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

."
       "It's not that," she cut in. "I don't know his address, or his name. He said it was Bob, but they don't usually tell you their right names."
       "What time did he leave you yesterday?"
       "About 4:25. But what has this got to do with Tracey?"
       "Probably nothing, but he left as she was coming out of Sunday school. He could have seen her. Describe him."
       "Well, he had a beard - "
       Frost's mind raced. A beard! The man trying to entice the kids into his car . . . He had a beard.
       The description, she gave was detailed - very detailed - right down to the appendix scar. Age thirty-four or thirty-five, light-brown hair and beard, brown eyes. From some of the other things she'd observed, Frost decided she must have seen him from some pretty unusual angles.
       While Clive's pen was racing to get it all down, Frost produced the photograph. "Anyone you know, Mrs. Uphill?"
       She stared at it. "No!"
       "We found it in Tracey's room, hidden in a book."
       Her face froze in disbelief. "Tracey's room . . . ? You couldn't have . . ."
       "Would it be one of yours, perhaps? I understand you ladies keep a supply of stimulating snapshots to help some of your clients get ready to perform."
       "I haven't found that necessary!" she snapped.
       "Perhaps she found it somewhere," said Frost, blandly, pushing it back in his pocket. "It means nothing to kids. Well, thanks for all your help. As soon as there's any news . . ."
       She saw them out and watched them walk to the car. Curtains twitched at windows on each side of the street.
       "Bloody nosey neighbors," snorted Clive, "and none of them bothered to go in and comfort her. In London you wouldn't have been able to move for women making pots of tea."
       But Frost was looking through the car window at the figure in the doorway. "If I had thirty quid to spare, son, I'd ask you to keep the engine running for five minutes." He shivered. "Hurry up, it's cold. Bung on the heater."
       Clive started the engine. "Back to the station, sir?"
       No reply. Frost was deep in thought. Suddenly he snapped out of his trance. "Tell me, son, why the hell should anyone want to jemmy the front doors of a bank at three o'clock in the morning?"
       "Eh?" said Clive, wondering what the hell this had to do with Tracey Uphill.
       "Someone tried to jemmy the front door of Bennington's Bank in the Market Square in the wee small hours of this morning. I'm wondering why."
       "To force an entry, sir?" suggested Clive, in the tones of one explaining the obvious to an idiot.
       Frost snorted. "Through the front door of a bank? The big main doors?"
       Clive tried again. "Perhaps someone just wanted to damage the door, someone with a grudge against the bank."
       The inspector wasn't having this either. "You could do more damage peeing through the letterbox. Ah well, life has its little mysteries. Well, come on, son, what are we waiting for? Reverse and back out the way we came."
       Barnard reversed. "Where are we going, sir?"
       "To find this lucky sod with the beard, the appendix scar, and the weekly season ticket."
       "And how are we going to do that?" persisted Clive.
       Frost smiled and rearranged his scarf. "If he came by train, we start with the railway station. I'll tell you the way."
       They passed a dark, gloomy building. Frost jerked a thumb. "That's the vicarage and Sunday school. The church is farther back."
       "Looks a bit of a dump, sir."
       "Yes. My wife's buried in the churchyard."
       An uneasy silence as the journey proceeded, then: "Doing anything for Christmas, son?"
       "I don't know yet, sir."
       "I'm on duty Christmas Day. You can come on with me if you like."
       Christ, thought Barnard, I'd rather have all my teeth out. Aloud he said, "I might have to go to my uncle's."
       "Well, don't say I didn't offer," replied Frost. "Oh, we should have turned right at that crossing."

MONDAY (4)

    A taxi