The meeting finally died horribly. The Chief Constable had taken Mullett quietly to one side and suggested that he ought to get a little more involved in detail instead of leaving everything to others. And as a parting shot he had made that ridiculous suggestion about the spiritualist woman. A shameful, degrading morning and all because of that untidy shuffling figure before him.
He fixed Frost with an icy stare. "We started the meeting without you, Inspector-your meeting, your briefing meeting. I hope you didn't mind? We waited twenty minutes in case you decided to come, but had to go ahead. Everyone else was there on time, you'll be glad to know, including the Chief Constable." He paused to compose himself as the bitter recollection of his humiliation fueled the flames of his fury.
Frost composed his face into what he hoped was an expression of penitent contrition and did his best to look attentive while switching off his ears. He could kick himself for missing the lousy meeting, but all the screaming and shouting in the world wouldn't put it right now. And look at Mullett, his mouth opening and shutting, his eyes popping, just like a bloody fish. Anyway, it was just as well he hadn't turned up if the Chief Constable had been there, with all the others toadying up to him, lighting his fags, fetching his tea, laughing at his jokes, and making polite conversation, while he, Frost, would have been stuck in the corner seat at the back, deeply conscious of the fact that his suit hadn't been pressed for a week.
Mullett droned on, his face getting redder and redder.
Blimey! thought Frost-the Bank! He'd nipped in there for some cash, but the sight of Mrs. Uphill with her two thousand in used bills had driven it clean from his mind. All he had on him was a few pence and he was meeting Sandy Lane in the pub at lunch time. He wondered if he could chance his arm and tap Mullett for a couple of quid until the afternoon, but felt that the moment was not opportune. Mullett was thumping his fist on his desk, reaching the climax of his tirade. Frost opened his ears slightly to let the sound slowly creep in.
"… just not good enough. And if it happens again I shall make a personal request to the Chief Constable for you to be transferred away from this division. Do I make myself clear?"
The inspector fought back a near irresistible urge to say "Sorry, sir, what was that? — I wasn't listening", but didn't want to be the only one laughing so he nodded with as chastened and earnestly repentant a look as he could muster.
His hangdog expression was so good that even Mullett was touched, thinking, Poor devil, losing his wife like that must have a lot to do with it. Time to let him off the hook.
"What were you doing this morning?"
Frost told him about dragging the lake and searching the vicarage.
Mullett pressed his mustache into place. "That's another thing, Inspector. Now you're in charge I don't expect you to be doing house searches yourself. I want you doing the paperwork, controlling the operation."
"Yes, sir. Oh-something else. Mrs. Uphill withdrew PS2000 in five-pound notes from her bank this morning."
"Did she?" exclaimed Mullett. "A ransom demand do you think?"
"More than likely, sir. I've sent young Barnard down to her house to chat her up about it."
"Barnard! His second day with the division and you sent him? You should have gone yourself."
"Yes, sir, but on the basis of whatever I did was wrong, I decided to send him and obey your summons to see you. By the way, we've picked up Mickey Hoskins. He's in the interview room. I thought I'd question him-if that's all right with you, of course."
"It's your case, Inspector," said Mullett, ignoring the sarcasm. "Er… there was one thing the Chief Constable suggested… might be worth following up. I said we would, as a matter of fact, even though it's a little unusual…" He seemed embarrassed and fiddled with his paperknife, looking anywhere but at Frost. "It seems the Chief Constable is interested in spiritualism. Did you know that?"
"I heard he was a bit cranky, sir, but I didn't know in which direction."
"Er… yes. His wife is a leading light in their local spiritualist church. It's quite a thing these days I understand. I must confess, I used to scoff in the past, but now…"
But now you know the Chief Constable's wife is interested, thought Frost.
"There's a woman called Martha Wendle. Do you know her?"
"I know of her, sir. A weird old cow-always writing to say she can get the spirits to solve our cases for us."
Mullett smiled tolerantly. "We shouldn't shut our eyes to things just because we can't understand them, Inspector. She's supposed to have second sight-like that Dutch chap who helps the police in Holland." The superintendent found an interesting piece of graining on his desk, top and followed it with his finger. "The chief wants… sug gests… er… feels we should see this woman. Ask if she can help us find Tracey Uphill. It can't do any harm… after all, you've no positive lead at the moment."
Frost's jaw crashed. "You mean we're to ask the bloody ghosts to help us?"
Mullett showed his palms. "I know it's a bit… unorthodox.. but a Chief Constable's entitled to his whims, so let's humor him! Just go along and see her… I… er…" He showed his teeth. "I told him you'd see her yourself and make it a number-one priority."
He rose from his chair to signify the interview was over. The great thing after tearing chaps off a strip was to end on a happy note, show them you were behind them. He gave Frost's arm a little squeeze. "Cheer up… er… Jack… it's not the end of the world."
He carried on with his letter-signing as Frost slouched out. From Miss Smith's office he heard a startled cry of annoyance, a guffaw from Frost who said, "How's that for center, Ida?" He wondered what it was all about.
Mickey Hoskins lit another cigarette. He didn't want it, it tasted hot and bitter, and the ones he had already smoked had coated his mouth with thick acidy nicotine, but he had to do something. He'd been in this damned interview room for over half an hour, just waiting. It was all part of the softening-up process, of course, to get you jumpy, twitchy, wondering how much they knew. Well, he wasn't going to let it affect him.
But he wished he had something to do. Just sitting in this miserable room with its dull green walls and the tiny window too high to see out of. But, at least it was warm. These coppers sure liked their warmth. A cylinder of ash dropped from his cigarette. How many had he left? He checked. One! And he was saving that for the interview. With a cigarette in his hand he felt better. It gave him something to do, time to think when the questions got a bit too near the mark.
But how much longer had he to wait? They had no right to keep him here against his will. He hadn't been charged, he could just stand up and walk out of that door and into the street and they couldn't do anything to stop him. He'd give them five minutes and not a second more. Twelve minutes later Inspector Frost breezed in wearing the same battered suit Mickey remembered from years past.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mickey boy, but I've got so many ventures of great pith and moment on the boil, I completely forgot about you."
A young uniformed man slid in after him and stood by the door. Frost dragged a chair from under the table and sat opposite Mickey who blinked at him warily through those thick lenses.
"Right, Mickey. First of all I must have a fag." He lit one slowly, but didn't offer the packet, then he took a photograph from his inside pocket and laid it face down on the table. He pushed it over to the other man with his forefinger.
"Turn it over, Mick."
Mickey regarded Frost suspiciously, then looked down at the blank back of the photograph. What trick was this?
"What is it?"
"Turn it over and look."
Gingerly he flipped it over. It showed a young girl, a schoolgirl, in color. She looked vaguely familiar. He screwed his face. Was it one of his? He couldn't remember.