First Frost by Henry James Page B

shaking before slowly stepping back inside. ‘I wonder what the fire service would have to say about it.’ He scrutinized the security guard more closely. He had a round, lined face, short, light-brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was a good three or four inches taller than Frost, and had a heavier build. The way he was carrying himself, all aggressive confidence, led Frost to think immediately that this was an ex-copper.
    ‘I’m guessing,’ said Frost, for once a name coming to him, ‘that you’re Blake Richards. Hoped that bell might get your attention.’ Frost pulled out his warrant card, and the security guard stepped backwards, giving Frost some space.
    ‘Bloody hell, is this how plainclothes dress in the sticks? Yeah, I’m Richards.’
    The gist of earlier conversations Frost had had with Bill Wells and Arthur Hanlon came flooding back. ‘This what happens when a colourful career in the Met comes to an end?’ retorted Frost. ‘Spend your days mooching about the shops with a load of pensioners?’
    ‘Beats chasing petty vandals around the Southern Housing Estate,’ said Richards. ‘You know what they say about Denton Division – graveyard of ambition, staffed by a load of drunks and incompetents no one else will have.’
    Frost slammed Richards against a cubicle door, taking the larger man by surprise. Ignoring the startled squeal from inside, Frost firmly held him there. ‘Any more lip from you and I’ll run you down the nick. Insulting a police officer …’
    ‘Touchy, aren’t we,’ said Richards. ‘Perhaps I should claim police brutality.’
    Frost released his grip on Richards and, straightening his mac, said, ‘Really? Wouldn’t put it past you.’
    The buxom floor manager butted in. ‘Do you think we could carry on this, uh, conversation in Mr Butcher’s office?’ she said brightly.
    ‘No need, I won’t be long,’ Frost said. ‘Just a few quick questions and I’ll leave you both to get on with your busy day—’ He was interrupted by a faint but determined knocking.
    The two men stepped aside and a thin, purple-haired woman, clutching an armful of flesh-coloured underwear, emerged from the cubicle, looked around in panic, and scuttled off.
    ‘All right, Richards’ – Frost cleared his throat – ‘cast your mind back to Saturday afternoon, if that’s not too much to ask. Did you see this girl?’
    Frost produced a copy of the photo of Julie Hudson, with the red streak in her mousey hair, and held it up. ‘You must know the story,’ he added. ‘One minute she was shopping on this floor with her mum, the next she’s disappeared.’
    ‘Yes – of course. Mr Butcher informed me of your visit yesterday, and that photo’s been pinned up in the canteen. But I didn’t see her on Saturday.’
    ‘How can you be so sure?’ said Frost.
    ‘I can’t be,’ said Richards, ‘but the store was busy as usual, and unless she was trying to nick something and had been apprehended by myself or another member of staff, I wouldn’t have had any cause to notice her. I don’t remember everyone who comes in here shopping.’
    ‘Let me have a look,’ the floor manager said, peering keenly over.
    ‘You not been shown this yet?’ said Frost, catching a whiff of very pungent perfume. ‘Your boss was left with clear instructions to distribute this picture among all staff: a girl has gone missing.’
    ‘As I said, it’s been pinned up in the canteen,’ interjected Richards.
    ‘I haven’t seen or heard anything about it,’ the woman insisted, looking closer.
    Frost caught Richards giving her a withering look.
    ‘You know,’ she continued, ‘I think I do remember her. Trying on a school uniform, a skirt – she couldn’t find her size. She was awfully skinny. She was also being a little fussy. Though girls that age usually are. The skirts are never short or tight enough.’
    ‘I need to get back to the ground floor,’ Richards said. ‘Busy day, Monday – the cafeteria