DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

wouldn't do the pampered swine any harm to see a spot of real police work for a change.
    He flicked the switch on his transmitter and called Able Baker four. The monitor speaker crackled and Simms's voice answered.
    "Hello Control . . . Vicarage Terrace? We can be there in four minutes."
    On the other side of the panel, P.C. Lambert uncupped his hand from the mouthpiece. "Mrs. Uphill? Sorry for the delay. Stay put, Mrs. Uphill, a car's on its way round to you now. Don't worry, we'll sort it out."
    He dropped the receiver back on its rest and shut the sliding panel, then he and the controller, each in his separate room, logged the incident and settled down to wait for the next call. A pretty boring Sunday up to now. The station sergeant thought he'd take advantage of the lull and have his tea break.

    "Sorry about this," shouted Jordan, swinging the area car through mazes of side streets choked with parked vehicles. "It could take some time. Would you like us to drop you off somewhere?"
    Clive shook his head. He was in no hurry to get to his digs. He'd be spending the rest of the dreary evening there anyway, and it was barely past seven now. If they didn't mind he'd like to follow the call through with them.
    "You can point out where we go wrong," said Simms, scribbling the details on his log-sheet.
    The car. curb-crawled Vicarage Terrace looking for number 29 among the darkened porches. This probably wouldn't take more than a few minutes. Usually the lost kid and the police turned up at the same time, the kid to be walloped and hugged, the police to be apologized to:
    "Now say you're sorry to the policeman." To which the police usually replied, "That's what we're here for, madam. Glad it's turned out this way."
    Usually . . . not always.
    "That should be it," cried Simms, pointing, and in confirmation a street door opened and a teenaged girl waved frantically.
    The two uniformed men got out, putting on their peaked caps, which were not worn in the car. Simms took a clipboard and a pen from the glove compartment and made sure he had his personal radio. Clive followed at a respectful distance. He couldn't take his eyes from the girl in the doorway with her ash-blonde hair and the simple lavender-blue woolen dress hugging the soft curves of her young virginal body. The missing girl's sister, he reasoned, but she was simply fantastic - the flawless naive innocent of his dream-world erotic fantasies.
    But Jordan addressed her as Mrs. Uphill! How could this child have a daughter of eight? But she wasn't a child. She was a woman. Twenty-four years old and worried to desperation.
    "Yes, I'm Mrs. Uphill. Have you found her?" The voice was on the verge of hysterical.
    Jordan smiled sympathetically and shook his head.
    "Not yet, Mrs. Uphill. Give us a chance, we've only just received your message. Do you think we could come in?"
    She led them through to the lounge, an expensively furnished room with rosewood paneling, an off-white deep-pile wall-to-wall carpet screaming money, an enormous projection color TV, and a corner bar with a genuine reproduction pub counter and beer engine.
    They settled down in cream-colored armchairs smelling richly of leather, Simms, with his clipboard poised on his knee, asking most of the questions.
    "The boring bit first, Mrs. Uphill. The details. When did you last see her? Outside the Sunday school? I see. You took her there yourself? Good. And what time would that be?"
    As Simms extracted the necessary information, Clive let his eyes wander around the room. There was money in the house, even a newly appointed detective constable could see that. It shouted its opulence. But where was the husband? There had been no mention of him. Perhaps she was a widow, or divorced. Whatever it was, Mr. Uphill had left her well provided for. Those shelves behind the bar were crammed with any drink you cared to name; the cigarette boxes were brim-filled - name your brand - filter-tipped or plain, we have it; and there was a drum of large red-and-gold-banded cigars on the bar counter. Plenty of provisions for a man, but no mention of him. His eyes moved to the girl's face. She was listening intently to Simms, her moist lips parted, her skin flawless without makeup. He felt sexual stirrings within himself and immediately suppressed them, chiding himself for being a dirty-minded slob. At a time like this . . . that poor helpless creature. If only he could offer her some comfort, some protection.
    Jordan and Simms