DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

continued methodically with their questions. At this stage there was no real need for panic. Three hours wasn't all that long for a kid to be astray; she'd probably wandered a bit farther afield than she had intended and couldn't find her way back. Put all patrols on the alert and they should have her back within the hour. And then his eye was drawn by the window, where the curtains had been pulled back. Outside, a tree by the lamppost twitched and shuddered in a wind of growing strength. What if they didn't find her quickly? The real danger was the weather. At night the temperature plummeted to below zero. If she was out in the open and wasn't properly dressed . . .
    He cut across the uniformed men's questions.
    "How was Tracey dressed when she went out, Mrs. Uphill?"
    Hostile glares from the other two as she jerked her head toward him, brushing a wisp of ash-blonde hair from her eyes.
    "A thick blue coat and a scarf . . ."
    "If I could butt in," snapped Jordan icily. He glowered at Clive. "We've already got that information. We haven't the time to hear it twice.''
    Clang, thought Clive, that's me in my place. But he was relieved the kid was well wrapped up. It could make the difference between life and death.
    "Do you have a photograph of Tracey?" asked Simms. "We want to make certain we bring the right one back."
    She forced a smile at the joke and rummaged in a drawer, haste making her clumsy. Inwardly she was ready to scream. Why all these questions? Why didn't they just go out and look? And why three of them? Why couldn't two go out and search while the other one asked the questions? She found the snapshot. Clive peered at it over Simms's shoulder. A full-face color photograph of a lovely wide-eyed child, beautiful like her mother, the same ash-blonde hair, brushed and gleaming.
    Simms wrote something on the back of the photograph, replaced the cap on his pen, and looked significantly at Jordan, who nodded and stood. "Just one last thing, Mrs. Uphill. We'd like to search the house."
    They searched the house, starting at the top and working down. They found nothing, but it had to be done. The number of times the missing kid had been found hiding in a cupboard or a shed while armies of policemen scoured the streets . . . All a big joke to the kid, of course, but there was that terrible lesson of a few years back when, weeks after an intensive search involving hundreds of men, rivers dragged, frogmen in the reservoir, a police officer returned to the child's home and noticed a small box that could have contained books or toys. Far too small, but he looked anyway . . . and there was the body. The boy had squeezed himself in, pulled down the lid, the catch had caught and trapped him and there was hardly any air. Weeks of searching and he had been in the house all the time. But Tracey wasn't in the house.
    Back to the lounge where the woman sat huddled in a chair, systematically shredding a Kleenex tissue. She didn't look up as Jordan spoke.
    "Nothing there, Mrs. Uphill, but stay by your phone. As soon as we have any news . . ."
    She nodded.
    "And, of course, if she should come back here, you'll let us know at once, won't you?"
    Again a nod.
    Jordan shrugged, then signaled for the others to follow him out. At the door Clive turned. She looked so pathetic, so defenselessly alone. "Isn't there anyone who could stay with you, Mrs. Uphill - a relative, a woman friend?"
    Beautiful but vacant eyes fastened on his. "I have no woman friends - or any relations . . ."A bitter smile. "But thank you."
    Jordan tapped Clive on the shoulder and jerked his thumb to the front door. Mrs. Uphill pulled another Kleenex from the box.
    Back in the car Simms radioed the details to Denton Control for circulation to all patrols. Control instructed them to drop Clive off at his digs and then return to the station with the photograph.
    The car retraced its way through the side streets and was soon back on the main road.
    "Let's have the benefit of your vast London experience. What do you reckon?" asked Simms.
    Clive shrugged. "It's too early. The kid could turn up at any time." Then he remembered the question he'd been burning to ask. "Where's the kid's father - the husband?"
    He caught Jordan's smile in the rearview mirror. "She's not married, Clive. The 'Mrs.' is just a courtesy title."
    Clive frowned. "Then where does her money come from? The chair I was sitting on must have set her back four hundred quid at least."
    Simms turned in his