."

Frost tapped his cheek and expelled a salvo of smoke-rings. "You don't have to be so bloody pessimistic, George, just because I'm in charge. Count your blessings. We've had a lovely spate of phone-box vandalism recently over sixteen cases in the last couple of days. He'll have a job finding another box that works, so, as long as Charlie Alpha doesn't do anything daft like leaving its blue light flashing, we might nab him yet." Then remembering, he turned to Mullett. "Sorry, Super-I'm neglecting you."

Mullett flashed perfect teeth. "That's all right, Inspector, only I'm expecting the Chief Constable to ring and I rather wanted to know how you got on with this Wendle woman."

"Oh-it was quite interesting, actually. We had a stance. According to her spiritual snouts, the kid's buried in Dead Man's Hollow."

"Dead Man's Hollow?" breathed Mullett in eye-blazing excitement. "Did you take a look?"

"Well, we looked at the four feet of snow covering it and it looked pretty much like the snow covering everywhere else."

"Organize a digging party," called Mullett over his shoulder as he made for the door. "I'll phone the Chief Constable right away."

As the door clicked shut, Frost exploded. "A bloody digging party! As if we didn't have enough to do. I'm throwing a little digging party, just a few friends-do come. Informal dress, just boots and shovels."

"Shall I put it in hand?" asked Martin.

"No, I'll see to it, George." He tugged his steaming scarf from the radiator. "Done to a turn!" Then he called across to Clive. "Important job for you, son. Nip up to the canteen and bring a couple of cups of tea to the office. I'll be along as soon as I've seen the station sergeant." He clattered out and along the corridor.

"How much longer has the stupid bugger got to go?" asked Clive.

The room went silent.

"What did you say, Constable?" the detective sergeant's eyes were cold.

"He wouldn't last five minutes in London."

"I can understand how you got your nose broken, Barnard. Go and fetch his bloody tea and see if you can do that without bitching."

The station sergeant could only spare two men to help with the digging until he learned that Mullett and the Chief Constable were taking a great interest in the outcome, then he managed to rake up two more and the four "volunteers" were sent to wrap up warm and collect their shovels from the stores.

Frost returned to his office to see if anyone had taken pity on him and had removed some of his paperwork, but another pile had been added, held down by a cup of tea. He took the cup of tea and two personal letters with local postmarks and leaned against the radiator where the hot pipes baked steam from his sodden trouser legs. He raised the cup to his lips, then shuddered. The tea was stone cold.