Free Frost at Christmas by R. D. Wingfield Page A

since before Tracey was born--since the day I broke the news to him that I was pregnant. That's when he decided he didn't want to see me any more. Coincidence, wasn't it?"
       "Does he support his child?" asked Clive.
       She stood and took a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece. "I was paid off in a lump sum by his parents. They were willing to pay anything reasonable I might ask to make sure their poor misguided son wasn't lumbered with a promiscuous bitch like me and her bastard. And he was the first you know, there was no one else."
       A silence broken by the rasping of Frost's finger against his troublesome right cheek. "And he's never been in touch with you?"
       She shook her head. "If he thinks of me at all, he probably hopes I'm dead. He never even bothered to find out if he had a son or a daughter - or if I died in childbirth."
       Clive felt he would like to strangle the man with his bare hands. Eight years ago. She couldn't have been more than a schoolgirl, fifteen or sixteen at the most, and a virgin. His hatred mingled with jealousy and envy.
       Frost wanted the man's name and address. She found the address in an old diary. Clive made an entry in his notebook. The man's name was Ronald Conley with an address in Bristol. He'd given her the diary as a present eight years before. The flyleaf bore the neatly written inscription "To my darling Joan from Ron" followed by a string of kisses. The two-faced seducing bastard, thought Clive.
       "I'm puzzled, Mrs. Uphill," said Frost.
       She looked at him.
       "Why didn't you meet her from Sunday school?"
       She busied herself lighting a cigarette. It seemed to require her full attention.
       "It's a simple question, Mrs. Uphill. One of our chaps has had a word with the Sunday school superintendent. He says you always met her, winter or summer, rain or sunshine. Yesterday was the only day you missed. Why?"
       She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and spat out the answer. "Don't you think I've reproached myself? I thought she'd be all right. Just this once, I didn't meet her . . ." And then her anger crumbled and her body shook with dry spasms of tearless grief. Clive raised himself from his chair, ready to bound across and comfort her, but a warning glance from Frost pushed him back.
       Frost's hand shot out and grabbed the woman's shoulder. "Listen. There was a man lurking outside that Sunday school last summer trying to molest the kids. You knew about him. Ever since then you've met her. When the sun was streaming down you met her. But yesterday, when it was pitch dark, you thought she'd be all right. Why?"
       She shook off his grip and screamed at him, "Leave me alone, you bastard!" And then she sobbed into her hands, tears squeezing between her fingers. Frost brutally pulled the hands away and shoved his face close to hers. "I don't care a sod about your feelings, Mrs. Uphill. All I care about is getting your daughter back and I expect you to help, not go into bloody hysterics. Why didn't you meet her?"
       She recoiled as if he'd slapped her face. "I . . . I had a man here."
       Frost beamed and settled down in a chair, his tone friendly and cheerful. "A regular?"
       She nodded.
       "Was he late?"
       She dabbed her eyes with one of the few Kleenex tissues remaining in the box and compressed it in her hand.
       "Yes. Usually he was away by 3:30. That gave me plenty ' of time to meet Tracey. But yesterday he said his train was late, or canceled, or something. It was nearly 3:30 when he arrived."
       "What time did he usually come?" Frost, who had a memory like a sieve when it came to detail, glanced across the room to make sure Barnard was jotting down the times in his notebook.
       "2:30."
       "You'd better let us have his name and address."
       She shook her head.
       Frost insisted. "I'm afraid you must, Mrs. Uphill. I know you ladies have this Hippocratic oath to protect your clients' identities . .