R. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

As he paused for breath the phone rang. All heads turned to stare accusingly at it. It rang again, a loud, insistent, grating ring.

Mullett frowned. "I told them to hold all calls," he said peevishly.

It rang again.

"Well, answer it someone, for Christ's sake," roared Allen. "That's the only way to stop it."

A detective sergeant picked it up. His eyes widened.

"It's the Chief Constable, sir." He hastily got rid of the phone to Mullett who took it reverently. The meeting studiously pretended not to be listening.

"Good morning, sir. No… not yet, but we'll find her. Yes, sir, the fullest possible co-operation. I don't think we'll be needing any more help at this stage." An inquiring glance to Inspector Allen who shook his head emphatically. His searchers would be falling over each other as it was.

"What's that, sir? I say, that's splendid. Thank you very much, sir… yes, that's really marvelous." The phone was replaced on the sidetable.

"That," said Mullett, as if announcing the Second Coming, "was the Chief Constable." A pause to let the import sink in. "And we're getting a helicopter."

A babble of excitement. Inspector Allen's eyes glittered. If they couldn't find the kid with a helicopter… But back to the meeting.

"All right, ladies and gentlemen, it's a help, but not the great solution to our problems. It can't poke about in sewage pipes and dung heaps. You need highly trained policemen for that. As you leave you'll be given your initial areas of search. Any questions at this stage?"

A hand shot up-one of the Rushfield men.

"I understand the mother's a prostitute, sir?"

"Yes," replied Allen straight-faced. "She hasn't mentioned a reward, but I imagine whoever finds the kid will be on to a good thing."

A ripple of laughter. The Rushfield man waited for it to subside. "I was wondering if any of our local child molesters might have got the wrong idea-like mother like daughter, that sort of thing…"

Allen sniffed. "A good point, but it's been covered. I've got men out already checking every known sex offender in the division. Any more questions? Right. Off you go… and good luck."

Detective Constable Clive Barnard's orders were to report for duty to Superintendent Mullett, Denton Police Station, nine o'clock sharp. The superintendent, he was told, was a stickler for punctuality, so he allowed himself plenty of time. He set the alarm for 7:15 and went to bed early. But sleep eluded him. At four o'clock he was still awake; the bed was lumpy, there weren't enough blankets to keep out the cold, his mind was a whirl of ash blondes and missing children, and some damn sadistic church clock punctuated his sleeplessness with clanking chimes every quarter-hour.

The exhausted sleep into which he eventually plunged was so deep that the alarm clock rang itself hoarse and he didn't hear it. He overslept. If his landlady hadn't banged on his door at 8:20 he'd be sleeping still.

So, no time for breakfast, just one mad rush to avoid the shameful crime of reporting late on his first day. A perfunctory buzz with the electric razor. Not perfect, but with his fair beard he'd get away with it. On with the brand-new gray suit with the red stripe, the one he'd bought especially for C.I.D. work from that little shop near Carnaby Street. He'd been told that clothes were important. Wear a tatty suit and you got the tatty assignments; good clothes earned the superior ones. So he'd bought this suit. It had cost him I

PS107, a lot more than he usually paid, but it was an investment, and why not let the Denton yokels see a bit of London quality for a change?

He opened his suitcase for the light blue shirt, moving his lawbooks to reach it. He was studying for a law degree in his spare time. He was determined to make it to the top by the quickest route and had realized that many of the younger senior men had law degrees. And he'd have plenty of time in this dead-and-alive hole to study his law books during the long winter evenings when he was without a female companion to run her gentle fingers down the ridged slope of his sexy broken nose.

By 8:45, his empty stomach complaining, he was thudding down Bath Hill, pushed by a cold wind. He wondered if they'd found Tracey Uphill. There certainly seemed to be an unusual amount of police activity for such an early hour. Three police cars had roared past him already.

Bath Hill led into Market Square where there was another policeman examining the door of a bank, but Clive gave him no more than a fleeting glance. Most of the shops had not yet opened and the tall Christmas tree outside the public lavatories was swaying in a wind that rattled its colored electric lights. He clattered over the cobbled road to reach Eagle Lane and the police station.

And there it was, red-bricked and solid, the welcoming blue lamp over swing doors leading into the lobby where the wall clock in its wooden case showed 8:54. He'd made it. The familiar police station smell of disinfectant, polish, and cooking from the canteen met his nose as, panting with relief, he advanced to the inquiry desk where a sad-faced, balding sergeant was on the phone.

Bill Wells, station sergeant for the 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. shift, was in temporary charge of the front office. He'd sent the duty constable, young P.C. Stringer, upstairs to the canteen for his breakfast and was keeping an eye on things until his return. The damn phone would have to ring: a woman with some rambling story about teenagers smashing her window two weeks ago and she'd only just decided to report it and what were the police go ing to do about it? A blast of air sent his papers flying as the lobby doors opened, but he trapped them with a practiced elbow and looked up at the visitor. A young chap with a crooked nose and smart overcoat. He looked supercilious enough to be someone important, so Wells cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, "Be with you in a moment, sir."

Clive nodded curtly. As he had managed to arrive in good time he hoped the sergeant wouldn't take too long on the phone and make him late for his appointment with the Divisional Commander. He roamed the lobby, studying the posters on the wall. Missing Persons, Foot and Mouth Disease Movement Restriction Orders and, everybody's favorite, the Colorado Beetle poster.

His heavy overcoat felt cumbersome, so he slipped it off and carried it over his arm. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the murky glass of the swing door. It brought him to an abrupt halt.

The new suit! It shrieked!

In the dim lighting of the shop it had seemed tastefully conservative with, perhaps, a barely audible refined whisper of trendiness, but in the somber surroundings of the station the trendy whisper was a raucous shout. It was a disaster, and no time to race back and change. He huddled himself into a dark corner.

P.C. Stringer, the duty desk man, returned to his post replete with bacon, beans, tea, and two slices. With his honest, open, freshly scrubbed schoolboy's face sur mounted with dark curly hair, he looked more like a sixth former than a policeman. He smiled at Clive with an air of helpful inquiry.

"I'm attending to the gentleman," hissed the sergeant from one corner of his mouth while carrying on his phone conversation with the other. The young constable shrugged good-naturedly and settled down to peck out a report on an ancient black Underwood.

At last the sergeant slammed down the phone and rubbed a sore ear. He turned to Clive with almost obsequious politeness.

"Can I help you, sir?"

It occurred to Clive that the sergeant was mistaking him for someone important. It also occurred to him that the sergeant wouldn't take too kindly to the knowledge that he had been abasing himself before the lowest of the low, a raw detective constable whose forehead still bore a ridge from a helmet. A quick explanation was vital.