So where were those bloody cigarettes? He worked his rage off on the desk drawer by jerking it out and was taken by surprise when it shot out easily, spilling its contents all over the floor.
Down on the knees of his flash trousers to pick them up. "Damn and sod the man," he cursed, chucking the useless junk back in the drawer. Bad enough to spend all day with the uncouth idiot without spending half the night as well.
One of the things that had fallen to the brown lino was curious. A blue box about the size of a packet of twenty cigarettes, with a crest embossed in gold on the front. It rattled when he shook it, so he peeped inside. A medal of some kind, in the shape of a cross and attached to a dark blue ribbon, nestled on a velvet bed. A long-service award perhaps. It was engraved "To Jack Edward Frost."
Clive tossed it in the drawer, found the cigarettes, and raced back to the car.
Stanley Farnham dumped the exercise books for marking on the hall table and picked up the letters from the mat. Two of them, one his monthly statement from Barclay-card, and the other… His pulse quickened. Hanging his overcoat in the hall closet he looked again at the envelope. It bulged. It must be the catalog he'd sent off for last week. Still in the hall, he ripped it open and pulled out the contents. Yes, a large catalog entitled Sex Aids and Sex Toys. He thumbed quickly through it. He would savor it at his leisure later, but just had to see… What's this? A price list for contraceptives, all makes, all colors, all nationalities. He pushed it aside impatiently; he couldn't work up much excitement for latex rubber-wear. A leaflet advertising books-Sexual Positions. This was more promising…
A warning bell inside him rang a fraction of a second before the doorbell screamed.
He wheeled round, nearly dropping the envelope. Two shadows through the frosted glass of the front door.
His heart banged and raced. The envelope! He stuffed it and the catalog into the shallow drawer of the hall table.
The bell shrilled again. A loud bang at the door.
"Who is it?"
"Police."
The police! Oh God… surely they weren't checking his mail? When the postman had handed him that packet last week, he had been sure there had been a knowing smirk on the man's face.
He fastened the chain on the door and opened it cautiously. He wasn't taking any chances. Sometimes men, pretending to be police officers…
"Mr. Stanley Farnham? Sorry to trouble you, sir. We're from Denton C.I.D. May we come in…?"
This was the elder of two men, a shabby-looking character with a scarred face. The other, much younger, wore a shortie overcoat over a flashy suit and seemed to have a broken nose. A right pair of thugs! He was thankful he'd thought to put the chain on.
He asked to see their warrant cards. This seemed to present some difficulty to the scarred man who spent ages fumbling through wodges of dog-eared papers, but the young man instantly produced a wallet which he flipped open. A brand-new, clean warrant card proclaimed him to be Detective Constable Barnard. Then the other man found his and held it alongside.
"Or if you want to see a dirty one…" he said.
Farnham unhooked the chain and ushered them quickly past the hall table and into the lounge.
"What's this all about? I've only just got in from the school."
Detective Inspector Frost hung his scarf on the back of a chair and sat down. The other man remained standing.
"Nice little place you've got here, sir." The inspector's eyes crawled around the tasteful room, taking in the block-mounted abstract prints, the tightly packed bookshelves, the Tippett Knot Garden recording on top of the stereo record player. "Nice and compact. You took your time answering the door?"
The accusation slipped out so silkily, Farnham wasn't ready with an answer. "Oh. I… I… I was doing something — "
A hard stare from the inspector. "How many rooms have you got here, sir?"
"Rooms? Oh… this room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom."
"Just enough," nodded Frost, approvingly. "No point in having more than you need. You don't mind if my col league from London has a look round, sir? Shouldn't take long."
Farnham felt a nerve in his face writhe and twitch. What were they looking for? What a fool he'd been sending for that stuff: it stood to reason that some of those advertisements had been bending the law.. that last book was positively pornograhic. It wasn't in the bookcase, thank God! The inspector's eyes were on him, watching that damn nerve pulsate and throb. Well, he wasn't going to make it easy for them; they'd have to drag him to the scaffold.
"Yes, I do mind. I'm not answering any questions without my solicitor."
Frost received this with benign equanimity. "Very wise, sir. Call him on the phone. We've plenty of time."
They were playing with him. Oh God, what if it was that other business? But they couldn't have found out. The room was closing in, he felt cornered; he wanted to run, to get away. Now he knew why the young detective had remained standing. He was blocking the door, preventing Farnham from getting out. They had him trapped. He was finding it difficult to breath. The inspector was staring at him.
"Are you all right, Mr. Farnham?"
"Yes, of course I'm all right." It was hot. The heat was stifling. He loosened his tie.
"You've nothing to hide, have you, sir?"
"Hide? Of course not. What… what is this all about?"
"You know a woman called Joan Uphill, Mr. Farnham?"
His heart skipped a beat. Surely they didn't know about her? "Uphill?" The face screwed in concentration. "No, I can't recall…."
"No. 29 Vicarage Terrace, Denton, sir. Thirty pounds a time, tea included."
He managed to look mystified. "I'm sorry, I don't know her."
Frost stood up and adjusted his scarf. "You'd better phone your solicitor, sir. We'd like you to meet the lady.
' She reckons you were with her yesterday afternoon. In view of what you say, she must be lying, so the sooner we sort it out-"
Farnham tried to light a cigarette, but his lighter wouldn't work. The detective produced his and waited patiently until the cigarette stopped shaking.
"All right. Yes, I do know Mrs. Uphill. What has happened to her?"
"Why should anything have happened to her, sir?"
"These women, they do get attacked, you know. But she was all right when I left her." The cigarette stuck to his lip and tore the skin. His tongue tasted salty blood.
"It's not the mother, sir. It's the daughter."
"Tracey?"
"You know her?"
"I've seen her once or twice. What about her?"
"You must surely know what's happened. It was on the news, in all the papers."
The younger man spoke. "There's your today's paper, sir." It was on the coffee table.
"Yes, but I haven't read it."
Frost reached for it and frowned. The crossword on the back page was completed. He showed it to Farnham, eyebrows raised.
"Yes, I do the crossword while I'm eating breakfast. I don't look at the front page, or the inside, until evening."
Frost turned the paper over, unfolded it and passed it to Farnham. The headline and photograph were half-way down on the right.
POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING GIRL.
Farnham's lips moved as he skimmed through the story.
"Good Lord! How terrible. I never knew…" He paused as the penny dropped. "You think she's here? You want to search because you think she's here?" The relief was overwhelming. "Go on then, search. I've got nothing to hide."
A nod from the inspector and Clive sidled out of the room. Frost settled back in his chair.
"You left Mrs. Uphill's about half-past four, sir. I sup pose you didn't meet Tracey coming out of Sunday school?"
"I didn't meet her.'I saw her, though."