Clive started the engine. "Back to the station, sir?"
No reply. Frost was deep in thought. Suddenly he snapped out of his trance. "Tell me, son, why the hell should anyone want to jemmy the front doors of a bank at three o'clock in the morning?"
"Eh?" said Clive, wondering what the hell this had to do with Tracey Uphill.
"Someone tried to jemmy the front door of Bennington's Bank in the Market Square in the wee small hours of this morning. I'm wondering why."
"To force an entry, sir?" suggested Clive, in the tones of one explaining the obvious to an idiot.
Frost snorted. "Through the front door of a bank? The big main doors?"
Clive tried again. "Perhaps someone just wanted to damage the door, someone with a grudge against the bank."
The inspector wasn't having this either. "You could do more damage peeing through the letterbox. Ah well, life has its little mysteries. Well, come on, son, what are we waiting for? Reverse and back out the way we came."
Barnard reversed. "Where are we going, sir?"
"To find this lucky sod with the beard, the appendix scar, and the weekly season ticket."
"And how are we going to do that?" persisted Clive.
1 Frost smiled and rearranged his scarf. "If he came by train, we start with the railway station. I'll tell you the way."
They passed a dark, gloomy building. Frost jerked a thumb. "That's the vicarage and Sunday school. The church is farther back."
"Looks a bit of a dump, sir."
"Yes. My wife's buried in the churchyard."
An uneasy silence as the journey proceeded, then: "Doing anything for Christmas, son?"
"I don't know yet, sir."
"I'm on duty Christmas Day. You can come on with me if you like."
Christ, thought Barnard, I'd rather have all my teeth out. Aloud he said, "I might have to go to my uncle's."
"Well, don't say I didn't offer," replied Frost. "Oh, we should have turned right at that crossing."
MONDAY-4
A taxi was parked on the railway station forecourt; there was no sign of the driver. Clive pulled up alongside and the two men got out. The sky was darkening and the wind had gathered strength since the morning.
The booking office was empty, the platforms deserted, no signs of porters or ticket collectors.
"The mystery of the Mary Celeste," murmured Frost, leading Clive past the ticket barrier to a door painted olive-green and marked "Staff Only". Voices bubbled gently from inside. The inspector quietly turned the handle and crashed the door open.
"All right-nobody move!"
A tiny room reeking of shag tobacco, over-stewed tea, and sweat. Four startled heads jerked to the door. A small bald man clutching an enormous brown-enameled teapot was the first to recognize the intruder.
"It's the bloody fuzz! They can't catch crooks, but they can smell a teapot a mile off." Then he smiled. "Come on in, Jack."
They squeezed in. The room now held six people and very little air. Apart from the detectives there were the three absent railwaymen-the bald teapot holder who was the booking office clerk, a fat ticket collector sucking at a spittle-soaked, homemade cigarette, and a gangling young apprentice porter in jeans and a railway cap wedged on top of lank, ragged hair. The fourth man wore horn-rimmed glasses and a beaming smile. He was the missing taxi-driver, in for a warm and a cup of tea.
Two battered enamel mugs were produced for the guests, blown free of dust, and filled with strong, viscous tea.
Frost introduced Clive as his smart young assistant from London.
"Just taking him around Denton to show him where all the toilets are," he explained. "Nothing worse for a rising young cop than to be taken short and caught peeing in the gutter." He pointed in the direction of the grimy window. "If you're ever in really dire straits, son, there's one at the end of the platform. You can find it easily in the summer because of the flies buzzing over it. These lazy sods, paid a king's ransom by British Rail, spend all their time guzzling tea instead of cleaning it out."
"We daren't go in for a week after you've used it," accused the bald booking clerk. "Anyway, what are you here for?"
Frost swallowed a mouthful of tea. "Were you lot on yesterday afternoon?" They nodded. "I'm trying to trace a man aged about thirty-five, bearded, travels here every Sunday, arriving around two o'clock. Travels back about four."
The fat ticket collector had a bout of coughing and splattered ash from his homemade cigarette over his waistcoat. "Vaguely remember him," he said.
"Light brown hair?" said a voice. "Dark coat and a scarf?" Frost wheeled round. It was the taxi-driver.
"I pick him up every Sunday, 2:15, regular as clockwork-apart from yesterday. He was an hour late. Said they'd canceled his usual train."
Frost rubbed his hands in delight. "Where did you take him?"
"Same place as always-top of Church Lane."
The inspector could have hugged himself. Church Lane was but a short distance from Vicarage Terrace and the rosy, mirrored ceiling of No. 29.
"That's the bloke." He turned to the railwaymen. "What station did he come from?"
"I don't know what station," said the lanky porter, "but the only train canceled yesterday was the 1:47 from Cranford, stopping at all stations."
"That's right," said the booking clerk. "The driver didn't turn up. The next train was the 2:47."
"I've got him!" said the ticket collector. "Bearded fellow… I've placed him now." He dived under the table and produced a large tin that once had held Huntley and Palmer's biscuits but was now filled with small packets containing the daily hauls of collected tickets. He rummaged and found a torn half of green pasteboard, which he handed to Frost. "That's his ticket!"
The outward half of a cheap day return from Lefington, a small village some twelve miles down the line.
A bang shook the door and it was crashed open by a bowler-hatted gentleman with a military mustache and a brick-red angry face. He glared at the tea party. "Isn't anyone on duty in the ticket office? I've been waiting more than five minutes."
"Just coming," said the bald man and bolted out after him.
"Bloody passengers," observed Frost. "They seem to think the railway's run for their benefit. Well, we're getting somewhere. We know he came from Lefington. Do you remember him going back?"
The fat porter scratched his head. "He usually caught the 4:33, but I swear he wasn't on it yesterday."
"He was an hour late," said Frost. "What time was the next one?"
"The 533-but he wasn't on that either. We only had one passenger for that-a woman."
"Hardly worth keeping the bloody station open," snorted Frost. "What train did he catch, then?"
The porter shrugged. "We went off duty at six," he said, slamming the door on any further progress in that direction.
But Frost had enough to go on. Lefington was a small village and the booking clerk there should recognize the man from the detailed description. But what- had he done after he'd left Mrs. Uphill? Seemingly he was in no hurry to use the return half of his ticket. But find him first. As soon as they got back to the office he'd teleprint Lefington sub-division and get them to follow it up.
A train rattled through the station and sped on its way. The railwaymen consulted pocketwatches and nodded. The train was on time.
Then Frost realized he hadn't reported back to Inspector Allen after interviewing the mother. Blimey, that'll bring the pains on, he thought.
"Come on, son-work to do."
Clive, who was being told by the young porter that his suit was fab, drank the remains of his tea and buttoned his coat.
Frost protected his neck with a couple of tight turns of the scarf and opened the door. Outside it was cold. Very cold.
By four o'clock it was too dark to continue and reluctantly, but sensibly, Detective Inspector Allen issued instructions for the search to be called off for the day. He sat alone at a corner table in the canteen with its green and gold Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling and watched the tired, cold men returning to join the shuffling queue for hot, strong tea. The hissing of the urn and the clangor of cups and cutlery almost drowned the low-key dispirited conversations.