A Killing Frost

Chapter 2

The letter, handwritten in block capitals on cheap A4 paper, read:

I HAVE POISONED A BOTTLE OF SUPERSAVES OWN BRAND EXTRA STRONG MOUTHWASH, A BOTTLE OF SUPERSAVES ‘VINTNERS CHOICE’ WINE AND AN ECONOMY SIZE TIN OF SUPERSAVES HAPPYBABE MILK POWDER. TO IDENTIFY THEM, I HAVE MARKED THEM WITH A BLUE CROSS. YOU WILL NOT FIND THEM IN THE PROPER AISLE. I HAVE HIDDEN THEM AROUND THE STORE. GET TO THEM BEFORE YOUR CUSTOMERS DO OR YOU’LL HAVE DEATHS ON YOUR HANDS. INSTRUCTIONS TO PREVENT A RECURRENCE WILL BE SENT TO THAT SHIT BEAZLEY.

Henry Martin, the store manager, a man in his late forties, looked underpaid and overworked. His desk overflowed with papers and his in-tray spilled over. It reminded Frost of his own office. Skilled at reading typescripts upside-down, he squinted at a charming, red-inked, underlined memo to the manager from the store owner, Mr Beazley, which was headed ‘ARSE-KICKING TIME’ and began: ‘If that stupid useless prat who thinks himself a greengrocery manager…’ Frost nodded to himself. Typical Beazley. A bullying bastard. He had met him before and knew what an arsehole the man was.

Martin was pacing up and down the office in agitation, sucking nervously at a cigarette.

‘What do we do?’ he pleaded. ‘What the hell do we do? There’s no way we can shut the store down. The boss would do his nut.’

Frost gave a non-committal grunt and returned his attention to the blackmail letter. Beazley, the owner of the store, would do a lot more than his nut. ‘Do you have the envelope?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Why should we keep them? When the post is opened, envelopes are shredded.’

‘Great,’ said Frost. ‘Saves us the bother of finding out where it was posted.’

‘Of course it might be a hoax, but we can’t take the chance,’ said Martin, plonking down in his chair.

‘Then shut the store down until you find the marked items,’ said Frost.

‘If I shut it and it’s a hoax, I’ll be queuing up at the Job Centre before lunch.’

‘If it’s not a hoax,’ said Frost, ‘I’ll invite you and Mr Beazley to the post-mortems.’ He took a sip of coffee and shuddered. It tasted foul. Probably Supersaves own economy brand. He pushed the cup away and read the letter again.

‘… GET TO THEM BEFORE YOUR CUSTOMERS DO OR YOU’LL HAVE DEATHS ON YOUR HANDS.’ ‘My feeling is that this isn’t a hoax. But if you’re prepared to take a chance…’

‘I’ve got the staff out now, checking the aisles,’ said Martin, ‘and the check-out girls are keeping their eyes open just in case a customer has put one in their trolley.’

‘You should close the store down until you find the lot,’ Frost told him.

Martin looked horrified. ‘Mr Beazley would never allow that. We’re trying to contact him, but he hasn’t reached his office yet. If we shut down without his consent, he’ll be furious.’

‘It won’t make him happy if customers come in with dead babies as proof of purchase, asking for their money back,’ said Frost. ‘Kick everyone out and shut the flaming place down.’

‘But if it turns out to be a hoax…’

‘Flaming heck,’ said Frost. ‘Is that your theme tune?’ He moved to the window and looked down at the store, its aisles thronged with customers, mingled with hordes of red-overalled Supersaves employees searching the shelves.

There was a tap at the door and a thin, be spectacled man sporting a lapel badge reading ASSISTANT MANAGER came in, followed by a young, red-overalled assistant clutching two bottles to her chest. ‘We’ve found these so far, Mr Martin. One wine, one mouthwash.’ He took the items from the girl and handed them to the manager.

Frost groaned. ‘Why don’t you pass them round the store so everyone can have a turn mauling them about? I’d hate the blackmailer’s fingerprints to be nice and clear so we can find out who he is.’

‘Sorry’ flushed the assistant manager. ‘I didn’t think.’

Slipping a polythene bag over his hand to avoid adding any more fingerprints, Frost carefully took the items from Martin and placed them on the desk. ‘Where were they?’

‘We found the wine in the Grocery Warehouse, on a shelf by the door. The mouth wash was in the Household aisle.’

Frost unscrewed the cap of the mouthwash and sniffed. The smell was unmistakable. ‘Bleach,’ he said. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure – we can stop deluding ourselves it’s a hoax. This bastard means business.’ He turned to the assistant manager. ‘What about the baby milk powder?’

‘We’re still looking.’

‘Find it,’ ordered Frost, ‘and quick.’ He turned to Martin. ‘Shut the bleeding place down.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Martin. He turned to the assistant manager. ‘Close the store. Say there’s an electrical fault or something – we can tell Mr Beazley it was on police orders.’

Frost waited until the assistant manager and the girl had left. ‘They found the wine in the warehouse area. Who’s allowed in there?’

‘The warehouse staff and staff from the shop floor who help to unload and stack.’

‘Members of the public?’

‘Oh no. Staff only.’

‘Then it’s odds on it being an inside job. Can you think of any member of staff who would have a grudge against Supersaves?’

‘Every bleeding one of them,’ said Martin bitterly. ‘Me included. Mr Beazley is not the nicest person to work for.’

‘I’ve met him,’ sympathised Frost. ‘I wouldn’t work here for a thousand quid a day. Let me have a list of all employees – include those who have been sacked or left within the last month or so. We’ll run them through the computer.’ He read the letter through again. ‘It’s not dated. It came today, did it?’

‘I think so,’ said Martin.

Frost stared at him. ‘You think so? Don’t you flaming well know?’

‘It could have come on Saturday. We have limited clerical staff on duty at weekends. Head Office correspondence gets priority; other stuff is left unopened until Monday.’

‘Bloody brilliant,’ muttered Frost. ‘He says instructions to stop his actions will follow. I take it you would have told me if you had received a blackmail demand.’

‘We haven’t received it, and of course I’ll let you know when we do.’ Martin looked through the office window down to a store now devoid of customers. ‘I wish they’d hurry up and find that missing jar. Mr Beazley will be furious. He’s not renowned for his tolerance.’

Frost’s stomach rumbled to remind him he hadn’t eaten yet. ‘Do you serve breakfasts here?’ Before Martin could answer there was a tap at the door. His eyes brightened as the assistant manager came in.

‘You’ve found it?’

The man shook his head. ‘We’ve exhausted all possibilities, but we’re going over everything again.’

‘It could have been sold to a customer,’ said Frost. ‘We’ll have to get the media on to it to warn the public.’ He reached for the phone.

‘Hold it!’ said the assistant manager. ‘It might not be necessary.’ He pulled a computer printout from his overall pocket. ‘That baby powder is a brand-new line. We didn’t put it on the shelves until all stock of the old line had gone. It went on display late on Sunday, just before closing time. A box of twenty-four. I’ve checked and there are twenty-three left – only one has been sold, and that must be the adulterated one.’

‘So how does that help us?’ asked Frost.

Martin took over. He could see what the assistant manager was getting at. ‘We can check the printed receipts. When it goes through the check-out, the product is registered. If the customer paid by credit card we can easily get their name and address from the credit-card company.’

‘That could take flaming ages,’ said Frost. ‘“If you have lost your credit card, press 8; if you want to trace a customer with contaminated baby milk, press 9.” Get on to it right away.’

‘We’re checking late-night-Sunday till receipts now,’ the assistant manager told him. ‘If our luck’s in we’ll get to the customer before the tin is opened.’

‘And if your luck’s out, they could have paid with cash. Make it quick. If you haven’t turned anything up in a quarter of an hour, I’m going to local radio and the rest of the media.’ His stomach rumbled again. ‘Do you do breakfasts at the restaurant here?’ he asked the manager again.

‘We do an excellent full English – it’s on special this week.’

‘How do I pay for it?’ asked Frost.

‘Oh – we take credit cards.’

Shit, thought Frost, who was hoping the stingy sod would let him have it on the house. ‘Right, I’ll nip over and get something to eat. Tell your assistant where I am.’

As he crossed the shop floor he could see the staff were doing a thorough job with the search. Everything was being taken off the shelves, examined and put back again.

In the restaurant, he was just dipping his fried bread in his egg when Taffy Morgan burst in and came running towards him.

‘Ah – there you are, Guv.’

‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘I know where I am.’ He took a swig of tea.

‘I tried to get you on your mobile, Guv.’

‘I keep it switched off,’ said Frost, ‘in case some Welsh git tries, to ring me. Sit down and watch me eat.’ He forked a piece of bacon and surveyed it gloomily. ‘This pig was solid fat.’ Morgan dragged out a chair and sat opposite him. ‘That rape case, Guv, I’ve run through the CCTV tapes from the multi-storey car park. Got a shot of a car roaring off at about the time the girl said. A Ford Focus. It’s got to be our rapist.’

Frost pushed his unfinished breakfast away and lit up a cigarette. ‘Well done, Taff. About time our flaming luck changed. You got the registration and checked it out?’

Morgan nodded. ‘Graham Fielding, 29 Castle Road, Denton.’

‘Any previous? Has his dick got him into trouble before?’

‘No, Guv. Shall I pick him up?’

Frost dribbled smoke from his nose as he chewed this over, then shook his head. ‘No. Don’t let’s jump the gun. We’ve got nothing on him other than the fact that his car was in the vicinity at the time of the rape. Call on him, Taff, use your Welsh charm, and if that doesn’t put him off, ask if he will give us a DNA sample – Forensic will tell you what to get. Take a paper bag in case they want poo. If it matches, we’ve got the bastard; if not, we can forget him.’

‘Supposing he won’t give a DNA sample, Guv?’

‘Then reason with him – punch him in the stomach. If that doesn’t work, bring him in. If he’s innocent there’s no reason why he should refuse.’

As Morgan left, Frost noticed Henry Martin hovering. He didn’t look at all happy. ‘What’s up?’ asked Frost. ‘Have you eaten one of these breakfasts?’

The manager forced a smile and slid into the chair vacated by Morgan. ‘Mr Beazley doesn’t like people smoking in here.’

‘It does less harm than eating the food,’ said Frost, making no attempt to put the cigarette out. ‘So what’s the news?’

‘We’ve been over the shelves thoroughly three times. No sign of the missing jar. We’ve been through the till receipts – it hasn’t been checked out. I don’t know what we can do. We can’t open the store until we find it. I dread to think what Mr Beazley will say.’

‘If no one’s bought it and it’s not still in the store, then it’s gone out without being paid for. So either a member of your staff has helped him self or…’ His eyes widened and the hand holding his cigarette paused in mid air. A light dawned and he grinned. ‘… or it could have been nicked by a shoplifter.’

‘Speculation,’ moaned Martin. ‘We could never prove it.’

‘This might be your lucky day said Frost. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled a number. ‘Jordan? Inspector Frost here. That milk powder you picked up from Sadie’s house – did it have a blue cross on the bottom?

Well check it out now.’ He drummed his fingers on the table as he waited. ‘Yes… What? Brilliant. No, don’t send it to Forensic yet. Hang on to it until I get there.’ He dropped the phone back in his pocket. ‘We’ve traced it,’ he told Martin. ‘You can open up again. But let me know the minute you get another letter demanding money – and make certain as few people as possible smear their fingerprints on it.’

‘I can go, can I?’ shrilled Sadie. ‘Oh, bleeding nice! Locked up, falsely imprisoned, insulted and then kicked out. What about compensation?’

‘Your compensation is that we’re not nicking you for shoplifting,’ said Frost. ‘Now push off before I change my mind.’

‘What about my kiddy?’

‘Sort that out with Social Services, Sadie, and next time you nick something, make sure it isn’t contaminated.’

‘You wouldn’t treat me like this if I was an asylum-seeker.’

‘Then go and seek bleeding asylum and come back and see, but for now, push off.’ He held the door wide open for her to leave. ‘Another dissatisfied customer,’ he told Bill Wells and mooched back to his office.

Frost looked up from the crime-statistics report where a column of figures was dancing before his eyes. A tap at the office door heralded the arrival of Simms and Jordan.

‘Whatever it is, the answer’s no,’ he told them. ‘I’ve got my sums to do.’

Jordan grinned. ‘We’ve just been out on a call, Inspector. Teenage girl missing from home.’

‘She’s not here,’ said Frost, ‘and I wouldn’t tell you if she was.’ He put his pen down and sighed. ‘All right. Tell me about it.’

‘She’s Debbie Clark. Told her parents she was going -to a sleepover with her schoolfriend Audrey Glisson – she’s done this many times before. Went off on her bike about half seven yesterday evening. When she didn’t come home this morning, the parents phoned Audrey’s house. Debbie hadn’t been there and hadn’t arranged to go there.’

‘So she’s been missing overnight? Probably having a sleepover under her boyfriend. I bet she’s now at his place having a fag,’ said Frost dismissively, picking up his pen again. ‘Fill in a missing-persons report.’

‘The parents claim she isn’t that sort of a girl,’ said Jordan.

Frost snorted. ‘As I’ve told you a million times, lads, every time a teenage girl goes missing from home, the parents swear blind she’s a pure, sweet, home-loving girl training to be a nun, and nine times out of ten they turn out to be little scrubbers, on the game, pumping them selves full of coke, who’ve run away for the umpteenth time.’

‘She’s only just thirteen, Inspector. Today is her birthday.. . they were throwing her a party tonight.’

‘If I had the choice between jelly and ice cream or a bit of the other, jelly wouldn’t stand a chance,’ said Frost.

‘We’ve a feeling about this one, Inspector,’ said Simms. ‘I really think you should see the parents.’

Frost dribbled smoke through his nose. He, too, often had feelings that weren’t borne out by the evidence, feelings that sometimes proved correct. ‘All right, lads. Book her in as a missing person and when I get the chance I’ll see them, but I’m tied up right now.’ He reached out for his internal phone as it rang.

‘Frost!’ It was Bill Wells. ‘Superintendent Mullett says he wants the crime-statistics report right now, Jack.’

Frost looked down at the untidy mess of scribbled figures and crossings-out in front of him. He got up and snatched his scarf from the hook on the wall. ‘Tell him I’m out interviewing the parents of a missing thirteen-year-old girl.’

The Clarks lived in a large four-bedroomed house situated on the outskirts of Denton, overlooking Denton Woods. As the area car scrunched down a long driveway flanked by miniature conifers, Frost admired the extensive lawn. Studded with flower beds, it encircled a large fish pond with a statue of a naked woman pouring water from a jug.

‘Very tasteful,’ he nodded. ‘I’m glad she’s not doing a pee like that boy in Brussels.’

A gleaming black E-class Mercedes-Benz estate was parked outside a double garage. ‘They’re not short of a few bob, are they?’ muttered Frost, climbing out of the car.

They had hardly reached the front door when it was flung open by the missing girl’s father, Harold Clark, an angry man in his mid-forties, with slicked-down dark hair and a neatly clipped moustache like Mullett’s, which turned Frost off him right away.

‘About bloody time,’ snapped Clark, jerking a thumb towards the hall. ‘In here.’

They followed him into a large, thickly carpeted lounge. One wall was dominated by a huge fire, with gas flames licking at artificial logs, the other by an enormous plasma television screen. Clark’s wife, some ten years younger than him, sat huddled by the fire in one of the cream leather armchairs. Behind her, wall-to-wall patio doors gave a panoramic view of Denton Woods, which at this time of year, with black clouds hovering, seemed to have a sinister aura. Mrs Clark would have been pretty if her hair had been combed and she had put make-up on. She didn’t look well, staring blankly into space and twisting a damp handkerchief in her hands.

‘The police,’ announced her husband curtly. She looked up through tear-swollen eyes at the men. ‘Have you found her? She’s dead, isn’t she? I know she is.’ She dissolved into tears. Her husband put an arm round her. She abruptly twitched her shoulder to shake him off, then shrank back into the armchair.

Clark gave a ‘you can see she’s upset’ shrug and moved away.

‘We haven’t found her yet,’ said Jordan. He indicated the inspector. ‘This is Detective Inspector Frost.’

Clark scowled at the shabby figure of Frost, who tended to look even shabbier against luxurious backgrounds. He was clearly not impressed. ‘Have you got a search party out yet?’

Frost shook his head. ‘Not yet, Mr Clark.’

Clark’s face darkened. ‘What do you mean, “Not yet”? My daughter’s gone missing.’

‘It’s early days,’ explained Frost. ‘Young girls go missing all the time. They run away from home, they come back.’

Clark was spluttering with rage. ‘Run away from home?’ he shrieked. ‘You stupid, bloody fool. I told these two officers earlier, there is no way my daughter would run away from home. It’s her thirteenth birthday today.’ He flapped a hand towards the mantelpiece where a stack of unopened birthday cards were piled. ‘She’s having a party. She was looking forward to it. There is no bloody way she would run away.’

‘Do you know how many teenagers run away from home every year, Mr Clark, and how many of them come running back in a couple of days with their tails between their legs?’

Clark jabbed a finger at Frosts ‘My daughter is not a bloody statistic. I want search parties out now, do you hear? Now!’

Frost unwound his scarf. It was sweltering in the lounge with the gas fire going at full blast. ‘Let me have a few facts first, sir, please. She went out yesterday evening on her bike, I understand. What time would that be?’

‘How many more bloody times? She had her evening meal and left about half past seven. Said she was going to see her friend Audrey and might stay the night. She’s done it before, so we didn’t worry.’

‘She often went there for sleepovers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Audrey used to come here for sleepovers,’ said the mother flatly, staring into space, ‘but not any more.’

‘Oh?’ asked Frost. ‘Why not?’

Clark shot a warning glance at his wife, then answered for her. ‘We’ve no idea. You know what kids are.’

‘I see,’ nodded Frost, who didn’t see at all. He’d have a word with Audrey himself. ‘And you’ve checked with this girl?’

‘Of course we’ve bloody checked. Do you think we’re stupid? Debbie hadn’t been there. She hadn’t even arranged to go there.’

‘Has Debbie got a boyfriend?’

‘She’s only thirteen! Of course she hasn’t got a boyfriend. There was some lout sniffing around some months ago, but I soon got shot of him.’

‘He was a nice boy,’ said his wife tonelessly. ‘I liked him.’

‘Oh yes?’ snarled Clark. ‘A nice boy! So what was he doing in her bloody bedroom with his hand down her blouse? I slung him out of the house and said if I ever caught him with my daughter again…’ He let the threat hang.

‘Have you contacted the boy to see if Debbie is with him?’

‘I phoned his house, but got no reply. She’d better not be there – I’ll break the dirty bastard’s neck.’

‘His name and address, please.’ He waited as the mother scribbled it down. ‘Has Debbie got a mobile phone?’

‘Yes. I’ve been ringing, but it’s switched off.’

‘Did she take any clothes – money – her bank book?’

The Clarks looked questioningly at each other. ‘I’ll check,’ said the wife, rising unsteadily from her chair, again shrugging off her husband’s helping hand.

There was a silent, uneasy wait as she went upstairs and Clark exuded his dislike of the shabbily dressed inspector. Frost was dying for a smoke but couldn’t see any ashtrays.

Mrs Clark returned, shaking her head. ‘All her clothes seem to be there – and her bank book.’

Frost stood up. ‘Could I take a look round her room?’

She led him back up the stairs to a room decorated with pop posters. A single bed with a light-blue coverlet stood against one wall, a cream-coloured wardrobe against the other. Everything was neat and tidy. By the window a wire-mesh waste-paper bin nestled under a desk housing a flat-screen computer and an inkjet printer.

‘Is she on the internet?’ asked Frost.

Mrs Clark nodded. ‘Always messaging her friends, even though she sees them every day at school.’

Frost jabbed a finger at the keyboard, pulling it away quickly as the computer bleeped. He nodded knowingly as if the noise meant something to him, but he was completely computer illiterate. One of the technicians would need to have a look at the machine to see what secrets it held if it turned out that Debbie really was missing and not just having it away with the boy whose hand had been discovered exploring the contents of her blouse. He took a look at the waste-paper bin. This was more his sort of thing. He bent and pulled out some crumpled gift-wrap. A stuck-on label read ‘Happy birthday, darling from Mum.’ He frowned. ‘I thought her birthday was today?’

Mrs Clark took the wrapping paper from him and stared at it in puzzlement. ‘She’s opened it. Before her birthday… she’s opened it!’

Her husband came in the room. ‘What’s the matter?’ he barked.

‘It seems that Debbie opened one of her presents from your wife before her birthday and took it with her,’ Frost told him.

Clark turned to his wife. ‘What present?’

She paused before replying. ‘That bikini she wanted.’

Her husband exploded. ‘You bought her that bloody bikini? A twelve-year-old school kid? Didn’t I specifically tell you – ’

‘All her friends had one,’ cut in his wife.

‘Most of her friends are sluts – jailbait. My daughter isn’t!’

Perhaps you could discuss this some other time,’ said Frost wearily. ‘She was obviously going somewhere on her bike last night. Could it have been the swimming baths, to show the new costume off to her friends?’

‘It’s possible,’ said her mother. ‘She often went swimming there.’

‘Right, we’ll check it out,’ said Frost, winding the scarf back round his neck, ready to leave. ‘Oh – do you have a recent photograph?’

Mrs Clark stared at her husband, who paused before mumbling, ‘Nothing recent, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh?’ said Frost. ‘A school photograph, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Clark, not looking Frost in the eye. ‘There are no school photographs.’

‘Oh?’ repeated Frost, waiting for an explanation, but none came. ‘I see,’ he said eventually. But he didn’t see.

‘I take it you are going straight back to the station to organise a full-scale search for my daughter?’ demanded Clark.

‘As I said, it’s a bit too early for that at this stage,’ Frost told him.

‘Too early?’ echoed Clark angrily. ‘Too bloody early? She’s been missing since last night. How much longer are we expected to wait while you sit on your bloody arse, shuffling papers, while my daughter is out there, probably in the hands of some sexual pervert.’

‘I appreciate your concern – ’ began Frost.

‘Then bloody well do something about it.’

‘I’ve been involved in over a hundred missing teenager cases, Mr Clark. All the parents were worried sick, quite rightly, and in nearly every case the parents refused to accept the possibility that their child might have left home of their own accord. But in over 95 per cent of cases that is exactly what happened and their kids were only too glad to creep back home after a couple of days.’

‘You can quote your lousy statistics at me until you are blue in the face, but I want a full-scale search carried out now – this very minute…’

‘I’m sorry – ’ began Frost, but before he could continue, Clark moved towards him, his face contorted with rage.

‘You’re sorry? I’m the one who’s bloody sorry. I’ve been sent a useless, do-nothing idiot. Get out of my house. I’m having you taken off this case. I’ve got friends in very high places, as you will soon find out.’

With a nod to the weeping mother, Frost jerked his head for Jordan and Simms to follow him. They left the house.

Back in the car, Frost lit up a much-needed cigarette. ‘Friends in high places,’ he mused. ‘I bet they live on the top floor of a tower block.’

‘What do you reckon, Inspector?’ Jordan asked.

Frost exhaled smoke. ‘I don’t know. I still think she’s having it away with the boyfriend, but I’ve got a nagging suspicion that something nasty has happened to her. If we had more manpower down here instead of on loan to flaming County, courtesy of Superintendent bloody Mullett, I’d start searching – but we haven’t. Right, after you drop me off, go to the boyfriend’s house, check his hands for bra marks and check that Debbie isn’t there. Then go and see this girl Audrey, see if she knows more than she is telling – and find out why she stopped coming for sleepovers. Oh – and check the swimming baths. See if anyone remembers Debbie there last night. I still reckon she’ll be back in time for her birthday party, but we might as well pretend we’re thorough for a change.’

Superintendent Mullett, the Denton divisional commander, held the phone away from his ear. The shouting from the other end was overpowering.

‘… And I want a proper detective on the case, not that scruffy, rude, ignorant individual you saw fit to send to me this morning.’

‘Inspector Frost is a very capable officer,’ said Mullett, trying to sound as if he believed it.

‘Inspector Frost is an incompetent, ignorant oaf. A disgrace to the force. Are you going to organise a search party to look for my daughter, or do I have to go direct to my friend, the Chief Constable.’

Mullett straightened up in his chair at the mention of the Chief Constable.

‘He’s Debbie’s godfather – did you know that?’

Her godfather! Mullett’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Leave it to me, Mr Clark. I’ll get a search party organised right away.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘You have my word,’ floundered Mullett, nodding furiously to emphasise the fact.

‘Good, because I have recorded this conversation.’

A click and the dialling tone.

Mullett carefully replaced the receiver, mopped his brow and picked up the internal phone to summon Frost.

Frost’s radio gave an attention-snatching cough as he coasted into his place in the station car park. It was PC Jordan reporting.

‘Inspector, we checked the swimming baths. Yesterday was senior citizens’ night. A twelve- year-old girl in a bikini would have stuck out like a sore thumb.’

‘Lots of other things would have stuck out as well,’ said Frost.

‘Next, we went round to the boyfriend’s house. No reply. I checked with the neighbours. His parents are away for a couple of days and he is looking after himself. They saw him cycle off around seven yesterday evening, but didn’t see him come back and didn’t see any lights come on. There’s milk on the doorstep, the paper’s in the letter box, and no answer to our knocks.’

‘Have you spoken to that girl, Audrey?’

‘We’re on our way there now.’

‘Right. Let me know what she says.’ He clicked off and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Boy missing, girl missing, both on bikes. It was looking more and more obvious that they had done a bunk together. But a nagging doubt kept chewing away.

As he opened the door to his office, the insistent ringing of his phone greeted him. Before he could pick it up, Sergeant Wells burst in.

‘Just had Beazley – the boss of the supermarket – on the blower, Jack. They’ve heard from the blackmailer – he wants fifty thousand pounds.’

Frost re-buttoned his coat. ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’ As he left the office, he jerked a thumb at his phone. ‘Answer that, would you?’

‘It came this morning,’ grunted Beazley, a short, piggy-eyed man in his late fifties. ‘The bastard wants fifty thousand quid.’ He passed a sheet of paper with an envelope clipped to it over to Frost.

Frost held it carefully by the edges and skimmed through it. Like the previous note, it was handwritten in block capitals:

THAT WAS ONLY A TASTER. I’VE PLENTY MORE POISONS LEFT. PEOPLE WILL DIE. TO STOP ME PAY?50,000 INTO ACCOUNT NUMBER FDZ32432, FORTRESS BUILDING SOCIETY. DO IT TODAY OR THERE’S MORE POISON TOMORROW.

As Frost was reading, Beazley stripped the wrapping off an enormous cigar and lit up. ‘I phoned the building society to get the bastard’s name. They wouldn’t give it to me. Said they had to respect their client’s confidentiality. The sod’s trying to screw me for 50K and they want to respect his bleeding confidentiality

This is a copycat crime, thought Frost. There had been a similar extortion case in London some years before, where the blackmail money was paid into a building society account which the villain had opened with a false name and address. But today building societies insisted on proof of identity so this bloke, obviously an amateur, must be a real prat giving away a traceable number.

‘Are you going to pay it?’ he asked as a cloud of cigar smoke drifted across his face.

‘You tell me,’ grunted Beazley. ‘I’m not risking a single penny unless you can guarantee you can catch him. The sod could take the money and do it again.’

‘Pay it,’ said Frost. ‘He’s got to contact the building society to withdraw it. We’ll catch him.’

Beazley shook ash from his cigar and stared at Frost in disbelief. ‘Pay him? You’re saying I should cough up 50K on the off chance you might catch the sod as he withdraws it? Supposing you are up to your usual standard of efficiency and he draws the lot out while you’re arresting some poor sod for a parking offence? No way.’

‘Your choice,’ said Frost, standing and buttoning up his mac. ‘Let us know when he puts rat poison in your baby food and cuts holes in your condoms.’

‘Hold it!’ barked Beazley, flapping Frost back into the chair with his hand. He tugged at his lower lip in thought, drumming the desk with a gold fountain pen. Then he chucked the fountain pen down on the desk and jabbed a key on his phone. ‘Archer, get your arse in here now.’

Barely had he released the key than there was a timid tap at his door and a little man with thinning, sandy hair blinked nervously at him.

‘You wanted me, Mr Beazley?’

‘Yes,’ snapped Beazley. ‘I want a cheque made out right away for fifty thousand pounds.’

‘Who shall I make it out to?’ asked Archer.

Beazley stared at him in mock surprise, as if he was being asked a stupid question. ‘How the bloody hell do I know?’ He turned to Frost. ‘Who does he make it out to?’

Frost read from the blackmail letter. ‘Fortress Building Society account number FDZ32432.’

Archer had barely left the room before he was back, breathlessly clutching a large chequebook which he placed on the desk in front of Beazley. He stood back deferentially. With barely a glance at it, Beazley uncapped his fountain pen and slashed his signature as if signing for petty cash, then ripped out the cheque, more or less along the perforation, and handed it to Frost, who stuffed it unceremoniously into his mac pocket.

‘Right, Mr Beazley, leave the rest to us.’

Beazley flailed a podgy hand of dismissal and returned to his study of the store’s trading figures with a series of grunts and groans. As Frost left, Beazley was already on the phone to his hapless grocery manager. ‘Hoskins, what the bleeding hell is up with your weekend sales figures…?’

Once outside Beazley’s office, Frost dragged his cigarettes from his pocket and lit up. As he walked away, someone called out that he had dropped something. He looked down. Bloody hell! It was the flaming fifty-thousand-pound cheque. He scooped it up and put it in the comparative safety of his inside jacket pocket. ‘Your money’s safe with me, Mr Beazley,’ he told himself.

The note on Frost’s desk, pinned down by his ashtray, screamed in red block capitals: ‘MR MULLETT WANTS TO SEE YOU URGENTLY’. His internal and outside phones both rang together. Mullett would be on the internal, so he answered the other one first. It was PC Jordan.

‘Inspector, we’re over at that girl Audrey’s house. I think you’d better get over here right away and hear what her mother has got to say about Debbie’s father.’

Audrey, a serious-looking twelve-year-old wearing glasses, looked troubled.

Her mother – dark-haired, plumpish, in her late thirties – nodded grimly to Frost in greeting.

‘What have you got to tell me, Mrs Glisson?’ he asked.

She took one of Frost’s offered cigarettes. He lit up for both of them. She inhaled deeply and held the smoke in her lungs for a while before exhaling, a look of bliss on her face. A woman after Frost’s own heart. ‘I shouldn’t really be smoking. Those health warnings on the packets frighten the life out of me.’

‘It’s not a very good sales pitch, is it?’ smiled Frost. ‘So what can you tell us?’

Mrs Glisson turned to her daughter. ‘Go on, Audrey. Tell the inspector.’

‘Mum!’ protested the girl, shaking her head. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘Tell the detective why you stopped going to sleepovers at Debbie’s house – go on, tell him.’

Audrey lowered her head and talked to the tabletop. ‘It was her dad. He used to keep bursting in on us when we were getting undressed for bed. Never knocked or anything. And when I was in the shower, he’d charge in saying, “Oops, sorry, didn’t know you were there.” But he knew. He’d taken the bolt off the door – said it was broken.’

‘Did he touch you – interfere with you?’

‘No. I made sure I wasn’t alone when he was about.’

‘He’s a dirty bastard,’ said her mother.

‘What did Debbie say about this?’ Frost asked.

‘She seemed embarrassed… wouldn’t talk about it. She started to tell me something about him once, then clammed up.’

‘If you ask me, he’s been abusing his own daughter,’ offered Mrs Glisson, flipping ash on the floor. ‘If Debbie’s gone missing, Audrey reckons she’s either run away from her father or the sod’s done her in.’

‘Oh, Mum!’ protested Audrey. ‘I told you not to tell anyone.’

‘Debbie’s gone missing,’ insisted her mother. ‘You shouldn’t hide these things. It could be serious

‘It may not be that bad,’ Frost told them. ‘She could have run off with her boyfriend.’

‘What, Tom Harris?’ asked Audrey. ‘She might have done. She said they were going to get up to larks round his house this week while his mum and dad were away.’

‘They’re not round the parents’ house,’ Frost told her. ‘We’ve checked.’ Then he remembered. ‘Debbie took her new bikini with her. Any idea why?’

‘I know she and Tom used to go skinny dipping in that lake in the woods. She might have gone there.’

Skinny dipping? thought Frost. Bloody hell. What a lucky bastard that Tom is. In my day, if you caught sight of a girl’s bare knee you had to have a cold shower. But you wouldn’t take a bikini if you were going skinny dipping.

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

The girl and her mother both shook their heads.

‘Well, thanks for the information. If you think of anything else that might help, let me know.’ He scribbled his name and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to the mother. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

‘What do you reckon, Inspector?’ Simms asked when they were outside

Frost frowned thoughtfully. ‘The father definitely sounds like a dirty bastard. He might be interfering with his daughter, but we’ve got no proof. His wife knows something, but I don’t think she’d tell. When Debbie turns up we can see if she wants to make a complaint, but we’ve got to find her first.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared across to the dark shape of Denton Woods. ‘Skinny bloody dipping? A bit too flaming cold for that, surely. Just to be on the safe side, after you drop me off, go and have a look round the lake. It’s deep enough to drown in and you could easily get cramp swimming when it’s cold. See if their bikes are there.’ In his pocket, his hand found a piece of paper. The building-society account number given by the blackmailer. Shit, he’d forgotten about it… and he still had the cheque to pay in and he also hadn’t checked to see if the account details were genuine.

His mobile played its little tune. It was Bill Wells.

‘Jack, Mr Mullett’s going spare. He wants to see you right now.’

‘I think he fancies me,’ said Frost. ‘Tell him I’m on my way. And Bill, would you contact the Fortress Building Society and see who, if any one, has an account number FDZ32432.’

Mullett slid the heavy glass ashtray across just too late to stop Frost’s cigarette dropping a cylinder of ash on his desk. ‘His daughter,’ he said, ‘missing since last night and you tell him you have no intention of organising a search?’

‘Not at this stage,’ said Frost. ‘I’m more or less convinced she’s done a runner with her boyfriend…’ His voice tailed off. Doing his usual trick of reading upside-down memos in Mullett’s in-tray, he spotted one from Head Office with his name at the top. He carefully moved his chair forward so he could read what it was about, but Mullett forestalled him, quickly pulling the in-tray away and dropping some other papers on top. Frost’s eyes narrowed. Hello, what’s the slimy bastard up to?

‘Don’t you realise who you are dealing with, Frost? Clark is a very important man. He has the Chief Constable’s ear.’

‘I don’t care if he has the Chief Constable’s dick,’ replied Frost. ‘There’s no way I’m organising a full-scale search yet.’

Mullett reddened as he shot a glance at his office door to make sure the Chief Constable wasn’t suddenly within earshot. ‘Less of that sort of talk, Inspector. You may not know how to handle these matters, but I do. I have told Mr Clark I am authorising a full-scale search immediately for his daughter.’

‘I admire you, Super,’ beamed Frost approvingly. ‘Even though you know it will be expensive and a complete waste of time, will put us way over budget and we haven’t got the men to do it, you are still prepared to stick your neck out and risk all that for a friend of the Chief Constable. I’ll get on to outlying divisions right away and tell them you have agreed to stand the cost of the search on Denton’s budget.’

‘Other divisions?’ spluttered Mullett, realising he should have made some checks before committing himself to Clark. ‘Why do we need to involve other divisions?’

‘Because we haven’t the faintest idea where they went,’ explained Frost. ‘They both went out on bikes. They could be twenty, thirty forty miles away for all we know. They could even be in London by now. The girl didn’t take any money, but the boy might well have done. Still, if you’ve committed yourself, Super, I’ll put it in hand right away.’ He made to stand up.

‘Wait!’ Mullett weakly waggled a restraining hand. ‘What did you intend to do?’

‘Put out an All Divisions Missing Persons, make a few local inquiries and wait for them to come slinking back, the girl with her knickers in her handbag and a satisfied smile on her face. If they haven’t turned up by tonight, then I’ll think about a more thorough search.’

‘A token search now,’ pleaded Mullett. ‘Just a token search, so I can assure Mr Clark we have it well in hand?’

‘Don’t worry Super, I’ll fiddle it for you,’ beamed Frost. ‘I might need you to do me a favour one day.’

DC Morgan was waiting for him in his office. ‘I’ve got a DNA sample from that bloke, Guv,’ he announced proudly.

‘Great,’ said Frost. ‘Any problems?’

‘It wasn’t easy. First. he denied being anywhere near the car park last night. Flatly denied it. When I told him we had CCTV footage he changed his story and said yes, now he came to think of it he might have been there.’

‘He’d forgotten where he was the night before?’ asked Frost. ‘What is he – a doddery old sod or a Welshman?’

‘No, Guv… in his early forties, I’d say. Anyway, I asked for a DNA sample. I told him he had every right to refuse, but if he did refuse I’d arrest him on suspicion of assault and rape. In the end he agreed. He’s the rapist, Guv, I’m positive. It’s him.’

‘I wish you weren’t so bloody sure, Taff,’ muttered Frost. ‘You’re always flaming wrong.’ He thoughtfully fingered the scar that lined his cheek. ‘Do you think he might do a bunk?’

‘Nice house, nice wife, two kids and a dog, Guv. I can’t see him doing a runner.’

‘Play safe. Make an excuse to keep going back, Taff, and make sure he’s still there. And tell Forensic I want that DNA sample tested right away. We’re short staffed and the flaming cases keep piling up. Be great if we could get this one tied up sharpish.’

The door crashed open, banging against the wall, and an angry-looking Chief Inspector Skinner burst in. He glared at Frost. ‘You’ve let that Sadie tart go?’

Frost started to explain about the blackmailer and the baby milk powder, but Skinner cut him short.

‘Whatever the reason, in future you tell me first, not let me find out by walking into an empty cell.’

‘Good point,’ nodded Frost approvingly, as if praising Skinner for raising it.

‘Another thing. I’ve called a meeting for all station staff, four o’clock this afternoon in the main Incident Room. I’m briefing everyone on the way I’m going to run things here in future. Make sure you are there.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ cooed Frost.

Skinner stared at him. Like Mullett, he was never sure when Frost was being sincere or was taking the pee. He turned his attention to Morgan. ‘What are you doing here?’

Morgan told him about the DNA sample.

Skinner grunted and turned his attention back to Frost. ‘Right. For the moment, this is your case, Frost, but if the DNA is positive and it looks like we’re going to get a result, then I take over… comprende?’

You bastard, thought Frost. We do the hard work, you take the credit. But he nodded. ‘Comprende, signora.’

Again Skinner glowered at Frost. Was the man being insolent or didn’t he know what signora meant? No way of knowing for sure, but the fool’s days in Denton were numbered, so there was no point making a scene now. He spun on his heel and barged out of the office, leaving the door wide open.

Morgan closed it carefully. ‘I’ve heard about Skinner from my old division, Guv. He makes everyone else do the hard graft, then he steps in and takes the credit.’

‘I know,’ nodded Frost. ‘It’s like sweating away on the foreplay, then some other sod gets his leg over.’ His internal phone rang. Lambert from Control.

‘PC Jordan wants you to get over to Denton Lake right away, Inspector. They’ve found something.’

Frost’s heart skipped a beat. ‘The girl?’ whispered. God, not the girl.

‘No, Inspector. Another piece of chopped-off leg.’

‘Shit!’ said Frost.