R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Frost was shaking the wrist. "Look at this, Constable." The young man raised his eyes from the notebook. "Have you ever seen such a soft, warm hand? Look at these long, sensitive fingers. A really beautiful hand, that is, Mick. How many knicker legs has it slipped inside, eh?" Hoskins tried to pull free, but was held firm. "How many warm young thighs has that explored, eh Mick?"

"Stop it!" This time he managed to snatch his hand away. He massaged the white pressure marks of Frost's fingers.

"Getting you excited, is it?"

"No, of course not." Time for a cigarette. His hand shook as he lit it.

Frost rose from his chair and walked round the table to stand behind him. "Did you have a go at her on Sunday, Mick? Did she like it? Did you like her?"

Almost a scream. "Stop it! I never saw her on Sunday."

"You don't have to shout, Mick." The voice now gentle. "You can lie just as well in a quiet voice. You haven't been in your digs since Sunday."

"So? It's not a crime, is it?"

"Afraid to go back after what you did? Come on, Mick, tell us. Have the thrill of telling, then you can live it all again. What did you do to her?"

Mickey sucked at the cigarette, then blinked up at his tormenter. "I want my solicitor."

"You have but to ask, Mick," said Frost with a friendly smile. He picked up the phone, dialed for an outside line, then handed the receiver to the huddled man.

Hoskins took it, poked his finger toward the dial, then, almost in tears with frustration, slammed it back on its rest.

"You know I haven't got a solicitor," he bleated petulantly. "I've got no money. Only the rich can afford the law."

Frost nodded his agreement. "We live in an unfair society, Mick. Still, I bet the richest man in the world hasn't been up as many knicker legs as you. But back to the old police persecution. I want to know about Sunday. Come on, give us a cheap thrill."

Mickey thought for a while then asked for a cigarette. Frost gave him one. He took two deep drags, then he spoke. "I didn't think she'd mind. Some of them don't-they lap it up, they love it. She was sitting on her own, so I moved over and sat next to her."

The inspector frowned. "Where was this?"

It was Mickey's turn to look puzzled. "The pictures. The Century Cinema in Lexton. That's what you're on about, isn't it?"

Frost assured him that it was, wondering how the hell eight-year-old Tracey Uphill could have got over to Lexton and into the Century Cinema on her own. "So you sat next to her…?"

"Yes. Like I said, I didn't think she'd mind. She let me get my hand right up her leg before she screamed. If she didn't want it, why didn't she complain earlier?"

"Perhaps she didn't want to miss a good bit of the film, Mick," suggested Frost. Then he saw that the young constable was trying to attract his attention. He went over to him.

"This incident," the young man whispered, "it's been reported-a man tried to molest a woman, she screamed, he hit her in the face, breaking her nose. There was a chase. They nearly got him when he couldn't get the exit doors open, but he burst through. The woman was about thirty, sir. He's not talking about Tracey."

Thirty years old? Mickey's hands usually favored much fresher meat. At the other side of the room their suspect strained his ears, wondering what they were whispering about. Frost patted the constable on the arm and returned.

"Sorry about that, Mick-he just wanted to know how to spell 'dirty bastard'. You broke her nose, you know. Why? A bit vicious wasn't it?"

"Vicious? Vicious?" The voice rose by a major third. "She was the vicious one. Look!" He thrust out his left hand to show the blistered, inflamed area on the back of the wrist. "She did that. She clamped her legs tight to trap my hand then brought her lighted cigarette down on it. I had to hit her to get away."

Frost stroked his own scar. "Very nasty, Mick. Could have ruined you professionally for life. Come to think of it, someone did say there was a smell of roast pork. But the old dear was pushing thirty. A bit ancient for you, wasn't she?"

Mickey drew down his lips and shrugged. "Needs must when the Devil drives, Inspector. It was a restricted admission program. They don't let kids in to see those films. In the old days you had good clean family entertainment, but this stuff today… it's filth… pure, unadulterated filth."

Frost nodded his agreement and went across to the police constable. "Keep an eye on him, son, would you? I'll send someone in to take his statement. If he was touching up in the Century at six o'clock, I can't see him having anything to do with Tracey, but we'll keep him in mind, just incase."

Back to the table. "I'm sending someone else in to take your statement, Mickey. Can't do it myself, I get too excited when I hear about thighs and knickers and things. I can't hold the pencil steady. Oh, I'd better take this." He picked up the photograph.

"Hold on a minute," Hoskins took the photograph from him and studied it through magnified eyes. "Here… this is that missing kid-Tracey Uphill. You surely didn't think that I…?"

"I had to ask, Mick-you'd have been offended otherwise."

"She's only eight years old." The voice quivered with indignation. "I've never touched a kid under ten in my life-well, not knowingly, anyway."

Outside the interview room Frost grabbed Bill Wells, the station sergeant, who said he'd be pleased to take Hoskins' statement. They talked about old Sam, the tramp, a character who'd been in and out of the station's cells for years and who was now stiff and cold in the morgue and cleaner than he'd ever been in his life. "It's funny," observed the sergeant. "I hated the bloke, he stank and was no bloody good, but I feel choked knowing he's dead. By the way, the new chap's waiting for you in your office."

Frost frowned. What new chap? Oh-of course, young Barnard. He'd sent him to talk to Mrs. Uphill about the PS2000. There were so many things on his mind. There was the bank door business. That worried him. And the old tramp's dying. Then he had to meet Sandy Lane in the pub for a drink. And there was something else. It was important. He should keep notes, but then he'd forget to look at them. Blimey, yes! Old Mother Wendle, the witch of the woods. He had to ask her to get the spirits to tell him where the kid was. Now he'd remembered what it was, he felt happier. But first, let's see what young Barnard had got from the juicy Mrs. Uphill, the best thirty quid's worth east of Suez.

He trotted down the stone corridor to his office. Somewhere an outer door had been left open and a blast of cold air roared along the passage. He glanced through a window. Still no let-up in the snow, the sky was black, with plenty to come down. Barely twelve o'clock, and every light in the place was on.

Frost read the note again.

It had arrived at Mrs. Uphill's with the first postal delivery. The postmark on the cheap brown envelope showed it had been collected from the main Denton post office in the Market Square at 6:15 the night before. Inside was a sheet of paper which could have been a page torn from a child's exercise book. The writing was in laboriously printed block capitals written with a smudgy ballpoint pen. At first Mrs. Uphill had denied its existence-TELL THE POLICE AND I KILL HER-but Clive had convinced her that she must co-operate. "Don't worry, Mrs. Uphill. Just leave everything to us."

Frost took the page carefully by the edges and held it to the light, looking for a watermark. He dropped the sheet on to his desk.

"No watermark, son-not that it would mean anything to me if there was one." He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms in a yawn. "Better get it over to Forensic. They'll be able to tell us when the paper was made, the precise location of the pulping mill, when the tree was chopped down, and the exact chemical composition of the ball-point ink. Then they'll put their findings in a twenty-page report which some poor sod will have to read, but they won't be the slightest help in telling us who wrote the bloody thing."