"We'll have it dragged tomorrow, first thing," muttered Frost, rubbing at his scar which the cold had frozen into a knot of dead, hard flesh. "We knew the girl was in the woods, so it's no triumph finding her scarf… if it is her scarf. We'll call in on old Mother Uphill on the way back, son, and see if she can identify it."
The uniformed men were stamping their feet and flapping their arms. "We'll carry on looking then, Inspector?"
Frost nodded. "Yes. I'll try and get Control to send some more men to help you. I know it's bloody near impossible finding anything in this place in the dark, but another night in the open could kill her." He looked at the lake and shivered. "If she's not already dead…"
An expensive-looking car stood outside No. 29 Vicarage Terrace, and Clive had to park the Morris farther down the street. In the house opposite, Christmas-tree lights flashed on and off. Mrs. Uphill's door opened and a well-dressed man came out. He waved to the slim figure at the front door, entered the expensive car, and slid away into the dark.
Frost called out so she wouldn't close the door. She waited as they walked briskly up the path.
"A client?" Frost jerked his head to the departing visitor.
She gave a little shrug. "I've got to live."
She showed them into the lounge, which smelt richly of cigar smoke, and lit a cigarette from the box on the mantelpiece. She daren't ask them why they had come in case the answer was what she dreaded to hear.
Frost produced the scarf from his pocket and handed it to her without a word.
The color drained from her face and she sat down heavily. "It's Tracey's." Her finger found a hole in the wool. "I was going to mend it, but there was never time." Then she buried her face in her hands and her body shook. "I wish I could cry," she said, "I wish I could cry."
"We haven't found her yet," explained Frost. He told her about Tracey following Audrey Harding and her boyfriend into the wood. "We've got men searching there tonight and we'll be mounting a full-scale search at first light tomorrow."
Her face was expressionless. She knew the wood, she knew the lake, she knew what the weather was like. Her finger wouldn't stop worrying the hole in the scarf. The two men didn't know what to say and words of assurance would have sounded hollow anyway, so it was almost a relief when the shrill trill of the telephone shattered the brittle silence.
A flicker of apprehension as she forced herself to walk across the room to answer it. She listened without expression then carefully replaced the receiver.
"Obscene call?" asked Frost.
"The sixth today."
"There's a lot of rotten bastards about. Would you like us to have your calls intercepted?"
She shook her head. "I can put up with them. I've heard a lot worse that that."
"If it gets too bad," said Clive, gently prising the scarf from her reluctant fingers, "let us know."
The scarf was gone but her fingers were still working as if finding that hole. Frost and Barnard let themselves out, and left her huddled in the armchair, looking small, helpless, and so alone.
Clive turned on the ignition. "She shouldn't be on her own, sir. Someone should stay the night with her."
"Are you volunteering?" asked Frost. "I'll sub you the thirty quid if you are short."
The detective constable savagely slammed the car around the corner and said nothing for the rest of the journey.
"She identified the scarf, Sarge," yelled Frost as they bustled through the lobby.
Another shift had taken over and it was a bearded station sergeant Clive had not yet met who waved a hand in acknowledgment. Clive was relieved that Frost did not pause for introductions. He had met so many people that day his head was spinning with a blur of half-remembered faces and names. Tomorrow, Bill Wells and the original shift would take over again. It was like seeing a very long film around to the point where you came in, a long time ago…
When they reached the door of the station control room, Frost suddenly stopped dead and, finger to lips, signaled Clive to silence. Cautiously, he eased open the door. The controller, P.C. Philip Ridley, was bent over a microphone, relaying a message to a police car. Frost tiptoed in and crossed stealthily to the corner where returned personal radios were being recharged from the mains. A quick look to make certain he was undetected and he pulled down the issues book from a shelf. He found the entry for the personal radio issued to him a few days earlier and with consummate skill forged a signature acknowledging its return. Replacing the book he tiptoed out. The controller, still at the microphone, was completely unaware that he had had a visitor.
"Fine bloody copper he is," murmured Frost, grabbing dive's arm and hustling him down the corridor. "A spot of forgery, son," he explained. "I had a set pinched from my car and I daren't let anyone know so I've just put the records straight."
Their next port of call was Search Control where a tired Detective Sergeant Martin had just finished working out schedules and instructions, to be presented to the various search parties at the next morning's briefing meeting. He showed them to the inspector who pretended to understand them and handed them back with vigorous noises of approval.
"What about the dragging party, George, for Willow Lake?"
Martin confirmed it was laid on for eight o'clock in the morning, adding, "We could only scrape up another three men to help search the wood. Most of our chaps have worked double shifts as it is."
"Fair enough," said Frost, tagging Tracey's scarf and locking it in a cupboard. "I'll look in on them later to see how they're getting on."
Martin paused in the act of buttoning his thick overcoat. "By the way, Jack, Mr. Mullett was in earlier screaming blue murder because someone had smashed the back of his brand-new Jaguar."
Frost's face expressed over-exaggerated concern. "Tut tut-I hope they catch the bastard who did it."
"He left a note on your desk," Martin added.
"Christ!" said Frost, and this time the concern was real.
The note, written in the Divisional Commander's firm hand, read:
County H.Q. advise me they have not received your crime statistics. I have promised them they will get them tomorrow morning, without fail. M.
Frost flopped into his chair. "Interfering sod. If he's promised them, he should do them. Did you get those figures out, son?"
Clive reminded the inspector that he was told to leave them.
Frost sniffed. "You may find this hard to believe, son, but there are some rotten sods who don't do their statistical returns the proper, honest way. They cheat by doing this," and he picked up the phone and dialed his opposite number in a neighboring division.
"Hello, Charlie-Jack. Of course my watch hasn't stopped. I'm still working and bloody hard, too. You done your crime statistics? Good, what was the trend, up or down? Seven per cent up? Disgraceful, you should be ashamed of yourself. Ours? About the same. Here, did I tell you the joke about the bloke who drunk the spittoon for a bet? Oh
… Well, cheers. If I don't speak to you before, have a nice Christmas."
He replaced the receiver with a triumphant flourish.
"The figures are up 7 per cent son, so we find last month's return, we up the answers by 7 per cent, and we're home and dry. This is the wrong way to do them, of course, and must never in any circumstances be used unless you are sure you can get away with it."
It took them an hour. The job could have been done quicker, but Frost, working out 7 per cents on the backs of old envelopes, kept getting a different answer from Clive and had to do his calculations again before he could agree. "I'm better at sums once I know the answer I'm aiming for," he explained, licking the gummed label that addressed the return to County Headquarters. "How's the time, son?"
Clive screwed the sleep from his eyes and looked at his watch. "Nearly midnight, sir." He'd been on duty for fifteen hours.