DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

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