He walked behind the man who followed him with piggy eyes, screwed up to keep him in focus. What a ghastly sight, the enormous seat spread over the floor, the back seam of the trousers gaping where the thread had given up the struggle to contain the vast, flabby girth. And then Frost's eyes narrowed and he spotted a flat bulge in the back pocket.
"Is this your wallet, Paddy?"
The man squinted suspiciously at the brown leather object dangled in front of his face, then something like a smile revealed black stumps.
"Well… and how did that get there? I never keep it in my back pocket."
Frost opened it and flipped through the thin wad of notes. "Fifteen… All right you drunken sod, count them."
"No need, sir, if you say they're all there…"
Frost's foot swung back threateningly. "Count them, you sod."
"Yes, sir, of course, sir, all there, sir. Thank you, thank you…"
The young constable expelled an audible sigh of relief.
"Right, son, now call the ambulance and see how soon they can get this stinking rat-bag out of here. If he shows his face again, think of a charge and book him. I'll support you."
Stringer suddenly caught sight of someone behind the inspector's back and his face tic-tacked a warning. It was Mullett, resplendent in a beautifully tailored topcoat, white gloves in hand.
"What's going on here?" he asked, coldly.
Seeing a possible ally, a crafty look crossed the drunk's face. "I broke my leg outside, sir, and I've had nothing but abuse since I've been here. And that man kicked me.", Frost caught Stringer's eye and jerked his head toward the phone. The young constable took the hint and slipped off to call the ambulance. The sooner they got the drunk off the premises, the better.
"Bit of a new development with that skeleton, sir," ventured Frost, hoping to change the subject, but Mullett, deeply concerned with an allegation of police brutality toward a poor injured Irishman, waved the inspector to one side and moved forward to question the man on the floor. At which instant the laborer turned a pale shade of green, gulped, and was copiously sick all over Mullett's shoes.
Frost suddenly felt a warm, friendly, loving feeling toward the drunk and wished he'd been kinder. There's good hi all of us, he thought, as Mullett scuttled away to clean himself.
The diversion over, Frost returned to his office for a smoke and a bloody good laugh, when his phone summoned him to the old log cabin where Mullett, who had heard about the attack on Mrs. Uphill, proceeded to give him a roasting. How could Frost, an experienced officer, let her go out on her own with all that money? If that wasn't just asking for trouble- Frost countered by sniffing repeatedly, staring at Mullen's shoes, and asking if they could have the window open. The bloody man never let a wound heal without grinding half a pound of rough salt into it. Of course, he should have had Mrs. Uphill followed, but he couldn't think of everything. He wasn't bloody Gideon of the Yard, he was Detective Inspector Jack Frost, G.C., jumped up from being a lousy sergeant to a lousier inspector. He hadn't asked for promotion.
These silent thoughts were stopped from being put into words by the intervention of the telephone. Mullett handed it to him. It was Clive Barnard from the hospital.
Mrs. Uphill had regained consciousness.
"Right," said Frost, "I'm on my way." Then he turned to Mullett. "By the way, sir," he said, trying to sound casual, "I've put the Electronics Theft file on your desk. We caught the bloke tonight."
"Oh yes?" said Mullett, giving it a curt glance and dropping it in his "Out" tray. "One of Inspector Allen's cases, wasn't it? He had it all but tied up before he went sick."
Frost shut the door carefully behind him, then swore loudly, long, and ineffectively into the empty passage.
TUESDAY-6
As he pushed through the hospital entrance doors, it all came back to him. The smells-over-cooked food and disinfectant. The sounds-moans, muffled sobs, hushed worried voices. He'd had them, twice a day, for six months when his wife was slowly dying. The end bed with the screens, and "You can stay as long as you like, Mr. Frost."
Clive Barnard, slumped moodily on a hard wooden bench, rose at the inspector's approach and led him into a side ward where a white-faced Mrs. Uphill, head bandaged, lay propped up on plumped-up pillows. Frost dropped his eyes to the chart clipped at the foot of the bed. Temperature a trifle high, pulse slightly fast. She wasn't too badly damaged.
He gave her an encouraging smile. "They're letting you to home tomorrow, Mrs. Uphill."
Her head sank into the starched depths of the pillow. "I want to go home now. I've got to be there when he phones again."
Frost dragged a small wooden bench from under her bed and sat down. "What makes you think he's going to phone again?"
"He's got the money, now he must tell me where Tracey is. That was the bargain." She struggled up, eyes burning. "She might even be back at the house now, waiting…"
"Easy, love, easy…" He pushed her down gently, then drew Clive to one side and whispered some instructions. Mrs. Uphill had pointed out something Frost had overlooked. The possibility-the extremely remote possibility-that the alleged kidnapper really did have Tracey and would now return her. Barnard was to contact the station and get them to insure that Mrs. Uphill's phone was still continually monitored and to arrange that the house was kept under permanent surveillance.
Frost returned to the woman, "We'll be watching your house, monitoring your phone, and taking your calls, so don't worry."
"If the police answer, you'll frighten him off."
"No. One of our women P.C. s will take the call. He'll think it's you. Now, tell us what happened."
Her hand plucked at the sheets. "He phoned me. He said-"
Frost cut her short. "We know about the phone call. Go on from there."
"I put the money in a bag, as he said."
"What sort of bag?"
"One of those blue and white plastic carriers from the supermarket. I walked down Vicarage Terrace, then cut through to the Bath Road."
"Were you aware of anyone following or watching you?"
She thought, then shook her head. "No. I don't think so. I just wanted to get to the phone box as quickly as 1 could. I was afraid he'd ring before I reached it. Half-way down Bath Road I heard a sort of rustling noise behind me, then something hit me." Her hand touched the bandage. "The next thing my head was hurting and I was in here. I don't remember the ambulance or anything."
Frost smiled sympathetically. "Did you have your change purse with you?"
"Yes. It's in my handbag."
"Not any more. He must have helped himself to that as well. What was in it?"
"About twenty pounds in cash, my house keys, and the keys for the car."
The night nurse entered with a sleeping tablet and a glass of water. She glared at Frost, who decided it was time to leave.
Barnard was waiting outside after making his phone call. As they walked down the long corridor to the main entrance, Frost brought him up to date on the interview. "Even nicked twenty quid from her purse. We're not dealing with a kidnapper, son. This is a small-time crook out for anything he can get."
A grim-faced nurse carrying a hypodermic syringe in a kidney bowl brushed past them and pushed through swing-doors into a darkened ward where someone was moaning.
Frost averted his eyes and walked much faster. "My wife was in that ward, son. After I'd visited her, I always felt I could do with a drink. There's a little pub round the corner…"
It was a cheerful little pub with a crackling log fire and glittering Christmas decorations. There was only one other customer, a small man in a heavy overcoat, drinking at a corner table. Frost warmed himself at the fire, letting the friendly atmosphere unwind him as it had always done after those ghastly visits to the hospital when they kindly told him he could stay as long as he liked. That meant he had no excuse for cutting the visit short. He just had to sit there, with a false smile, nothing to say, sharing her pain, watching her die.