DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

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.

TUESDAY (3)

    Martha Wendle's cottage was in the