DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

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 Clive'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