Mullett's office, was a tribute to Allen's organizing ability. Extra phone lines had been installed. There were teleprinters, photostat and duplicating machines, loudspeakers relaying messages from Divisional Control, large-scale wall maps marking the exact position of all search parties, cars, mobile and foot patrols, etc. Every incoming phone call was automatically timed and recorded on cassette. There was a direct line through to the G.P.O. Engineers in case any calls needed tracing. Color televisions, with stand-by black-and-white sets, monitored all news broadcasts. Nothing had been left to chance. In the event of a power failure a mobile generator came immediately into operation.
Frost, the one contingency Allen hadn't allowed for, walked into the room, looked helplessly at the meticulous order and efficiency and, to everyone's relief, announced he would be leaving Allen's assistant in charge. The assistant was Detective Sergeant George Martin, a slow-talking, deep-thinking individual with a gurgling pipe that always set Frost's teeth on edge.
Throughout the day Search Control had hummed with activity, phones continually busy with a constant stream of calls from the public, ever anxious to help with reports of sightings of the missing girl. Some of the sightings sounded hopeful, the majority just impossible, but all had to be logged, checked, and investigated. But with the dark came calm. Phones rang only occasionally. Tired men were able to catch up on their paperwork, grab a meal, plan for the next long day.
Frost wandered over to George Martin. "Any luck with the woman in the fur coat?"
Cinders erupted as Martin blew down his pipe stem. "Nothing yet, Jack." He pulled the pipe from his mouth and worried at it with a straightened paperclip. "You know . . ." poke, poke, ". . . I was thinking . . . Has Mrs. Uphill got a white fur coat?"
Clive's eyes blazed. "You're surely not suggesting - "
But Frost cut across him.
"Mrs. Uphill? Now there's a thought." He considered it then shook his head. "No, George. It couldn't have been her who Farnham saw. He'd just left her in bed, counting her thirty quid, and he was galloping away all eager to have tea with his aunt. Which reminds me . . ." He jabbed a finger at Clive. "We've got to check with auntie, son, don't forget." He turned to Martin. "Tell you what we must do, George. Give details about the woman in the fur to the press."
"Already done, Jack. Mr. Allen pushed it out as soon as he got your report."
That efficient sod would, thought Frost. Aloud he said, "Just testing you, George."
George smiled tolerantly and made disgusting bubbling noises in his pipe.
"I'd get a plumber on to that," said Frost.
A uniformed man at a desk in the corner finished a phone call then waved a half-eaten sandwich to attract attention. "Inspector!"
Frost ambled over to him.
"I've had my tea, thanks, Fred."
The man grinned. "Something interesting, sir. You know we've been checking on child molesters and sexual offenders who've been involved with children. We want to find out where they were yesterday afternoon around 4:30."
"I know I'm dim," moaned Frost, "but you don't have to explain everything to me. And what's in that sandwich - dead dog?"
"Bloater-paste sir." He took a bite. "We've traced most of them and obtained statements." A wodge of handwritten foolscap was shaken free of crumbs. "Would you like to read them?"
"No, I bloody-well wouldn't," cried Frost. "If I had the time to read I'd read a dirty book. What do they say?"
"Most of them have alibis, sir, which we're checking on. But there was one chap we couldn't get hold of. Mickey Hoskins didn't turn up for work today."
Frost's eyebrows soared. "Mickey Hoskins?" He whistled softly.
"The area car's been to his digs a few times, but no one seems to be in. The neighbors say his landlady, Mrs. Bousey, is up in town shopping. They don't know about Mickey though. Haven't seen him since yesterday morning."
"I want that car
Frost, the one contingency Allen hadn't allowed for, walked into the room, looked helplessly at the meticulous order and efficiency and, to everyone's relief, announced he would be leaving Allen's assistant in charge. The assistant was Detective Sergeant George Martin, a slow-talking, deep-thinking individual with a gurgling pipe that always set Frost's teeth on edge.
Throughout the day Search Control had hummed with activity, phones continually busy with a constant stream of calls from the public, ever anxious to help with reports of sightings of the missing girl. Some of the sightings sounded hopeful, the majority just impossible, but all had to be logged, checked, and investigated. But with the dark came calm. Phones rang only occasionally. Tired men were able to catch up on their paperwork, grab a meal, plan for the next long day.
Frost wandered over to George Martin. "Any luck with the woman in the fur coat?"
Cinders erupted as Martin blew down his pipe stem. "Nothing yet, Jack." He pulled the pipe from his mouth and worried at it with a straightened paperclip. "You know . . ." poke, poke, ". . . I was thinking . . . Has Mrs. Uphill got a white fur coat?"
Clive's eyes blazed. "You're surely not suggesting - "
But Frost cut across him.
"Mrs. Uphill? Now there's a thought." He considered it then shook his head. "No, George. It couldn't have been her who Farnham saw. He'd just left her in bed, counting her thirty quid, and he was galloping away all eager to have tea with his aunt. Which reminds me . . ." He jabbed a finger at Clive. "We've got to check with auntie, son, don't forget." He turned to Martin. "Tell you what we must do, George. Give details about the woman in the fur to the press."
"Already done, Jack. Mr. Allen pushed it out as soon as he got your report."
That efficient sod would, thought Frost. Aloud he said, "Just testing you, George."
George smiled tolerantly and made disgusting bubbling noises in his pipe.
"I'd get a plumber on to that," said Frost.
A uniformed man at a desk in the corner finished a phone call then waved a half-eaten sandwich to attract attention. "Inspector!"
Frost ambled over to him.
"I've had my tea, thanks, Fred."
The man grinned. "Something interesting, sir. You know we've been checking on child molesters and sexual offenders who've been involved with children. We want to find out where they were yesterday afternoon around 4:30."
"I know I'm dim," moaned Frost, "but you don't have to explain everything to me. And what's in that sandwich - dead dog?"
"Bloater-paste sir." He took a bite. "We've traced most of them and obtained statements." A wodge of handwritten foolscap was shaken free of crumbs. "Would you like to read them?"
"No, I bloody-well wouldn't," cried Frost. "If I had the time to read I'd read a dirty book. What do they say?"
"Most of them have alibis, sir, which we're checking on. But there was one chap we couldn't get hold of. Mickey Hoskins didn't turn up for work today."
Frost's eyebrows soared. "Mickey Hoskins?" He whistled softly.
"The area car's been to his digs a few times, but no one seems to be in. The neighbors say his landlady, Mrs. Bousey, is up in town shopping. They don't know about Mickey though. Haven't seen him since yesterday morning."
"I want that car
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