Hard Frost

Thirteen

He arrived at the station early, anxious to check progress and then get well out of the way before Mullett arrived. Liz had beaten him to it and was already at her desk, hunched up over a stack of reports and a complicated-looking form which she was meticulously filling in. The office smouldered with her resentment.

Frost peeked over her shoulder. She was doing the quarterly crime clear-up rate statistical return. "I thought Mr. Cassidy was doing this?"

"No," she snapped. "I've been ordered to do them."

Frost rasped a match down the front of the filing cabinet. He offered a cigarette to Liz, who refused. "Too much to hope the boy's been returned?"

"I wouldn't know I'm only the clerical assistant." She fanned away the smoke which was drifting over her figures.

He thought he'd better take a chance and give Cordwell a ring in case the kidnapper had made contact, but at that hour of the morning, all he got was the answer phone He hung up, frowned and then yelled, "The answer phone Of course the bloody answer-phone!"

"Eh?" said Liz tetchily. She'd hoped that by coming in early she could get the return done without interruption.

"The answer phone repeated Frost. "Something's been bugging me about Graver's alibi and I've just realized what it was."

"Oh yes?" she said, flatly. He should be telling Cassidy, not her. She was only fit to fill in forms. "Don't forget we're going to see the woman in the cottage this morning."

"What woman?" frowned Frost.

"Primrose Cottage where Lemmy Hoxton was supposed to have pulled his last job."

"Later," said Frost, impatiently. "One case at a time. You spoke to their boss about his phone call to the store that night, didn't you? What did he say?"

She paused, pen hovering over a column of figures, and sighed. How many more times was he going to go over the same ground? She put the pen down and checked her notebook. "He spoke to Mark Grover just before midnight, which was round about the time his wife was killed and round about the time the neighbours heard the sounds of a quarrel." She snapped the notebook shut and went back to the return where she was trying to transfer some of Frost's figures to the main sheet. "Is this a three or a five?"

Frost squinted at it and shook his head. "Could be either. Does it really matter?"

Another sigh. Frost's figures were probably spurious anyway, so what the hell did it matter. She made it a five.

"The point is," Frost continued stubbornly, 'on the night the kids were killed I asked young Collier to phone the store to check with the security guard. But all he got was the answer phone The phones are switched off at night. So how could their boss phone them?"

Liz tapped her teeth with her pen. "But why should he he?"

"I thought we might go and ask him."

She looked down at the mass of papers on her desk, most of them with Frost's scrawled, indecipherable and mainly fictitious figures, and decided anything was better than this. She reached for her coat. "Why not?"

Frank Maltby, the owner of Denton Shopfitters, was not at home. His wife told them he was over at Bonley's department store supervising the counter fittings. Which is where they found him, a pugnacious little man with a loud voice, standing in the centre of acres of brand new red and blue carpeting which had been laid by Grover and Collard on the night the children were killed. Workmen on piece rates were hammering and sawing. Liz showed her warrant card while Frost was still digging down in his pocket amongst the cigarette ends for his.

Maltby scowled. "Now what?" His face went angry and he yelled over Frost's shoulder at a workman wielding a saw. "Mind what you're doing that's solid bloody mahogany you're ruining, not plywood." Back to Frost. "What is it now?"

Frost had to shout over the clatter of the hammering. "Just checking. Are you sure you phoned Mark Grover just before midnight?"

"Of course I'm sure. I told the tart the lady — her!" He jabbed a thumb at Liz.

"Well," yelled Frost, 'in spite of what you told the tart, the lady, her, we seem to have a problem."

"And what's that?"

"The store switchboard shuts down at eight and all calls go to the answer phone

Maltby gave a smug smile. "I didn't use the store's line. I called him on his mobile phone."

"His mobile phone?" echoed Liz in dismay. "I assumed you used the normal phone."

"Then you assumed wrong, darling, didn't you?"

"You told me he was definitely at the store."

"And so he was. Where else would he be?"

"Any bloody where he liked," said Frost. "He could have been having it away in bed with the tart, the lady, her, or he could have been back at home."

"Well, he wasn't, smart-arse. He was here working."

"And how can you be so bloody positive?"

"Because he bloody told me, that's why. Now if you'll excuse me, some of us have got work to do."

"All right," said Liz defensively as they walked back to the car. "It no longer proves he was at the store, but that doesn't mean he wasn't. We've got two other people who confirm he was there."

"You're too negative," said Frost. "He started off with three people supporting his alibi, and now there's only two. Let's go and see the night security guard."

They heard the radio squawking away as they neared the car. It was Cassidy at his smuggest. "Thought you'd like to know, inspector, I've got the case all tied up. Snell has confessed."

At first Frost couldn't take it in and stared at the handset in disbelief. "Confessed?"

"Coughed the lot the mother and the kids. Said it all happened in a haze he didn't know what came over him." There was a long pause. Frost, so sure Snell didn't do it, so bloody sure, couldn't think of a thing to say. "Are you still there?" asked Cassidy.

"Yes," said Frost hastily. "Sorry. Congratulations… good work." He did his utmost to sound sincere, but knew he hadn't succeeded. A rustling over the speaker as someone else took the microphone. It was Mullett.

"Whatever you are doing, Frost, I want you here, now — no excuses."

Frost switched off. "The bugger's confessed," he told Liz, still unable to believe it. "Which rather tends to shoot my theory that the father did it right up the arse."

She felt sorry for him. "You spotted an inconsistency that no-one else did, inspector… even Mr. Cassidy. You checked it out."

He flashed her a wry grin. "For a tart, a woman, a what's it, you're not at all bad, sergeant. Ah well, it's bollock-chewing time, folks. Back to the ranch."

Mullett was waiting for him and managed a quick jab with his finger at the chair just before Frost decided to sit anyway.

"Two things, Frost. The press have somehow got hold of the fact that you suspected Snell before the killings but did nothing about it. They're clamouring for a statement. Secondly, I've had Sir Richard Cordwell on the phone. May I take it you have not yet been in touch with him?"

"Not yet," said Frost.

"Not yet?" echoed Mullett in a tone of exaggerated disbelief. "You're telling me that you haven't even phoned to ask if, by some remote chance after last night's fiasco, the kidnapper had kept his side of the bargain?"

"I'm sure Sir Richard would have told us if he had," replied Frost.

"Pathetic!" snapped Mullett.

Frost nodded wryly. This time Hornrim Harry was right.

"You will not, I am sure," continued Mullett, 'be surprised to learn that there has been no such contact. Cordwell is convinced it is because of your clumsy intervention after promising to stay out of it." He leant forward. "You assured me nothing could go wrong. You gave me a categorical undertaking."

Frost did a mental playback of his conversations with the superintendent and was damn sure he had given no such assurance.

Mullett removed his glasses and polished them sadly. "I can't save you from the wolves this time, inspector." He oozed insincerity.

When have you ever? thought Frost.

"Now that he's laid out the money, Cordwell wants his pound of flesh. He was hoping to be feted as the saviour who paid the ransom and saved the child, but now that is no longer possible, he is settling for the benefactor whose excellent intentions were thwarted by police bungling. He has called a press conference for ten o'clock to tell everyone about the fiasco."

"There was no fiasco last night," said Frost. "We didn't show ourselves until long after the kidnapper had left with the money. The fact that the old boy Finch turned up on the scene with his fleabag of a dog had nothing at all to do with us."

A thin wintery smile from Mullett. "I imagine Sir Richard will tell the story slightly differently. But hear this, Frost," and he jabbed his finger at the inspector. "You are not dragging me down into the mire of your foul-ups." He waved a sheet of paper filled with his neat handwriting. "I am already drafting my report to the Chief Constable."

Frost nodded curtly as he stood up. "Don't take too much of the blame on yourself, sir, just to get me out of trouble… and don't overpraise me you know how embarrassed I get."

Mullett shrugged as he pulled the cap from his Parker fountain pen. He would let it go. With luck, the inspector wouldn't be with Denton Division much longer.

In the outer office the clatter of the typewriter suddenly started up as Ida Smith, Mullett's devoted private secretary, quickly returned to her typing after straining her ears to hear the music of her boss giving Frost a dressing down. She was loyal to Mullett and if he didn't like the inspector, then neither did she. In any case, the man was uncouth. That filthy seaside postcard! And she certainly wasn't bending down anywhere within jabbing range of that stubby finger. If it wasn't so embarrassing she would have put in an official complaint. She gave a malevolent smirk as Frost ambled past her. To her surprise he stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. "It's good to know I've got at least one friend in this place, Ida," he said, giving her a little squeeze.

Like her boss, it took her a little time to recognize sarcasm. She returned to her typing, hammering the keys as if they were nails to be driven into Frost's coffin.

Sergeant Johnnie Johnson waylaid him as he was on his way to his office. "Jack guess who's here to see you?"

Frost furrowed his brow as if giving this serious consideration. "Not Princess Di again I told her never to bother me at work."

"No."

"Then I give up." He was in no mood for guessing games.

"Tommy Dunn. He wants to see you."

"Well, I don't want to see him. He's dropped me right in it thanks to his bloody sticky fingers."

"He says it's urgent," insisted Johnnie, trotting behind him into the office.

Frost dropped into his chair, flicked through his in-tray and weeded out the two latest memos from Mullett, which he consigned to the rubbish bin. "What does he want?"

"He was charged with stealing last night. He wants you to get him off the hook."

"I want someone to get me off the bleeding hook. Tommy knows damn well I can't help him." He sighed. Dunn was a shit and a bastard, but he had done Frost one or two good turns in the past. "All right wheel him in… but for Pete's sake don't let Cassidy know he's here."

Dunn was an overweight, useless-looking man. A red-faced Oliver Hardy without the little moustache, and in his late forties. He waited for Johnnie Johnson to leave before sitting down. "Sorry about last night, Jack."

"You dropped me right in it, Tommy. Right flaming in it!"

"Wouldn't have had it happen for the world, Jack," mumbled Dunn. "Look you've got to help me. I don't want to go to prison. You know how they love ex-cops inside."

"You won't go to prison for a first offence."

"It's not a first offence, Jack. I had a similar unhappy experience when I was security guard over at Casheasy's in Lexton, then there was '

Frost cut him short. "Then how did you get a job with Savalot? I thought they vetted their security staff?"

"I fiddled my reference. I got some of their letter heading."

Frost held up a hand. "Spare me the details, Tommy. So what happened this time?"

"Silly mistake. I came out without any money so I took a couple of bottles from their spirits store. It wasn't pinching — I intended buying two bottles to replace them, but they caught me before I could do it."

"And what happened when they searched your house?"

"Another misunderstanding. They found some bottles of spirits and tried to make out I'd nicked them. But I'd bought them, Jack days ago."

"If you had bottles in the house, then why did you have to take two more without paying? I'm sorry, Tommy. You're not only a silly sod, you're a lying bastard as well. I'm pretty gullible, but even I can't swallow that."

Dunn pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. "I can't go inside, Jack. I couldn't face it. You're in with Cordwell. You've got to get him to drop these charges."

Frost gave a scoffing laugh. "Me in with Cordwell? He wants my head and my private parts on a platter, and with Mullett's help he's probably going to get them."

Dunn looked round to make sure the door was shut, then leant across the desk to Frost, his voice lowered. "A deal, Jack. I've got some dirt against him that you can use as a lever."

"I'm not getting involved in your bloody blackmailing capers," said Frost. "Forget it, Tommy. I can't help."

"At least listen to what it is, Jack."

Frost chucked him a cigarette and poked one in his own mouth. "All right, but make it quick."

Dunn took a long drag at the cigarette, squirted a stream of smoke then perched it on the edge of Frost's ashtray. "Do you remember that spate of forged ten and twenty pound notes we had in the town about eighteen months ago?"

Frost nodded. Some 30,000 worth had been passed before the bank twigged and the shops were put on the alert. They had never caught the gang, who had moved on to somewhere else and were eventually arrested in Manchester. "Mr. Allen's case. What about it?"

"Savalot got lumbered with about twenty thousand quid's worth of the forgeries."

"Too bad," said Frost, not giving a damn.

"If you remember, the gang started passing on a Friday Savalot's big shopping day. We whammed the takings into the bank on the Saturday morning. Monday was a bank holiday and we were open on the Sunday as well — three days of peak trading. Tuesday morning, first thing, the bank phones us the money we paid in on Saturday morning included four thousand quid's worth of forgeries. They told us how to spot them so we wouldn't take any more, but it was a bit bleeding late. We'd another three days' worth in the safe ready to pay in. Cordwell did his nut."

"I'm glad it had a happy ending," said Frost.

"You haven't heard the punch line yet, Jack. We didn't even get the forged notes back they were confiscated. So we checked the weekend's takings and there it was — another fifteen thousand quid's worth of phoney tens and twenties."

"There's going to be some point to all this, I hope," said Frost.

"Patience, Jack, patience. Anyway, once Cordwell realized we had all this duff cash and if he tried to pay it into the bank he would lose the lot, he went berserk, so he packed it all away in his safe. He's been hoping for a robbery or a fire so he can claim it off the insurance as genuine. And over the months he's been passing small amounts of it out to all his branches. It goes in the tills and gets handed out to customers in change. He's got rid of nearly two thousand quid that way and has only had a couple of come-backs. Anyway, let's jump to the ransom…"

A gleam flashed in Frost's eye. He was way ahead of Dunn now. "You're not trying to tell me he used the forged notes to help make up the ransom money?"

"Getting on for 13,000 worth. I don't suppose it's a crime to pay off a kidnapper in forged currency, but I bet he wouldn't want the public to know."

Frost leant back in his chair and beamed up at the ceiling. "Tommy, if you're telling me the truth…"

"I am, Jack, I am."

"Then not only are you off the hook, I might be as well." He opened the door and ushered Tommy out. "I'll be in touch but bake a cake with a file in it just in case." As Dunn turned the corridor, Frost was yelling for Burton. "Keep an eye on the shop, son. I'm off to see Cordwell."

Cordwell looked at Frost, his eyes glinting malevolently. "You've got two minutes, then the press conference. Have you caught the kidnapper or got the kid back?"

"No," said Frost.

"Then start scouring the Help Wanted ads, because you'll be out of a bloody job after today."

"I don't think so," said Frost.

"You sodded it up. You mounted an inadequate surveillance after assuring me you would not get involved. You let the kidnapper get away with my money and because the police were there, he won't release the kid, so you've got that on your bloody conscience."

"There's a rumour going around began Frost.

Cordwell banged his fist on his desk. "I am not interested in bloody rumours."

"You'll be interested in this one. The very strong whisper is that the reason the kidnapper hasn't kept his side of the bargain is because he didn't appreciate being paid out with forged banknotes."

Cordwell jerked back, wincing as if he had been hit, but quickly composed himself and picked up a paper knife which he gently tapped on his desk. He spoke quietly, looking at something behind Frost as if the matter was of no importance. "And who has been putting about these malicious rumours?"

Frost gave him a sweet smile. "A couple of nasty bastards me for one, Tommy Dunn for the other."

"Dunn? My crooked security man? The guy who's been emptying out my spirit warehouse? Is this where you got your information from?"

"We never reveal our sources," said Frost. He stood up. "I'll see you at the press conference."

Cordwell's eyes narrowed. "The press conference?"

"I want to suggest a few headlines for them," said Frost. "How about "Supermarket Chiefs Swindle Costs Child His Life"? It would take more than a penny off a tin of beans to make the public forget that.. Then, of course, the press will want to know about possible criminal charges, like being in possession of forged banknotes, withholding information from the police." He looked at his watch. "Better not keep them waiting."

Cordwell stabbed the paperknife into the desk top and left it quivering. "You're a bastard, Frost."

"It takes one to know one," smiled Frost.

"I presume I can buy my way out?" He brought out his cheque book and tapped it suggestively with a gold-cased fountain pen.

"A lot cheaper than you deserve," said Frost. "Forget the press conference and drop the charges against Tommy Dunn."

"Dunn's an ex-copper, isn't he? You bastards certainly look after your own."

"No-one else looks after us," explained Frost. "Lastly, I want full details of the duff notes… denominations, numbers, the lot… and I want them now. And warn your staff to be on extra alert for the forgeries. If our luck's in, he might try to start passing them." He slid the antique phone across the desk. "Do it now, please."

Cordwell picked up the phone. A tap at the door and his secretary looked in, cringing as she received the full force of his laser-beam scowl. "Sorry to disturb you Sir Richard, but the press conference is in two minutes."

"Get out of here, you cow. Tell them it's cancelled," yelled Cordwell.

As he breezed through the lobby, he was beckoned over by Johnnie Johnson. "What have you done to Mr. Mullett, Jack? He's been in a foul mood ever since you phoned him."

"It's relief coupled with joy," explained Frost. "He was heart-broken because he thought he was going to lose me and now he's over the moon because he isn't." He pulled the list of forged notes from his pocket. "Have this photo stated then taken round by hand to all banks, stores, garages, discount warehouses, public toilets, the lot. Get them to pay particular attention to anyone paying cash for large purchases, even in genuine notes. If anyone passes any of the duds we want to know right away."

Johnson took the list and, in return, passed over a thick wad of computer print-outs. "And this is for you, Jack. Details of all registered owners of Ford Escorts in Denton and the surrounding area."

Frost flicked over the pages. It went on and on and on… There were hundreds of names and addresses. "What silly sod asked for this?"

"You did, Jack. You're looking for the Ford Escort you saw just before the ransom money was taken."

Frost stuck the print-out under his arm. "I must have been bloody mad. Still, I won't be short of toilet paper this week it'll make a change from Mullett's memos."

Liz, her coat buttoned, was waiting for him in the office. "Ready when you are, inspector," she said.

"Ready for what?" asked Frost. "If it's sex, then shut the door I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

She didn't even flicker a grin. The return she had so meticulously prepared had been snatched from her without a word of thanks by Cassidy and she had heard Mullett praising him for such a good job. "You said we were going to Primrose Cottage where Lemmy Hoxton was supposed to have pulled his last job."

He hesitated. It was Cassidy's case, but Cassidy would have enough on his hands with Sidney Snell. He looked at the computer print-out and wondered if he should get people checking. But they didn't have the manpower and the list was too bloody long. "Primrose Cottage? Right, let's do it now."

Primrose Cottage, standing on its own at the end of a long winding lane, was a detached two-storey building erected in the sixties, but tar ted up to look as if it dated from the seventeen hundreds. The doors were oak, stained black to give the appearance of age, the tiny bow windows were chintz-curtained and the walls were painted a fading buttercup colour. A white wooden gate opened on to a path to the front porch. Frost ducked to miss the hanging flower basket and rapped at the well-polished brass knocker.

"Who is it?" called a woman's voice, raised over the sound of a dog yapping.

"Police, Miss Fleming," answered Frost. "Nothing to worry about just checking."

The door opened slightly on a length of stout chain and the proffered warrant cards were studied. Then, reluctantly, she let them in. Millie Fleming was in her early forties, slightly plump, dark brown hair, and wearing a pink woollen cardigan over a floral dress. The dog was a small spaniel which hid under a chair the minute they walked in. "Not a very good house dog, I'm afraid," she smiled, 'but we hope his barking might frighten any burglars away." They were in the living-room with its dark oak and chintzy furniture.

Frost patted the dog, which looked at him with big brown eyes filled with apology for its cowardice and licked his hand. "Seems friendly enough," he said. "How old is he?"

"About four months. We haven't had him long."

"You're pretty remote up here," said Frost. "You need a dog. Is it just you and your sister?"

"Yes. How can I help you, inspector?"

"Won't take up too much of your time. Did you have a visit from a man from the Water Board or someone who said he was from the Water Board?"

"A long time ago," she said. "About five years when we first moved in here. He turned on the water for us."

"This would have been a bit more recent than that about three months ago early August?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"He might have called when your sister was here," suggested Frost. "Is she in?"

"No. She works at the hospital she's a nurse. She should be back soon, though." She turned to Liz. "Can you tell me what this is about?"

"We had complaints of a man preying on women like yourself," said Liz. "He claimed to be from the Water Board. Got the woman to turn on the kitchen taps while he stole jewellery and money from the bedroom."

"Oh dear," tutted Miss Fleming. "How awful! If anyone comes here saying they are from the Water Board, I'll phone the police right away."

Frost fished in his pocket for the photograph of Lemmy Hoxton. "This might refresh your memory. Has this man ever called here?"

She took it to the window and studied it carefully, returning it with a shake of her head. "I'm pretty certain I haven't seen him before. Can I ask why this is considered so important that an inspector and a sergeant have called on me?"

"He was found dead," said Frost.

She clutched her dress. "Dead?"

"We're trying to trace his movements. We believe he intended to call here on the day he died."

"To rob us? Well, he didn't, I'm relieved to say."

A car drew up outside, then the sound of a key turning in the front door. The dog emerged from under the chair and raced out of the room, barking joyously. Millie Fleming stood up. "That will be my sister. Perhaps she might remember him."

She left them and went to the passage. A brief murmur of conversation, then she returned, followed by a dark-haired, vivacious-looking woman in her mid-thirties wearing a nurse's uniform. Her hair gleamed and her face had a well-scrubbed look. She wore black tights which, as Frost was pleased to observe, showed off terrific legs.

The two women sat side by side on the settee opposite him. "This is my sister, Julie," said Millie.

The nurse smiled, showing perfect teeth. I'd. love to have them nibbling round my ear-hole, thought Frost. "Millie says it's something about a man calling here?" she asked.

Frost quickly filled her in and showed her the photograph, but her response was the same as her sister's. "I'm pretty good at faces, but I can't recall seeing this man before."

"Is it possible he called, but you were both out?" asked Frost. "The afternoon of Friday, 6th August. Any way of checking if you were here?"

The nurse moved a stray wisp of hair from over her eyes. Frost was finding her disturbingly sexy and he wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. "Depending on what shift I was on, I would either be at the hospital or in bed asleep." She consulted a diary from her pocket. "Nights that week. I'd have been at home."

"And I'd probably be doing some gardening," said her sister. "I certainly didn't go out."

Frost exchanged shrugs with Liz. It didn't look as if Lemmy made it to Primrose Cottage that day.

They took their leave. "I didn't half fancy that little nurse," said Frost, settling himself in the car. "She can give me a blanket bath any time she likes."

Liz gave a knowing smile as she jerked the car into gear. "I don't think she would be very interested in you, inspector."

"Oh?" said Frost, deflated.

"I think she might be more interested in me."

"Eh?" It took a few minutes for the penny to drop, but he wasn't prepared to accept the insinuation. "Oh, come off it. How can you tell?"

"Women have a way of knowing."

He pictured the nurse again in his mind, then firmly shook his head. No way! He looked out of the window as they took a bend. "Stop the car!"

They were at a turn-off where a rut-ridden lane meandered down to a small farm. This was the spot where Duggie Cooper claimed he parked the van when Lemmy went cycling off into the sunset to Primrose Cottage. Frost peered down the lane, then looked back the way they had come. "If Duggie is telling the truth, Lemmy would have to come back this way. There's nowhere else for him to go." He scratched his chin. "The two women say he never arrived and Duggie says he never came back, so who is lying?" He signalled for her to drive on. "I think we had better talk to Duggie again."

Duggie was adamant. "I'm telling you, Mr. Frost, he pedalled up to the cottage on the bike and he never came back while I was there. Why should I lie?" Before Frost could come up with his reasons, there was an urgent tap at the door of the interview room. An excited DC Burton beckoned him over.

"Some of that funny money's turned up."

"Already?" asked Frost. This was bloody marvelous. He thought they might have to wait days.

"The bank phoned. They've just had over 6000 paid in, over a thousand of it in forged notes."

"Who paid it in?"

"Someone called Philip Mayhew, 47 Haig Avenue, Denton. I've checked with records. Nothing known about him."

"Then let's make the sod's acquaintance," said Frost, twisting his head back into the room and yelling, "Interview suspended."

It was a semi-detached house, newly pebble-dashed. Two cars, a Jaguar and a Ford Sierra, were parked in the road outside and there was a Range Rover in a driveway leading to closed garage doors.

"A lot of motors for one house," commented Frost as they cruised slowly past, surveying the situation. The curtains to one of the upstairs rooms were drawn. He wondered if the boy was up there. They drove round the block. There seemed to be no rear exit from the property, except by clambering over about six garden fences to reach the side road. In one of the gardens a large, rippling-muscled rottweiler paced up and down, looking ready to tear any intruders to shreds. Little chance anyone would risk that, but to be on the safe side Frost posted a couple of men in the side road. His mind raced over all the things that might go wrong, but there were too many of them to worry about. They stopped outside the front of the house. "AH right. Let's go, go, go."

Followed by Liz, Burton and two uniformed officers, he trotted up the path and hammered on the knocker. The door was no sooner opened when he slammed it back and the others raced inside.

"Police!" yelled Frost as the man, a brawny individual in his mid-forties, sporting a beard, and brandishing a baseball bat, tried to push the door shut, shouting for someone inside the house to call the police.

He swung the bat at Frost, but Liz, leaping on him from the back, managed to grab his arm and twist it. "Drop it!" The bat clattered to the floor.

"Police," repeated Frost, showing the man his warrant card. "And we've got a warrant to search these premises."

"You've got the wrong house," bawled the man.

"Are you Philip Kenneth Mayhew? Then we've got the right house. Let's go inside."

He pushed Mayhew through the first door leading off the hall which took them into a spacious lounge with an enormous five-speaker, cinema-sound television set that made the one Duggie had bought on Lemmy's card look like a portable. Suddenly, a woman in a tight-fitting black dress charged in, swinging an iron bar. Her long fingernails were painted silver. She looked as if she would happily use them to scratch Frost's eyes out. "I've called the police, you bastards," she screamed.

"We are the police," said Frost.

She lowered the iron bar, but kept it swinging in her hand, warily. This scruff looked nothing like a policeman. She was only half convinced when she studied his warrant card. "What's this all about?"

"That's what I want to know," said the man. "They claim to have a warrant."

"We have got a warrant," said Frost.

He gave it to Mayhew who skimmed through it and passed it over to the woman. "Call our solicitor," he said.

"You paid a large sum of money into the bank today," said Frost.

"No, I didn't. I haven't left the bloody house all day." He jammed a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a table lighter in the shape of a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.

"I'm telling you that you paid 6495 into Bennington's Bank in the High Street at 10.54 a.m. today," insisted Frost.

"And I'm telling you I did not," spat the man.

"If you must know, I paid it in," shouted the woman. "Why don't you get your bloody facts straight? No wonder innocent people get sent to prison." The sound of thuds and bangs from upstairs suddenly intensified and sent her head jerking up. "What are those buggers doing?" She went to charge out, only to be stopped by Liz. "Let me go, you cow."

Frost borrowed the Silver Ghost lighter for his own cigarette. He smiled sweetly at the woman, whose eyes were spitting bullets. "I don't give a sod who actually paid it in," he said. "All I'm concerned with is that over 1000 of it was counterfeit."

This stopped the woman in her tracks. She stared wide-eyed at her husband, whose jaw had sagged, showing his gold fillings. "Counterfeit?"

Frost nodded.

The man smashed his cigarette out in a round glass ashtray which. was enclosed in a miniature rubber car tyre. "The bastard. The lousy rotten bastard. I'll break every bone in his body."

"What particular bastard are we talking about?" asked Frost.

"The bastard I sold the car to."

Frost frowned. "What car?"

"The Honda Accord. He paid six and a half grand in cash and drove it away this morning."

"You sold him a car?"

"Hoo-bloody-ray," said the man, giving a mock clap. "A brilliant deduction. Yes, I sold him a car. That's what I do. I sell used cars didn't you damn well know?"

Frost didn't damn well know. Mayhew pushed a copy of the local free paper over to him. There was a block of cars for sale ringed round in the classified section. One of them was a Honda Accord priced at 6750.

The clatter of footsteps down the stairs and Burton looked in. His face told Frost they had found nothing, neither the ransom money nor any trace of the boy. "You'd better do this room," he told Burton. "The other two can do the garden and the shed."

He ushered May hew and his wife into the kitchen, a beautifully fitted room with expensive units, but empty bottles and unwashed crockery sprawled all over the place.

"It might speed things up if you told us what you were looking for," said Mayhew. "We might even be able to tell you where it is."

"We're looking for the rest of the money."

"What money? That's all he gave me. I paid it all into the bank."

Frost leant against the dishwasher. "Let's get this straight. You sell second-hand cars. So why did you try and attack us with a baseball bat?"

"Some people are dissatisfied with their purchase. Some come back very stroppy. We have to defend ourselves."

"So this has happened before?"

He shrugged. "Now and again. Some niggling little thing goes wrong and they want their money back."

"Niggling little things? Like the wheels falling off or sawdust leaking from the gearbox?"

"The condition of the cars we sell is reflected in the price. You can't expect an ex-showroom Mercedes for three hundred quid."

"Tell me about the Honda Accord," said Frost.

"This bloke phoned me."

"When?"

"This morning. Said he'd seen my ad in the local rag for the Honda. If it wasn't sold, he wanted to come round and have a look at it. I told him it hadn't been sold, but it was such a snip, he'd better get round quick before someone else snapped it up. He said he'd be round in half an hour."

"And was he?"

"Half an hour forty-five minutes… not long, anyway."

"And how did he come on foot?"

"No, in a grey Ford Escort. There was a girl with him. She drove."

"Did she come in with him?"

"No, she waited outside."

"Then what?"

"I showed him the motor it was parked where the Rover is now and I gave him a test drive round the block. He had a look at the engine and gave the tyres a kick. He asked how much I'd knock off for cash as if I'd take a bleeding cheque! He told me he'd had a win on the horses. I said, Then it's your double lucky day because I'll let it go for six-five. He said, "Done". We shook hands and he fetched a plastic carrier bag from the Ford. I brought him in the house to give him the logbook and his receipt, while the wife tipped the money out and counted it. There was a fiver short, but I wasn't going to quibble over a lousy fiver. He took the log-book and his receipt, then drove off, followed by the tart in the Ford. End of story."

The two uniformed men came in from the garden. "Nothing," they reported.

"You come back in a couple of days' time," Mayhew told them. "If I lay my hands on the bastard you'll find his body buried there."

Burton also reported he had found nothing in the lounge, but Frost didn't seem too worried. "If you gave him a receipt, you'll have his name and address?"

They followed Mayhew back to the lounge where he tugged open a sideboard drawer overflowing with papers. He gave Frost the carbon copy. "Jack Roberts, 187 Kitchener Street, Denton."

Frost passed it to Burton. "See if we know him."

Burton moved to the back of the room and whispered into his radio while Frost stubbed out his cigarette in the motor tyre ashtray. "Describe him," he said.

Mayhew thought for a moment. "Twenty-five, twenty-six. Hair in a pony tail. Not much meat on him… slim build, about five feet eleven. He was wearing jeans… frayed cuffs, dirty trainers."

"A bloody Beau Brummell," said Frost. "You weren't surprised he had six and a half grand on him?"

"Nothing surprises me in this game."

"When we pick him up, I'll want you to identify him."

"If I get to him first, he'll be the man with his dick ripped off."

Frost grinned. Things were going right for a change. With luck they could make their arrest and have the kid back within the hour. He looked up expectantly as Burton clicked off the radio. But the expression on the constable's face sent his hopes nose diving to the ground.

"House numbers in Kitchener Street only go up to 92," reported Burton. "That name and address are as phoney as his money."