Frost at Christmas

MONDAY-1

Superintendent Mullett, Commander, Denton Division, give a warning toot on his horn and gently coasted his new blue Jaguar into the crowded police car park. At a few minutes past eight on a cold and dark Monday morning the parking area should have been an expanse of emptiness dotted with the odd car belonging to members of the morning shift, but today it was tightly crammed with a congestion of assorted vehicles: army trucks, a hired coach, the mobile canteen from county headquarters, and two small vans which, at first, Mullett did not recognize until the petulant whinings and yappings from within told him they were the dog handler's transport.

The search party had assembled.

Mullett permitted himself a brief smile of satisfaction. To arrive at this early hour and see proof of the efficient way his phoned orders of late last night had been carried out was indeed a tribute to the efficiency of the division and its commander. His smile froze and changed to a frown of intense irritation when he saw that one of the wretched army trucks had commandeered his parking space. Couldn't the fools read? Good Lord, it was clearly narked in bold white paint "Reserved for Divisional Commander" and was regarded as a sacrosanct place by his own men. Raging inwardly at the stupidity of army drivers, he rammed his car into the first vacant space he found, jammed between the hired coach that had brought in men from a neighboring division and a wall. Too late, he realized it would require some tricky reversing if he were not to mar the gleaming blue paint of his day-old car.

In foul temper he snatched up the black leather briefcase from the rear seat, remembering in time to open the door carefully so it wouldn't crash into the wall, and picked his way through the maze of vehicles to the side street from which he could reach the main entrance of the police station. A rear entrance led directly from the car park, but kings and princes didn't sneak in through back doors and neither did divisional commanders.

The uniformed man on duty in the lobby sprang to attention and snapped him a smart salute. Mullett acknowledged it curtly and moved briskly on, noting that the man was already on the phone to warn the station sergeant of his arrival.

Outside his office his triumphant entry was temporarily halted by one of the cleaning women who was sloshing buckets of disinfectant-tainted water over the stone flags of the corridor. He coughed pointedly and had to wait while she cleared a damp path for him with her mop, pushing back the water as the Red Sea was parted for Moses on another historic occasion.

Mullett's office provided the only touch of splendor in the entire Victorian workhouse of a building. Its walls were paneled in veneered wood like a boardroom, the floor spread with a thick, pale blue Wilton carpet on which sat a splendid "senior-executive-model" desk in satin mahogany and black. He couldn't understand his counterparts in other divisions who boasted of the meanness of their own offices, thereby degrading their positions. Senior men in industry had the trappings to go with the job, so why not the police?

He opened the clothes cupboard cleverly concealed behind the paneling and hung up his London-tailored overcoat. His reflection in the full-length door mirror restored his good humor. The image before him was indeed something to be regarded with unrestrained approval: a tall, straight-backed figure, glossy black hair with a chiseled parting, commanding eyes, a neatly clipped military mustache, and a complexion glowing with health and good living. And to set. it off, the immaculate fit of the police uniform, its buttons winking and gleaming, the creases lethal, and the shoes, black mirrors. At forty-two years old he looked more like a successful stockbroker than a superintendent of police controlling an area of some thirty-eight square miles and 100,000 inhabitants.

The cupboard door closed and became once again part of the wall paneling. Something caught his eye. On his desk, tucked into the corner of the blotting pad, an envelope. The typing, in red capitals, said "Strictly Private and Confidential". He slit it open with his stainless-steel paper knife, slipped on his horn-rimmed glasses, and read it. His eyes hardened. He dropped down into his chair and read it again.

It was trouble. A complaint against one of his officers, Detective Inspector Frost.

He thudded the satin mahogany with a clenched fist. Damn the man; nothing but trouble from the start. He'd have him out of the division tomorrow if he could. He looked at his watch. Nearly time for the briefing meeting; Frost would have to wait. The letter was refolded along its original creases, replaced in the envelope, and locked in the top right-hand drawer of his desk.

He rang for Miss Smith, his secretary, but of course she wasn't in yet. Mullett's usual hours were from 10:00 a.m. until 6:30 p.m. Today was different, with the briefing meeting at 8:15 and the Chief Constable's nephew reporting for duty at 9:00. The Chief Constable's nephew… Mullett permitted himself a smug smile of satisfaction. With his future promotion in the balance it would do him no harm to have the division under the old man's careful eye. His musings were interrupted by a polite tap at the door. Bill Wells, station sergeant for the morning shift, entered.

"Ah, Sergeant Wells. Come in. Sit down."

Wells perched himself on the edge of a chair. He found Mullett's wood-lined office overpowering. A sad-faced, balding man of thirty-eight, he'd been in the force for seventeen years and had been a sergeant for the past six. He despaired of ever making inspector.

Mullen leaned forward. "Nothing on the girl, I suppose?"

The sergeant's sad face went even sadder. "No, sir."

"It's been sixteen hours, Sergeant. Too long, far too long."

"Sixteen hours of darkness, sir; we need the daylight."

Mullett nodded grudgingly and consulted his window. It was just about light enough now, and by four o'clock it would be too dark again. But with luck they would find the kid long before then. He dealt with one or two minor problems raised by the sergeant, then reached for his briefcase to go to the meeting. He remembered the letter of complaint festering in his drawer.

"Is Detective Inspector Frost in the briefing room, Sergeant?"

"No, sir," said Wells, putting his chair back against the wall. "He hasn't arrived yet."

Typical, thought Mullett. Everyone else gets here on time, but Frost… Masking his anger with a tight smile, he sighed audibly. "Ah well, we'll just have to start without him, won't we?" As he moved to the door, Wells cleared his throat.

"You won't be needing me at the meeting then, sir?" It was a rhetorical question. He'd already been told he wasn't wanted. Woundingly hurtful, but it didn't surprise him. He had no doubt at all that it was Mullett who'd been blocking his promotions from going through, and excluding him from the meeting was clearly the commander's way of keeping him in his place.

Sensing the man's resentment, Mullett was lavish with reassurances. "I wish I could spare you, Sergeant, but I can't. I must have someone I can trust to keep the station running. Which reminds me, I've got an important job for you."

Sergeant Wells looked up expectantly.

"You might pass the word to our army friends that they are not to use my parking space. One of their damn lorries is parked there and they couldn't have missed the sign."

A reassuring smile and he was gone, leaving Wells nothing to do but swear silently at the vacated "senior-executive" desk.

The briefing room was packed. Extra chairs had been brought in, but even so, one or two latecomers had to stand at the back.

A thick haze of cigarette smoke rolled round the room like a Baker Street fog. The low murmur of nervous conversation stopped and all assembled jumped to their feet as the Divisional Commander breezed into the room.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Good to see such a full turnout. Please sit down."

Those with chairs sat. Mullett looked around the room as he extracted some papers from his briefcase. Most people there he recognized, the majority being from his own division, including those called back from their rest day. No sign of Detective Inspector Frost, he noted grimly. A friendly nod to the army officers whose men, including the usurper of his parking space, would be stoking up on tea and sandwiches in the upstairs canteen. Those two chaps in the corner would be the dog handlers from the police kennels at Rushfield, but who was that red-faced man smiling at him? Oh yes, a detective sergeant from one of the neighboring divisions whose commander had spared so many of his hard-pressed personnel to join the search for Tracey Uphill.

"I won't keep you long. We're not short of help, for which I thank you, but we will be short of daylight. She's been missing now for over sixteen hours. If you heard the weather forecast this morning you'll know we're due for some very severe weather. So we've got to find her quickly. It won't be an easy search. We've got woodlands, lakes, a canal, gravel pits, derelict houses, builders' sites-a thousand and one places where a child could be concealed. We will have to be methodical, not haphazard. For that reason, I have put Detective Inspector Allen in charge of the operation. And as he is in charge, I will now shut up and let him take over."

Some forced laughter at this mild joke and a shifting of positions on the hard wooden seats. Mullett moved democratically to the chair left for him in the corner of, the front row and sat with his chin on his knuckles and his brow furrowed to show he was giving his full attention to everything Detective Inspector Allen was saying.

Allen was lean, wiry, and inflexibly tough, with sparse hair above a thin-lipped gaunt face. His flights of humor never soared higher than biting sarcasm. Coldly efficient, he was universally hated as a man but grudgingly admired as a first-rate detective. He jabbed a bony finger at a wall map of the district.

"I've divided the area into sections. We'll start at the most likely places near the child's home and work out from there. As the Divisional Commander has pointed out, it's a tricky area to search, so we're going to have to be bloody methodical. You will be allocated an area to search. When you have finished you will report in to me at Search Control. You will not move on to a fresh area until instructed by me to do so." He glanced at his watch. "Time's against us, so I'll be brief. I'll just let you know the forces we'll have at our disposal. Apart from yourselves we've been promised another hundred men from the army camp. We're already got a few civilian volunteers and we'll be appealing for more if necessary. The local fire brigade has pledged us a dozen or so men and at nine o'clock there'll be a party of sixth-formers from the local comprehensive school. Enough people to get in everybody's way and sod the whole thing up, which is why you must pander to my megalomania and do exactly what I tell you to do."

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."