R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Back in the car, Frost radioed through to Search Control. George Martin told him the Old Wood had had a perfunctory search but was scheduled for detailed coverage the next morning. The vicarage grounds had been covered thoroughly.

"Hmm," said Frost, scratching his face thoughtfully. "Better rake up as many men as you can for an immediate search of the woods tonight. It'll be tricky in the dark, but if the kid's there, speed's vital." Outside, the wind was shrilling to gale force.

Give didn't need further directions once he was piloted back to the main road, so the inspector was able to relax in his seat.

"Weil," he said, "I don't know what was sticking out ' the most-your eyes or that kid's chest. Oh, sorry-forgot we had a lady on board." He beamed at the woman P.C. in the back seat.

She smiled back. "Don't mind me."

"I'll tell you a little story," said Frost, and Clive's heart sank. Not another of his dubious reminiscences! He gritted his teeth and concentrated on his driving.

"I was sixteen," continued Frost, "and I'd been knocking about with this girl-Ivy Standish her name was-and blimey, was she hot stuff! She'd let you do anything with her-anything except swear. She couldn't stand swearing, so if your trembling hand fumbled on the last button of her cami-knicks and you inadvertently said 'Sod it', that was your lot; you were sent packing, no matter how high your state of expectation. Anyway, to cut a long and boring story short, her birthday came along and her mum invited me to the party. It was going to be a surprise, but it turned out to be a bloody shock. You know how many candles she had on her cake? Eleven! I could have got fourteen years for that, so I had my slice of cake and left, hurriedly."

Wishful thinking, thought Clive, not believing a word.

When the car reached the Market Square the woman P.C. asked to be dropped off.

"Are you on stand-by duty then, Hazel?" asked Frost. "Tell you what, I'll get off here and walk. Young Clive will drive you home.''

They watched Frost, his shoulders hunched, his chin dug deeply into his scarf as he braved the wind to reach Eagle Lane. The girl gave Clive directions.

"Why, you don't live far from me," he said. "Tell you what, why don't we drop off at my place and have a cup of coffee?"

To his astonishment she agreed. He wondered if Frost was expecting him back right away. But damn it all, he'd been on duty nearly thirteen hours now and surely was entitled to half an hour's break.

It seemed colder in his room than outside. He rammed coins down the meter's hungry throat and turned the gas fire on full. She sat on the unmade bed, hands thrust deep in her pockets, and watched him.

"Soon be warm," he said, and dashed into the kitchen to make the coffee, filling the percolator with hot water for quickness and dumping it on the gas-ring.

He returned to his visitor. "Won't be long." She nodded. The gas-fire began to raise the temperature. "Warming up, isn't it?" Another nod. Not a great talker, he thought and suggested she might like to take off her greatcoat. Off it came, then her uniform jacket. Her gray and white shirt swelled out temptingly.

He kissed her. It was a long, lingering, tongue-meeting kiss, the most promising start he'd made for a long time. They parted for air. "Some music," he suggested, and leaned across her to switch on his radio. In doing so, his hand brushed her chest. She quivered. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him, his mouth covered hers, his hand, with the delicate skill of a surgeon performing a tricky brain operation, gently undid the tiny buttons on her shirt. Another break for air.

A group throbbed away on the radio.

"That's number one in the top ten, isn't it?" she asked, leaning forward so he could undo the fiddling little hooks on her bra. He began to caress the soft skin of her back. His heart started to pound in tune to the pulse of the percolator. His hand dropped to her leg and began to crawl upward…

The door burst open and Frost entered.

Damn, damn, and sodding damn!

Frantic covering up, the girl turning aside and rebuttoning.

"Bit of luck I saw your light," said Frost, grabbing him by the arm. "They've found a scarf in the woods. It sounds like it's Tracey's. You weren't doing anything important, were you?"

The Old Wood, about two miles north of Vicarage Terrace, straggled over some four hundred acres. Clive and the inspector crashed and floundered in the dark between rows of wind-lashed, creaking skeleton trees as they tried to locate the two police constables who had found the scarf, and it was only by chance that Clive spotted the gleam of torches.

"Over there, sir."

The torches homed them in. "We said by the oak, sir," said one of the policemen reproachfully.

"I only know two sorts of trees," replied Frost, "big ones and little ones. Show us what you've found."

A flashlight was directed toward a bush where a flapping scarf, impaled on some thorns, resisted the efforts of the wind to pluck it off.

"How was this missed when the woods were covered before?" asked Frost, fingering the wool.

"It would take days to search this place thoroughly, sir, and they were looking for the girl, or her body. You tend to look on the ground."

"So, if she was up a tree, no one would spot her," remarked Frost. "Still, I'm glad it was missed. I was begin ning to think people who worked under Inspector Allen were infallible."

Clive was interested in the way the scarf was caught in the thorns. If he pulled it toward him, it would come off easily; tug it the other way and the thorns bit deeper.

"Assuming she was wearing the scarf when it was caught on the bush, sir, then she was moving in that direction." He demonstrated his theory to Frost who was most impressed.

"We'd already worked that out," muttered the younger of the police constables, jealous of this broken-nosed know-all.

"Then you shall have a sweet as well," said Frost, as he carefully unhooked the scarf and rammed it in his pocket. "Where does this lead?" He slithered down the path in the direction indicated by dive's theory.

"Careful, sir!" warned the young constable.

Frost stopped abruptly. The path suddenly veered to the left, and if he'd carried straight on he'd have plunged into the murky depths of Willow Lake.

The edge of the lake was not clearly definable, with overgrown vegetation from the path sprawling into the water. They carefully traversed the circumference, looking for tell-tale broken undergrowth. But if the child had crashed through to the water she'd left no trace.

Clive let the beam of his torch crawl across the black, sullen surface of the lake. The light picked out the glistening ripple of thin ice. In a couple of days it would be frozen solid.

"We'll have it dragged tomorrow, first thing," muttered Frost, rubbing at his scar which the cold had frozen into a knot of dead, hard flesh. "We knew the girl was in the woods, so it's no triumph finding her scarf… if it is her scarf. We'll call in on old Mother Uphill on the way back, son, and see if she can identify it."

The uniformed men were stamping their feet and flapping their arms. "We'll carry on looking then, Inspector?"

Frost nodded. "Yes. I'll try and get Control to send some more men to help you. I know it's bloody near impossible finding anything in this place in the dark, but another night in the open could kill her." He looked at the lake and shivered. "If she's not already dead…"

An expensive-looking car stood outside No. 29 Vicarage Terrace, and Clive had to park the Morris farther down the street. In the house opposite, Christmas-tree lights flashed on and off. Mrs. Uphill's door opened and a well-dressed man came out. He waved to the slim figure at the front door, entered the expensive car, and slid away into the dark.