Hard Frost

Fourteen

Frost sat on the corner of the desk in the briefing room, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He filled everyone in on the latest position with the kidnapping. "I'm getting worried," he told them. "He's got the ransom money, he's spending it, but he hasn't returned the boy. This could mean that Bobby is dead." There were nods of agreement. Most of the team were beginning to share this view.

He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. "We've got one bit of luck on our side. The kidnapper has no idea that some of the money is dodgy, so he's got no qualms about spending it. He's bought himself a red Honda Accord and we've got its registration number. He's local, and he's going to be driving it around, so everyone keeps their bloody eyes open." He nodded at Arthur Hanlon who had his hand up to ask a question. "Yes, Arthur?"

"How do we know he's local?"

"He spotted the ad for the Honda in the Denton Free Advertiser, which is only distributed locally. It only took him half an hour to reach the bloke who was selling it. We know a bit more about him. He's got a girlfriend who drives a grey Ford Escort, in which she is not averse to having it away, although, sadly, that probably applies to half the female population of Denton. Unless he's got a garage, the Honda could be parked out in the street, so go over every bloody street and back alley. Find the bastard. But remember, as much as we want him, more importantly we want to find the kid. If we spot him, don't pick him up… follow and keep me informed. Off you go…"

He watched them file out, then winced as Mullett came bowling in. "Another lead fizzled out, then, inspector?"

"Yes," grunted Frost. Go and gloat somewhere else, you vindictive sod.

"Pity you don't have the success Mr. Cassidy seems to be enjoying. It might not be a bad idea if you let him take over this case."

Frost tightened his lips, but said nothing. He stood up and squeezed past Mullett. "I think that's my phone ringing," he said.

He barged past Mullett who strained his ears, but couldn't hear a phone.

Bill Wells grabbed him just as he was going out for a drive around. Anything to get away from Mullett. "Sidney Snell wants to talk to you, Jack."

"Not my case," grunted Frost.

"He says it's very important."

"Where's Cassidy?"

"Out somewhere."

Frost shrugged. What the hell it wouldn't hurt to find out what Snell had to say. He followed Wells down to the cells and waited while the door was unlocked. Snell, sitting on the bunk bed, hugging his knees, looked up plaintively.

"I didn't do it, Mr. Frost."

"You haven't dragged me down here just to hear that same old cracked record, I hope, Sidney. I know it off by heart. "I didn't do it, Mr. Frost, honest, on my mother's grave."

"Well, this time it happens to be true."

"Even if it is, so what? You're a scumbag, Sidney… for that alone you deserve to be banged up."

"But not for something I didn't do. I don't kill kids and I don't kill women."

"But you do sign bleeding confessions," said Frost.

"He made me, Mr. Frost. Mr. Cassidy kept on and on telling me I did it, and that I'd feel better if I got it off my chest. In the end I just signed the confession to get a bit of peace."

"I reckon you'll get twenty-five years' worth of peace, Sidney perhaps a couple of days less for good behaviour."

"I confessed, but I didn't do it," Snell insisted.

"The Guildford Four, the Birmingham Six and now the Denton One. Face up to the facts, Sidney. One of the dead kids was stabbed, the way you stab little kiddies, your blood and chunks of flesh are over the plywood on the back door panel. You were seen running away afterwards. And if that wasn't enough, you're a slimy little bastard, and I hate the sight of you."

"I was there that night, Mr. Frost, I don't deny that. I followed her about when she took the kids out to the park, and I used to stare at her through the windows… but I never killed her or the kids."

"So why did you break in at one o'clock in the morning? To apologize?"

"All I intended to do was look through the window. As God is my witness, Mr. Frost, that's all I intended doing, but sometimes I can't control myself… The devil talks to me."

"And what did the devil say "Kill them all, just to spite that silly sod Mr. Frost who should have had you arrested, but was too bleeding lazy"?"

"He drew my attention to that loose sheet of plywood. He said I should push my hand through and unbolt the door." Snell rubbed his bandaged hand. "I just meant to look at them… I like looking at kiddies asleep in their cots."

"I like looking at naked nymphomaniacs, but I couldn't promise I'd just look at them. You had your stabbing knife with you, and you bloody used it."

Snell buried his face in his hands. "Just enough to break the skin, Mr. Frost. I can't help myself. I don't know why, but I like it when I see the blood… tiny drops of red on their little arms."

"Look out, Sidney, you're dribbling," said Frost.

Snell wiped his mouth. "I get a sexual kick out of it, but I don't kill — I couldn't."

Frost sat down on the bunk beside him and lit up a cigarette. "According to your statement, the kids woke up and started screaming

… all three of them. You had to silence them, so you used the pillow

… and then their mother came running in and you had to kill her as well."

"No!" Snell was almost shouting now. "Mr. Cassidy put the words in my mouth. I couldn't kill anyone. I'm terrified of death and dead bodies." He waved away the cigarette Frost was offering. "They made me look at my mother's dead body in the hospital. She was all shrivelled up. She looked horrible."

"She looked pretty bleeding horrible when she was alive," said Frost.

"I thought they were showing me the wrong body… but it was her. I ran out and never went back. Do you think I'd want to see any more dead bodies after that, Mr. Frost?" He shook his head firmly. "No way… no way!"

"If you want to withdraw your confession," said Frost, 'then tell Mr. Cassidy. This isn't my case."

Snell ignored him, eyes glazed in recollection. He was back in the house that cold, frosty night. "I tiptoed over to the kids' room. I pushed open the door and held my breath. It was so quiet that should have warned me something was wrong. You can usually hear kids… they make a hell of a row when they're asleep, snorting and snuffling. But I was too excited to worry. There was this little boy. He had little podgy arms lying on top of the eiderdown. I pulled back the sleeve of his pyjamas and pricked him, very quickly. It doesn't hurt them, Mr. Frost. They get frightened when they wake, but it doesn't hurt them. I broke the skin, but he didn't murmur or wake up. I let go of his arm and it just dropped down. And when I touched his face, he didn't move, and I couldn't hear him breathing. None of them were breathing. Then I realized he was dead… they were all dead. I was in a room with three dead kids. I panicked. I charged straight out through the front door and into the street."

"Was there anyone about in the street at the time?"

"An old boy with a dog. I nearly sent him flying."

"We know about him. Anyone else?"

"I didn't see anyone. I just raced for the car and got the hell out of there. You've got to help me, Mr. Frost. I'm innocent."

Frost dropped his cigarette end and stamped it to death on the cell floor. "You're not innocent, Sidney. You're a perverted little bastard who interferes with kids. We might have got you for the wrong crime, but so what the end result's the same. You get put away and everyone's happy."

"But if I'm banged up for this, Mr. Frost, it means the real killer gets away with it."

Frost sighed. "All right, Sidney, I'll have a sniff around and see what I come up with but don't hold your breath." He yelled for Bill Wells to let him out. "Gross miscarriage of justice," he told the sergeant.

"The only miscarriage of justice would be if they ever let the sod out," said Wells.

The tottering heap in his in-tray looked ready to fall over at any minute. He skimmed through it to see what he could throw away. A thick wad turned out to be the Crime Rate Detection Statistical Analysis that Liz had prepared with the request that he should check through it and sign it as correct. He signed it unread and hurled it into his out-tray. Then all the papers on his desk fluttered as Cassidy, his face distorted in anger, burst in and jabbed an accusing finger. "You've been talking to Snell?"

"He asked to see me."

"Whether he asked to see you or not, he is my prisoner and this is my case. You ask me first understand?"

"All right," shrugged Frost. "Keep your hair on." He was getting more and more fed up with Cassidy.

"What did he want to see you about or did you intend keeping that to yourself?"

"He said he didn't do it."

Cassidy fluttered pages of stapled typescript in Frost's face. "He has signed a confession!"

"He wants to withdraw it."

Cassidy's face went a dirty brick red. His fists clenched and unclenched as if he was ready to punch Frost on the chin. "It may not fit in with your crack-pot theories but Snell, the man you refused to arrest, has admitted everything. He did it the kids and the mother. So stay away from him. This is my case and I don't want you ruining it to satisfy your own personal ego." With one last sizzling death-ray of a glare, he spun round and stamped out of the office, nearly sending Burton flying as he did so.

Burton had to clear his throat to attract Frost's attention. "Mr. Cassidy sounded a bit upset?" He tried hard to keep the pleasure out of his voice.

"You noticed it too?" said Frost in mock surprise. "I thought it was just me. What can I do for you?"

"You told us to keep an eye on Ian Grafton's place."

Frost frowned. "Then I'm sure I had a good reason for it but who the hell is Ian Grafton?"

"The bloke who took Tracey Neal to the bank when Carol Stanfield was abducted."

"Ah the bloke with the pigtail. What about him?"

"A lot of expensive hi-fi equipment was delivered there this morning. Nine hundred and ninety-five quid's worth."

He now had Frost's full attention. "Right check with the shop. Find out how he paid for it."

"I did," said Burton, sounding hurt. It was the first thing he had done. "Cash. Spot cash."

Frost unhitched his scarf from the hat-stand. "I think he's worth another visit, son."

"What now?" asked Burton.

Frost paused. His mind was still on Snell and the three dead kiddies. "No. There's something I want to do first. That security guard who said Grover and his mate never left the store. I want to talk to him."

"But that's Mr. Cassidy's case," Burton pointed out. "Didn't he just say '

Frost's hand flashed up to cut him short. "I didn't quite catch what Mr. Cassidy said, son. He was shouting so much. But I'll check with him when we get back."

The security guard, Paul Milton, lived in a small, three-bed roomed terraced house on the far side of the golf course. If it wasn't for the swirl of damp mist clinging to the green, the bungalow where the tragedy took place could just about be seen, from his upstairs window. Milton's wife, a six-month-old baby in her arms, let them in. "He's just gone up to bed," she told them. "He's on nights this week."

They followed her into the dining-room where a chubby boy of two was sitting in a high chair chewing solemnly on a slice of bread and jam.

"We would like to see him," smiled Frost. "It won't take a minute."

"Paul!" she yelled, as she plonked herself down next to the high chair and started shovelling Heinz baby food down the infant's throat.

"What is it now?" replied an irritated voice from above. "I've only just this bloody minute gone up."

"Police!"

"What do they bloody want?"

"If you bloody come down you'll find out."

Paul Milton, tucking his shirt inside his trousers, staggered into the room. He was bleary-eyed and unshaven. "I should be asleep," he moaned to Frost. "I'm on duty tonight." He sat in a chair next to his wife. "What can I do for… Shit!" The expletive because the baby had spat a mouthful of food all over him. The little boy in the high chair dropped his bread and jam on the floor and started to cry. "It's like a flaming madhouse in here," he yelled as his wife placidly retrieved the slice of bread, picked off the worst of the fluff and returned it to the child. He stood up and buttoned his shirt collar. "We'll go in the lounge."

He led them out into the passage, but as his hand reached for the door handle to the lounge, he hesitated and did a U turn. "Perhaps the kitchen would be better."

But nothing could have been worse than the kitchen which was a tip, even by Frost's low standards. Unwashed plates and saucepans piled high on the draining board, bits of food on the floor alongside a long-unemptied cat's litter tray. A nappy bucket, filled to overflowing, was parked alongside the washing machine. Milton shook a chair to dislodge a heap of mucky bibs and nappies and waved a hand for Frost to sit. The invitation was hastily declined, as was the offer of a cup of tea

Frost lit up a cigarette. He wasn't sure if it was the cat's litter tray or the nappy bucket that was getting to him, but hoped his cigarette smoke might improve the atmosphere. "Couple of questions to ask you, Air Milton. I know you've covered all this ground already, but I just want to be absolutely sure. It's about Mark Graver."

Milton sighed and shook his head in sad disbelief. "Those poor kids. His wife must have been right round the bend." He pulled a face at the howls from the dining-room. "I often feel like wringing my own kids' necks, but I'd never actually do it."

Frost gritted his teeth against the noise. "If you feel like doing it now, Mr. Milton, don't let us stop you." He consulted his notes. "Grover told one of my officers that he and Phil Collard arrived at the store around eight to do the carpet and didn't leave until around ten to two in the morning. Is that correct?"

He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. "Quite correct."

"Any chance either of them could have left the building without you knowing?"

"No way. It's all electronically controlled. I'd have to operate the switch."

"They were working on the top floor. Where were you?"

"Either in my cubicle by the back entrance, or doing my rounds. I have to cover every floor at half-hourly intervals and click a key into time locks."

"While you were on your rounds, could they have got out?"

"Not without setting off the alarms when the door opened and they'd have to have the master key and that was with me all the time. If they wanted to go out, they only had to ask it's not a flaming prison."

"And they didn't ask?"

"No." Another yawn.

Frost accepted this gloomily. He was convinced Mark Grover had found a way to leave the store without anyone knowing, but he couldn't see how he could prove it. "Thanks for your trouble, Mr. Milton. We'll let you get some sleep."

At the door to the lounge he stopped. Why didn't Milton want to take them in there? What was he hiding? Stuff nicked from the store perhaps? He reached for the door handle. "Is this the way out?" he asked innocently.

"No, — not in there," called Milton, running forward, but he was too late. Frost was already insider

The strong aroma of expensive new wool filled the room, a smell Frost had noted earlier in Bonley's department store. Woollen carpeting. He switched on the light. And there it was, on the floor, red, blue and expensive, stretching from wall to wall. The pattern was very familiar. It was the design for Bonley's new restaurant, an exclusive design, specially made and imported for them.

"I spy," said Frost, 'with my little eye, something that has been nicked."

"An odd remnant that was left over," spluttered Milton. "It would only have gone to waste."

Frost sat down on the settee and prodded the carpet's springiness with his foot. "Tell me about it."

"Someone must have made a mistake with the measurements because there was this great chunk of carpet left over… so me and the fitters had half each."

"How did it manage to find its way from the store to here?"

Milton shuffled his feet and wouldn't meet Frost's eye. "They dropped it in for me."

"So Grover and Collard did leave the store that night?"

"Well yes. But not for long… hour or so at the most."

"And you lied to us?"

"A white lie. I'm supposed to be the security guard. If Bonley's ever found out I was party to sneaking out a thousand quid's worth of top quality carpeting, I'd have been for the high jump."

"You still might be for the flaming high jump. We're investigating a murder and you are making false statements to the police. Unless you want to get deeper into the mire than you already are, you'd better tell me everything… right from the start… and the bloody truth this time."

"All right. They turned up just after eight, like I said, and they worked like the clappers didn't even stop for anything to eat. By midnight they were well on the way to finishing and they find there's a dirty great chunk of carpeting left over… worth around a thousand quid, so

Mark Grover reckoned. We made a deal. They'd lay it in my lounge for me and they'd keep the rest. Just before midnight I let them out. They dropped off my bit and took their own piece. They were back again around half-past one and finished off at the store… Yesterday afternoon the fat one Phil Collard called here to lay it for me. He stressed we should all keep our mouths shut about the other night, in case we got found out."

Frost gnawed away at his thumb knuckle. "How did they seem when they came back?"

"Same as always. I didn't pay them too much attention as I was due for my next round of clocking on. I could hear them working away up there and just before two they came down and went off home. You won't tell my firm, will you?"

Before Frost could reply, Burton was hammering at the front door. "Control have radioed through. The red Honda Jordan and Simms have found it parked in Whitmore Avenue."

As the car sped through the traffic, Frost brought Burton up to date regarding his talk with the security guard. "So that's Mark Grover's alibi shot right up the fundamental orifice."

"So he could have done it," said Burton grudgingly, inching the car forward in anticipation of the traffic lights changing, 'but that doesn't prove that he did do it."

"You're too bloody finicky," grunted Frost. "Mr. Cassidy won't like it but I'm having Grover and his fat mate in for more questioning." They turned a corner and Frost pointed. "There's the area car…"

PC Jordan, in Charlie Bravo, was waiting for them down the side street while PC Simms, a mac over his uniform, was in Whitmore Avenue keeping an eye on the Honda. "Let's take a look," said Frost.

He went with Jordan and cautiously peered round the corner. Whitmore Avenue was a broken-down terrace of three-storey houses, some of them with basements. Many of the buildings had been split up into flats, others, beyond repair, were boarded up and empty. The road was jam-packed with cars, mostly old bangers, but the nearly new red Honda, gleaming under the light of a nearby lamp post, screamed at them as the odd man out.

"About as inconspicuous as a topless tart in a monastery," commented Frost.

Simms wandered down to join them. "We're presuming the kidnapper is in one of the houses," he told Frost, 'but we don't know which one. He's probably stuck it where there was a vacant space and not necessarily outside where he lives."

"He may not even live in this street," said Burton. "He could have parked it well away from his own place."

"No," said Frost. "A shiny new motor in this bloody neighbourhood. He'll park it where he can keep an eye on it. A fiver says he lives in one of these houses."

They went back to the side street to await reinforcements. In a couple of minutes another car shuddered to a stop behind Frost's Ford and Liz Maud, accompanied by two other officers in plain clothes, got out. A burst from the radio. Another car with four more officers was on its way. Frost directed them to go round the block and wait at the opposite end of Whitmore Avenue. It might be over-kill, but he was taking no chances this time.

Back with Burton to take another look. There were some twenty three-storeyed houses on each side. "Damn," muttered Frost. "We can't go knocking at bloody doors asking for the owner of the red Honda to come out. If he's got the kid holed up here, we could end up with a hostage situation."

"So how do we get him out?" asked Burton.

Frost thought for a moment, then he walked over to a ramshackle waist-high brick wall that protected the basement area of a boarded-up property. The cement was crumbling and most of the bricks were loose. He worked a brick free and walked casually over to the red Honda. A quick look up and down the street, then with a hefty blow he smashed the brick down on the driver's window, shattering the glass.

Immediately the car alarm system screamed out and the car lights flashed on and off. Frost stuck his hand through the broken window and tried to reach the cassette player on the dash.

A shaft of light sliced across the street as an upstairs window shot up. A man leant out. "Get away from my car, you bastard." Frost ignored him, still reaching for the cassette player.

The head disappeared and a few seconds later the street door opened and the man burst out, charging across the road, his pony tail flying. "Go, go, go!" yelled Frost into his radio, realizing even as he said it that he hadn't positioned his team properly.

The police thudded down from each end of the street. Half-way across the road, the man hesitated, spotted the stampede and turned to run back to the house.

"Shit!" snarled Frost. He hadn't made certain someone was near to cut off his escape. If the man got back inside and slammed the door they could be faced with the very hostage situation he had tried to avoid. He started to chase after the man, but quickly realized he was not going to make it in time. To his relief, he saw that Liz had had the foresight to run down the other side of the road, ready to block his path.

"Stop… Police!" she yelled.

"Out of my way, you bitch," screamed the man, his fists flailing. It wasn't quite clear what happened next. Like a terrier after a rat, Liz darted forward, grabbed the man's arm. Her knee came up, the man yelped with pain and collapsed to the ground, clutching his groin. Before he had time to recover, Liz had him face down and was pinning his arms behind his back. Then Burton and Frost were with her.

"Get this fat cow off of me," yelled the man.

Burton leant down and snapped the cuffs on his wrist. "You're nicked," he said, rather redundantly. Liz stood up, dusting herself down, while Burton hauled the man to his feet and went through his pockets. He found a driving licence and flipped it open, then handed it to Frost.

"Craig Hudson. Is this you?"

The man, white-faced, nodded.

"And is this your car?"

"Yes and you'll pay for the damage, you bastard." Then the pain gave him a jab making him hiss through clenched teeth. "That bloody cow — I need a doctor."

"Play your cards right and she might kiss it better," said Frost, grabbing him by the arm. "Let's go inside and have a talk."

They marched him back into the house and up a flight of stairs covered in dark green lino. The door to the first-floor flat was wide open and they walked into a largish room, barely furnished with a TV set and a three-piece suite in a faded floral moquette. The floor was littered with empty foil take away food containers and the spicy reek of take away curry battled with marijuana for supremacy. At first they thought the room was empty, but a puff of thick smoke billowed above the back of the settee. Lying full length, a dark-haired girl in her early twenties, eyes half closed and a look of utter euphoria on her face, was dragging at the fat parcel of a hand-rolled joint. She had on a grey sweater which had been rolled up to her neck, exposing gorgeous bare breasts and a flat stomach. Her jeans and black knickers were round her ankles. "I hope we haven't interrupted your meal," murmured Frost politely, his eyes bulging.

The girl smiled blissfully and offered Frost a drag on her joint.

"Get yourself covered up," hissed Liz.

"Leave her," said Frost. There had been too few perks with the job recently. He dragged his eyes away and turned his attention to the man. "Sit!" he commanded. Burton pushed him down into the chair.

Sounds of a commotion from downstairs, then heavy footsteps and Cassidy came barging in. "Mr. Mullett thought I should be in on this," he announced.

"Great," said Frost, flatly. Cassidy was Mullett's blue-eyed boy at the moment. Quickly, he filled him in, then got Jordan and Burton to thoroughly search every room in the house. And next they would have to check every house in the street. The boy could be bound and gagged in any of the derelict boarded-up properties. Back to the man. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Don't sod us about," shouted Cassidy. "You know damn well who we mean. Where is the boy?"

"Boy? What boy?"

The girl on the settee had let her cigarette go out and was now humming a little song to herself as her hands rubbed up and down her body. Frost was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the matter in hand.

"Bobby Kirby," said Cassidy. "Where is he?"

"Never heard of him," said the man. "Can I have these handcuffs off now, please."

"When we're ready," said Cassidy.

"Take them off," said Frost. Hudson wasn't going to try anything now.

Burton unlocked them, watched by a scowling Cassidy, angry that Frost had undermined him.

Hudson rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation. "I demand to know what this is about."

"Shut up!" snarled Cassidy. "I do the bloody demanding, not you."

Jordan signalled to Frost from the door. He'd done a quick check through the flats in this house. No sign of the kid. He was moving on to the other houses.

Cassidy was about to interrogate Hudson further when Frost suddenly came out with the stupid question, "Where did you get the take away

Cassidy gaped and stared in disbelief. What the hell did that matter? They were looking for a missing kid, for Pete's sake!

Seeing Cassidy's annoyance, the man grinned. "The Taj Mahal round the corner. Why do you want some?"

"Did you collect it, or was it delivered?"

"Delivered. What the bloody hell is this about?"

Frost took Liz to one side. "Nip round the Indian and find out what was delivered."

She looked at him the same way Cassidy did. "Why?"

"If they've got the kid here somewhere, I'm hoping they'll feed him. Miss Curry-tits on the settee doesn't look as if she could butter a slice of bread without getting it all over her nipples, so I'm hoping they might have got three meals in from the take away

Begrudgingly, she acknowledged the sense of this and went out to make her enquiries.

Cassidy went back to his questioning. "You paid six and a half grand for a car. Where did a scumbag like you get that sort of money?"

"I had a win on a horse."

"What horse?" barked Cassidy.

Hudson fired the answer straight back. "Dancing Foam, two o'clock race, yesterday."

There was a morning paper on the floor by the settee. Frost opened it at the racing page and checked. "He's right. Dancing Foam won five to one."

"You see!" smirked Hudson.

"But at five to one," pointed out Frost, 'you'd have to stake over a thousand quid to win your motor money. To quote my good friend Mr. Cassidy, where did a scumbag like you get a thousand quid?"

"I saved it up."

"I knew there was a logical explanation," said Frost.

Burton came into the room triumphantly brandishing the travel bag. "Look what I found stuffed behind the wardrobe," he said.

Frost unzipped it. It was packed tight with ten and twenty pound notes. "Did you save this up as well?"

Hudson stared at it, then jerked his head away. "Nothing to say," he mumbled.

"You'd better bloody say something," snarled Cassidy. "This money was used to pay the ransom for Bobby Kirby. You're in serious trouble, my friend. So where is the boy?"

"I don't know anything about the boy." He slumped back in the chair.

Frost leant over him and pointed to the near-naked girl on the settee, who was stroking her breasts with feathery fingers and grinning inanely. "Take a good look, son. You won't get any more of that if you're doing twenty years in the nick. I'd start answering a few questions if I were you."

Hudson looked over at the girl, who grinned back at him and wriggled her body provocatively. "All right. I found that money."

"Where?"

"Dumped by a rubbish bin, just outside the car-park in the town centre."

"You're a bloody liar," yelled Cassidy. "Where is the boy?"

"How many more times? I don't know anything about the damn kid."

The girl on the settee had now decided to try and sit up. The effort made her giggle. Frost went over to her and shook her by the shoulders roughly. Her head snapped from side to side and her hair fell all over her eyes. A bonus was her breasts which swayed delightfully from side to side like the head of a questing snake.

Frost found a part of him enjoying the view, the other deeply concerned about the boy. "Where is he?"

She gaped up at him, trying to focus through wisps of stray hair, her expression one of bemused delight. "I love it when you get rough …"

"I haven't started getting rough yet," snapped Frost. "Where is the kid?"

"I haven't got a kid," she giggled. "I'm on the pill."

Frost let her drop. This was useless. He beckoned Burton over. "Get SOCO and Forensic… and tell Sergeant Wells I need a lot more men down here." He turned to Cassidy. "Take Hudson and Miss Curry-belly down to the station and try and get them to tell us where the kid is. I'll follow on as soon as we've got things organized here."

Blankets from the bedroom were draped over the girl and she was hustled out with Hudson.

Frost smoked and watched and tried not to get in anyone's way as he waited for Forensic and SOCO. "Go over every inch of this place," he told them. "We want to know if the kid has been here." Slamming of car doors outside as more men arrived. He went down to meet them. "Search every building in the street. Search every flat, every basement, occupied or not kick in doors if necessary, I'll carry the can if anyone complains." He waited while Burton organized them into search groups, then drove back to the station.

Hudson, in the white one-piece boiler suit they had forced him to put on while his clothes were taken away for forensic examination, sat in the interview room rubbing his wrists and his groin. If he ever met up with that cow of a policewoman on a dark night… He stared moodily at the uniformed officer leaning against the green-painted walls. "How much longer?"

The officer shrugged.

"Where's Cindy, my girlfriend?"

Again the officer shrugged.

"Can I have a fag?"

"I don't smoke," said the officer, sounding pleased he was able to deny this to the prisoner.

Hudson looked up as Cassidy, followed by Detective Sergeant Hanlon, came in. "About bloody time."

Cassidy gave the prisoner his long, hard stare and waited for Hanlon to load up the cassette recorder. "My name is Cassidy, Acting Detective Inspector Cassidy. Also present is Detective Sergeant Hanlon. Where is the boy?"

"You don't bloody listen, do you? Watch my lips I know nothing about no boy."

"You demanded a ransom. You paid for a Honda Accord vehicle with part of that ransom money."

"I told you, I found it!"

"You are lying."

"Prove it!"

"Where's the kid?"

"I don't know anything about any kid…"

Frost waited impatiently in his office for the result of the search, a cigarette smouldering away in a disgusting-looking ashtray, piled high with grey ash. Liz had phoned through to report that the Indian take away had delivered a meal for two, not three. If they had the kid, surely they would feed him… or perhaps the kid was dead, so they didn't have to. Hudson wasn't intelligent enough to have organized the kidnap. Perhaps someone else was behind it… the girl? She was still in no state to be interviewed, so it was up to Cassidy to try and get something from the man.

"Any news?"

It was flaming Mullett in his smart, TV interview uniform. He'd been sticking his head round the door every five minutes.

"Nothing yet," Frost told him.

Mullett scowled as if the lack of progress was Frost's fault. "I want a quick result on this one."

"I believe you have mentioned it, sir," muttered Frost. The phone rang. He snatched it up. Burton calling from the flat. "Forensic have crawled over every inch of the place. Not a damn thing to link Hudson with the kidnapping apart from the ransom money, of course."

"And how is the search of the other properties going?"

"No joy so far. A couple of people have refused permission to let us in to their premises."

"Sod their permission. Go in anyway. We can always apologize afterwards." He hung up. Mullett pretended not to have heard Frost's instructions so he could absolve himself from any involvement in the event of a comeback.

Frost glanced at his watch. What the hell was Cassidy playing at? He'd been questioning Hudson for well over an hour. A clatter of footsteps down the corridor and Cassidy came in, looking angry and frustrated.

"I can't get anywhere with him. He denies any knowledge of the kidnapping and repeats over and over again that he found the bag of money dumped in the car park."

"Why don't we set up an identity parade get Finch to identify him?" Mullett suggested.

"I'd prefer to avoid that if possible," replied Frost. "Finch has already identified the wrong man. His defence would pull any subsequent identification to shreds… and the silly sod could well pick out another flaming look-alike."

"What have Forensic turned up?" asked Mullett.

"Slightly less than sod all." Frost picked up his ashtray and emptied it into the waste bin. "Right. Back to Hudson. We forget the niceties and scare the shit out of the bastard."

"Wait," called Mullett. "We don't want any of your famous short-cuts and corner cutting, Frost things that won't stand up in a court. The important thing is to secure a conviction."

"No," said Frost. "The important thing is to find the kid… and that's what I intend to do."

"I'm warning you," said Mullett. "If we lose a conviction because of your underhand methods…"

"If my underhand methods result in us finding the kid, then we'll get a conviction anyway. Don't worry, sir, I'll be taking all the blame if things go wrong." He knew he'd get the blame anyway.

"On your own head be it," said Mullett as Frost brushed past him on his way to the interview room. "If this blows up in your face I shall deny all knowledge of this conversation."

Cassidy gave a sympathetic smile to Mullett as he followed Frost out, his smile saying, "I'm with you all the way, sir, if things go wrong…" But if they went right, he was determined to grab his share of the glory.

"Now what?" asked Hudson as Frost entered the interview room with Cassidy.

Frost dropped into the chair opposite him and banged a folder on the table. Cassidy had the cassette ready to insert into the machine, but Frost stopped him. "I don't want this recorded." He smiled sweetly at Hudson. "Where is Bobby Kirby?"

"I'm not wasting my breath answering this same question any more. For the last time, I know nothing about no kid."

"Right," said Frost. "I haven't got time to sod about." He swung round to the uniformed man. "Would you wait outside, please, constable."

The constable hesitated, but did what he was told, closing the door firmly behind him.

Frost beamed at Hudson. "Isn't this cosy? Just the three of us."

Hudson's eyes flickered apprehensively between the two detectives. "What's going on?"

Frost beamed at him and pulled two photographs from the folder. He slid them across to Hudson.

"Recognize them?"

Hudson gave them a half-hearted glance. "No."

"That's funny," said Frost, as he tapped the photograph of Bobby Kirby. "This is the boy you kidnapped."

"I've already told '

"Shut up!" Frost's voice rose to a bellow. "I'm tired, I've been up half the night and I'm not in the mood for any more sodding around. I don't give a toss what you say, I'm telling you what happened." He banged a finger on Bobby Kirby's photograph. "You kidnapped this kid and you killed the other one. You sent the ransom demand and you went with your slut of a girlfriend to the common to collect it. You knocked the old boy out and snatched the cash. You thought you would get away with it. You thought the money would be untraceable… but it wasn't. We've got you to rights so we don't give a sod about all your lies that you know nothing about it. We're not even bothering to record them any more."

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. I found that money. If you think you can prove otherwise '

"Shut up!" roared Frost again. "You won't know me, sonny. My name is Jack Frost. I'm not a very good cop and I'm not a very smart cop, so I have to cut corners. Sometimes I might even have to lie to secure a conviction, so I'm prepared to tell all the lies going about you, you toe-rag. I've got no compunction because I know you are guilty."

To show his lack of concern, Hudson pulled a comb from his pocket and flicked it through his hair. Frost stretched out a hand. "Can I borrow that?"

With a bemused smile, Hudson handed it over then watched in bewilderment as Frost tugged a few hairs from the comb and slipped them into a small transparent envelope which he tucked inside the folder. "What's that for?"

"We've asked our Forensic Lab to do a thorough check of the dead kid's clothes to see if there is anything on them that would help us identify the killer… like hairs, for example." He patted the folder.

The smirk had slid from Hudson's face. "You are going to fit me up, you bastard."

Frost looked apologetic. "Only if I have to, son. You're guilty anyway, so I wouldn't lose any sleep over it."

"You wouldn't dare."

Frost smiled sweetly. "Just watch me."

Hudson spun round to Cassidy, hoping for support. He sensed the antagonism between the two men. "You heard what he said. You're my witness!"

Cassidy stared straight ahead, saying nothing. If this thing blew up, he would drop Frost right in it.

Hudson's face was ugly. "You bastards!"

"Sticks and stones," reproved Frost. "Where's the kid?"

The man folded his arms and leant back in his chair. "All right. I'll tell you the truth. Yes, I nicked the money. I was with Cindy.. she loves having it away out in the open. We see this green Nissan car pull up and a bloke nips out with a travel bag and hides it in the bushes. I thought I'd take a look-see, so after about a quarter of an hour '

"Why did you wait so long?"

"First, because it was peeing down with rain and I was hoping it might ease up, two I had no trousers on at the time and three, Cindy was demanding seconds. By the time I got over there, this old boy was ferreting about. He pounces on the bag, so I nipped in quick and tried to grab it from him. He puts up a bit of a fight. I don't want no aggro so I welt him with a chunk of wood, grab the bag, nip back to the car and we sodded off back home. When I saw all that money inside, I just couldn't believe my rotten luck. That is all I am admitting to and I know nothing about no bleeding kids…"