DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

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."

MONDAY (2)

    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 £107, 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