Frost read the note again.
I HAVE GOT YOUR DAUGHTER TRACEY UPHILL IF YOU WANT TO SEE HER ALIVE GET PS2000 IN USED FIVE-POUND NOTES AND WAIT BY YOUR PHONE FOR INSTRUCTIONS TELL THE POLICE AND I KILL HER.
It had arrived at Mrs. Uphill's with the first postal delivery. The postmark on the cheap brown envelope showed it had been collected from the main Denton post office in the Market Square at 6:15 the night before. Inside was a sheet of paper which could have been a page torn from a child's exercise book. The writing was in laboriously printed block capitals written with a smudgy ballpoint pen. At first Mrs. Uphill had denied its existence-TELL THE POLICE AND I KILL HER-but Clive had convinced her that she must co-operate. "Don't worry, Mrs. Uphill. Just leave everything to us."
Frost took the page carefully by the edges and held it to the light, looking for a watermark. He dropped the sheet on to his desk.
"No watermark, son-not that it would mean anything to me if there was one." He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms in a yawn. "Better get it over to Forensic. They'll be able to tell us when the paper was made, the precise location of the pulping mill, when the tree was chopped down, and the exact chemical composition of the ball-point ink. Then they'll put their findings in a twenty-page report which some poor sod will have to read, but they won't be the slightest help in telling us who wrote the bloody thing."
Clive slid the envelope and letter into a large transparent pocket and made out a requisition for a forensic report.
A brisk knock at the door and Mullett entered, his gleaming tailor-made uniform shaming Frost's office into looking even drabber.
"I hear through the grapevine there's a ransom note, Inspector."
"I was just about to bring it in to you, sir," said Frost, who had had no intention of so doing.
The glasses were pushed on the nose and Mullett read the note through the transparent cover. "Better get this over to Forensic."
"Good idea," said Frost. "Would you do that, son?"
Mullett looked for a chair to sit on, but they were both stacked with unreplaced files. Typical… absolutely typical. "What's your next move, Inspector?"
"I'm having her phone wired so we can listen in to her calls-so if you're one of her regulars, sir, I'd lay off for a while."
Mullett's face tightened. He didn't think that the least bit funny.
"Hmm… I suppose you can't make firm plans until you know the arrangements the kidnapper requires for the hand-over of the money. Now this note… do you think it's genuine? Do you think he's really got the girl?"
"I think it's genuine," said Clive, and Mullett beamed in his direction.
"So do I." Then, remembering Frost hadn't answered, "Inspector…?"
Frost pulled a face. "I'm probably wrong-I usually am-but if she was kidnapped on Sunday, then why the hell did he wait until Monday night before posting his ransom note?"
"The kidnapper may not have had any envelopes and had to wait until Monday to buy them," suggested Clive.
"My thoughts exactly," agreed Mullett. "He may not have had any stamps, either."
"Or a ballpoint pen," added Frost.
Not sure if this was sarcasm or not, Mullett gave a wintry smile and left.
"Stupid bastard," snorted Frost as the door closed. "Send it to Forensic! What did he think we were going to do with it-wipe our arses on it? Well, nip it along to the post room, son, then get the chap in Control to send a civilian technician over to bug her phone. Tell them to send. someone who hasn't got three tenners to spare. I want a quick and thorough job. And then get back here-we're meeting Sandy in the pub for lunch.''
As he waited for the detective constable to return he tidied up the latest batch of papers that had landed on his desk. There was a file Inspector Allen had been working on concerning a series of thefts at a local electronics factory. He'd have to look at that some time. Then he found a note in his own hand scribbled on the back of an old envelope. It said "Check Aunt-Tea". He wasted the rest of the time until dive's return puzzling out what the hell it meant, finally giving up as a bad job.
"I've ordered the lunch," said Sandy. "Now what do you want to drink-whiskey?"
"You'd better make it beers," answered the inspector, "we haven't got any information for you."
The beers came with the curry. It wasn't very good curry, doubtful chunks of gristle in a violent yellow sauce, bedded down on gray rice.
"I'm paying," said Sandy.
"I should hope so," said Frost, eyeing his plate with grave suspicion.
The reporter slipped in his leading question. "I understand Mrs. Uphill drew a packet out of her bank today."
Clive fired a glance at the inspector. How the hell did Sandy know that? Frost didn't bat an eyelid; he chewed solidly on a lump of rubbery meat.
"If this is chicken curry, I've got one of the claws," he announced gloomily.
"Come off it, Jack, " persisted the reporter. "Give me a break. I've spent my entire expense allowance on this lunch. We haven't got the resources of the big London dailies you know."
Frost pushed his plate away and rinsed the taste down with beer. "Did I tell you the joke about the bloke who drank the spittoon for a bet?"
"Yes-what delightful bloody table talk you've got.
Now come on, Jack. She drew out two thousand quid-why?"
"Ask your mate in the bank," said Frost, lighting a cigarette. "I'm sorry, Sandy, as soon as there's anything I can give you, you'll have it. You don't deserve it for such a stinking lunch, but you might find something interesting in tomorrow's Magistrate's Court. Mickey Hoskins. He touched up some female in the pictures and she gave him a different sort of thrill from what he expected by stubbing her fag out on his hand."
Sandy brightened up and scribbled a note in his diary. "A crumb, but acceptable."
Frost sipped his beer. "I wish our canteen tea was as warm as this." Then he put his glass down and nudged Sandy. "The bird in the leopard-skin coat-don't look round so obviously-at the bar."
The reporter swiveled his eyes. "Cynthia Collard," he whispered and Frost nodded in confirmation. Clive eased his head round to see who they were taking so much interest in.
She had the dark olive skin of a brunette, but her hair was bleached blonde. Thick makeup couldn't conceal the dark rings under the eyes or the pinched lines around the mouth and nose. Now in her late hard-faced thirties, she must have been demurely pretty once, but now cold predatory eyes scoured the room as she sat cross-legged on the barstool, a cheap imitation leopard-skin coat cloaked over her shoulders. An overweight mustached man in the corner read the invitation in her glance and beckoned her to join him. She sauntered over with a smug smile.
"Still on the game, then?" said Frost. "I can remember Cynthia when she was free… and liberal. A real goer, she was. Never gave the impression she was doing you a favor, like some of the local moggies."
"That was a long time ago, Jack. She wants cash in advance, now." The reporter drained his glass and looked at his watch.
Cynthia and the man went out, arm in arm.
"I hope she's got change for a quid," said Frost.
RD Wingfield
Frost at Christmas
TUESDAY-3
Martha Wendle's cottage was in the black heart of the woods and could only be reached by a footpath. If this meant she received few callers, then she shed no tears. There was a private road riddled with potholes that gave direct access, but it was barred to the public by barbed-wire-lined gates secured by padlocks and strong chains and was only used when Martha ventured out in her battered old Morris Minor.