DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

- you'd have been offended otherwise."
    "She's only eight years old." The voice quivered with indignation. "I've never touched a kid under ten in my life - well, not knowingly, anyway."
    Outside the interview room Frost grabbed Bill Wells, the station sergeant, who said he'd be pleased to take Hoskins' statement. They talked about old Sam, the tramp, a character who'd been in and out of the station's cells for years and who was now stiff and cold in the morgue and cleaner than he'd ever been in his life. "It's funny," observed the sergeant. "I hated the bloke, he stank and was no bloody good, but I feel choked knowing he's dead. By the way, the new chap's waiting for you in your office."
    Frost frowned. What new chap? Oh - of course, young Barnard. He'd sent him to talk to Mrs. Uphill about the £2000. There were so many things on his mind. There was the bank door business. That worried him. And the old tramp's dying. Then he had to meet Sandy Lane in the pub for a drink. And there was something else. It was important. He should keep notes, but then he'd forget to look at them. Blimey, yes! Old Mother Wendle, the witch of the woods. He had to ask her to get the spirits to tell him where the kid was. Now he'd remembered what it was, he felt happier. But first, let's see what young Barnard had got from the juicy Mrs. Uphill, the best thirty quid's worth east of Suez.
    He trotted down the stone corridor to his office. Somewhere an outer door had been left open and a blast of cold air roared along the passage. He glanced through a window. Still no let-up in the snow, the sky was black, with plenty to come down. Barely twelve o'clock, and every light in the place was on.
    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