Hard Frost

Fifteen

Frost was in his office gloomily staring at his ashtray with its mountain of fluffy grey ash studded with cigarette ends. The room was fogged with smoke, his mouth tasted horrible and his fingers glistened with oily nicotine. He had smoked himself sick and didn't want another cigarette, but the urge to punish himself for his lack of progress was overwhelming, so he lit up yet another of Mullett's specials as he waited for Liz to return from questioning Hudson's girlfriend. He just knew she would confirm Hudson's alibi and absolve him from any connection with the kidnapping and that yet another lead would come to a dead end.

It hadn't been a good day so far. Mullett had finally stamped off home in high dudgeon when he realized he wouldn't be able to make his television announcement that the boy had been found safe and well, and the kidnapper had been arrested. On top of that, Snell had got himself a solicitor and had withdrawn his confession, saying it was obtained under duress, and for that Mullett and Cassidy definitely blamed Frost and had lost no time in telling him so.

Liz came in, coughing and fanning the air with her hand against the smoke. "She's told you where the kid is?" asked Frost hopefully.

Liz shook her head and sat at her desk. "No. She bears out everything Hudson said. They were both having it away when they saw the money being dropped. They nicked the money, but that's as far as they were involved.

She also confirms that the night the boy was taken, she and Hudson were at a disco in Levington until gone midnight. She's given me a string of names who can confirm this." Liz offered him the list, but he wasn't interested. "Check it out," he said, but he knew it would confirm their statements.

Frost yawned. He felt deflated. The third day of the investigation and they were exactly nowhere. He tossed a screwed-up Mullett memo in the air and headed it into the wastepaper bin. "Do you like fish and chips?" he asked.

She blinked her surprise. "Yes why?"

He pulled his scarf from its hook. "Let's go and get some."

The door to the incident room crashed open and Frost came in clutching a greasy brown paper carrier bag to his chest. He pulled packages from it and tossed them around the room… "Cod and chips … plaice and chips…"

Bill Wells, who had wandered in for a chat, was appalled. "Fish and chips? You know Mullett has forbidden them in the station. They stink the place out."

"No more than his poncey after-shave." He held up a package. "I take it you don't want this it's cod and chips."

Wells hesitated, then grabbed it. "As you've bought it but open the windows afterwards."

Frost perched himself on the edge of a desk and began eating with his fingers as he addressed his team. "Fish is supposed to be brain food, so let's see if it does anything for us. Now, we're checking their alibi, but it looks as if Hudson and Miss Twin Peaks are out of the frame."

"Which puts us right back in square one," said Cassidy who had been staring sullenly out of the window. Thanks to Frost his case against Snell wasn't looking as strong as it did, and he was now being associated with another of

Frost's abysmal failures. He hadn't demeaned himself by ordering fish and chips and now regretted it. His stomach was rumbling and the heady bouquet of chips and vinegar was making him drool.

"More or less," grunted Frost, spitting out a fish bone. "Just in case we have missed something, let's go over it again. The kid was snatched for the sole purpose of obtaining the ransom money. Dean Anderson, the first kid he snatches, dies, so he calmly goes out and grabs another one. Why didn't he pretend Dean was still alive? He would still have got the ransom money. Don't tell me he was worried about contravening the Trades Descriptions Act."

"The kid had to be alive to make the taped message for the press," said Burton.

Frost nodded. "I'll buy that. Which convinces me we are dealing with a methodical sod, not a tear away like Hudson. His plan demanded a taped message, so there had to be one, even if it meant going after a second kid." He opened his mouth and tipped in the crumbs from the chip bag, then threw away the greasy paper and wiped his hands down the front of his jacket. "OK. Puzzle number two. Everything proceeds as planned, all his demands are met. But he doesn't turn up to collect the money why?" He scratched his chin in thought as he sent his cigarettes on the rounds.

"Something must have happened that prevented him?" suggested Liz.

"It must have been at the last flaming minute," said Frost, 'because he was on the phone to Cordwell almost as soon as the money was dropped."

"A heart attack?" offered Burton.

"Don't be a fool!" snarled Cassidy.

"Hold on," said Frost. "That could be it. You get a phone call telling you there's a quarter of a million quid waiting to be picked up… you could either wee yourself of have a heart attack." He pointed to Burton. "Phone

Denton General and find out if anyone suffering from a heart attack was admitted last night."

"Why just a heart attack?" said Cassidy, sourly. "He might have got run over or broken his leg."

"Or had his dick cut off." Frost nodded his agreement and told Burton to check with the hospital for details of everyone admitted as an emergency last night. Collier came in and handed Frost a sheaf of papers. They included carbon copies of the statements made by Hudson and his girlfriend. He shuffled through them. There was a list supplied by Denton Council of the people who used to live in the old shacks where Lemmy Hoxton's body was found. A name on it screamed out at him. He jabbed it with his finger and showed it to Liz.

Liz whistled softly. "Millicent Fleming? The woman from Primrose Cottage."

"It's a small world, isn't it!" commented Frost. "Strange she never mentioned this when we called on her. We'll pay her another visit tomorrow."

The phone rang. Hanlon answered it and relayed the message to Frost. "Jordan and Simms have contacted three of the people who were at the disco. They all confirm that Hudson and Cindy were there until gone midnight. The girl threw up on the lobby so it rather sticks in their mind."

Frost shrugged philosophically. He had written them off as suspects anyway. He took a quick look through Hudson's statement before deciding to call it a day when he suddenly straightened up. He flapped his hand for silence as he read it through again, then he beamed. "Our unanswered question was, why didn't the kidnapper pick up the ransom money?" He slid off the desk top and started striding around the room. "The answer is so bloody obvious, even Mullett could have spotted it, but we've all missed it!"

"And what have we missed?" asked Cassidy, his tone implying that whatever it was, it was a load of rubbish.

"The kidnapper did pick it up," said Frost. He paused dramatically. "But it was taken from him."

He was met with blank stares, everyone trying to work out what he meant.

The penny dropped for Burton first. "You mean Finch the old boy with the dog?"

Frost nodded.

"Just because he happened to be there," scoffed Cassidy.

"It was peeing down with rain. No-one with any sense would have been out in it, but he was chucking a ball for his dog."

"I checked with his neighbours," said Burton. "They confirm he's been taking the dog out for a run every night, come rain, hail or shine."

"Building up a pattern," said Frost. "We know the kidnapper is methodical."

"Thousands of people are methodical," said Cassidy. "That doesn't make them kidnappers."

"Thousands of people don't chuck the dog's ball at the very spot where a quarter of a million quid is stashed."

"Coincidence!" said Cassidy dismissively.

"I don't believe in coincidences," said Frost, 'not unless it suits me… and this time it doesn't suit me. Finch is our man!"

"You'll have to come up with something a lot more than this to convince me," said Cassidy. He was looking at the cigarette Frost had given him. It was not the inspector's usual brand. It was the expensive brand Mullett reserved for special visitors.

"Then how about this?" said Frost, and he read aloud part of Hudson's statement: "I saw this bloke wandering around to where the bag had been dumped, so I nipped across there smartish. He was kicking at the grass, looking for something. He picks up this bag from out of the long grass. He hadn't heard me coming, so I tried to grab it…" He looked up at blank faces and frowned.

"I'm supposed to be the dim twat here. How come I'm the only one to spot it?"

"To spot what?" asked Cassidy.

"Hudson says he saw Finch kicking at the long grass, looking for something."

"The dog's ball," said Cassidy, as if explaining to a child.

"But when we found poor Mr. Finch, knocked out cold, he already had the dog's ball in his pocket. So if he'd already found the ball, what the hell was he still looking for?"

"The money!" exclaimed Burton.

"Yes, son," agreed Frost. "He was looking for the money."

Cassidy chewed this over, testing it for weaknesses, but he grudgingly had to agree it held water.

"It was bloody clever," continued Frost. "If the police weren't watching, he'd pick up the money and no-one would be any the wiser. But if the Old Bill was there, he could claim he found it by accident and who the hell could prove otherwise?" He turned to Burton. "You chatted up the neighbours. What do we know about him?"

"He's a self-employed accountant does the books for some small businesses in and around Denton. His late wife used to work for Savalot on the check-out. She was with them for fifteen years, but when they moved to the big new super-store, they sacked all the old check-out girls."

"Why?" Frost asked.

"They wanted youngsters they could train to the new system from scratch. The neighbour said her job was her life. She got depressed and eventually took an overdose about eighteen months ago."

"So Finch would have a very good reason for hating Cordwell?"

Cassidy shook his head. He couldn't accept this.

"You're not suggesting this whole kidnap was done for revenge? She died over eighteen months ago."

"Revenge has to smoulder before it bursts into flame," said Frost. "It's all coming together."

"All you've got at the moment," objected Cassidy, 'is a theory and you're bending the facts to support it."

"That's the way I always work," said Frost. "And if Finch isn't our man, then it's hard bleeding luck, because I am going to give him the works." Back to Burton. "What else do we know about him?"

"Not much… He keeps himself to himself and he hasn't had the dog long."

Frost's eyebrows shot up. "How long?"

"Two… three weeks."

Frost chewed this over then pounded his fist into his palm. "I said he was a calculating bastard. I bet he got the dog as part of his plan. It's all been worked out to the smallest details." He chewed his knuckle, then waggled a finger at the team. "And that's why Dean Anderson had been stripped naked. Finch is not going to leave us with a single clue. I bet there were dog's hairs on the kid's clothes… so off come the clothes." He was now warming to his theme, getting more and more excited. "And the indentation the pathologist noticed on Dean's forehead. I bet that was the marks of an elasticated shower cap. He was covering up the kid's hair so it wouldn't pick up traces of anything that could lead us back to him."

"I can't believe Finch is such a calculating bastard," said Liz. "He doesn't look it."

"Don't go by appearances," said Frost. "Mullett doesn't look like a prat."

Cassidy compressed his lips. This was not the way one should speak of senior officers to the lower ranks.

"We know it's Finch," continued Frost. "So how do we play it?"

"Slowly and carefully," urged Liz.

"We can't go slowly," said Frost. "Time isn't on our side. He's killed one kid, so he's got nothing to lose by killing the other." The phone rang again. He paused as Cassidy answered it.

It was the Casualty Officer from Denton hospital. Apart from a pregnant woman who had fallen down a flight of stairs, no-one came into Casualty between nine and ten thirty the previous night with anything serious enough to keep them away from a quarter of a million pound ransom. Cassidy relayed this to Frost, then stood up and flexed his leg which was stiffening up. He wanted to go home, but was determined not to leave before Frost.

"What is this terrible smell?"

Flaming hell! groaned Frost. Where had bloody Mullett sprung from? "I noticed it the minute you came in, sir have you trod in something?" He signalled for Burton to open up the window, then took Mullett by the arm and led him outside. "I'd like a quick word."

"And I want a word with you, Frost." He said nothing more until they reached his office. "I've had a phone call from the Chief Constable and he is very concerned about our lack of progress with this kidnapping. He understands the boy's mother has given an interview to one of the papers complaining the police are doing nothing."

"We're not doing nothing, sir, we just haven't come up with anything… until now."

"Until now?" Mullett's head came up and his eyes gleamed. "You've got a lead?" If this was true, he'd get straight back to the Chief Constable.

"A good one." He quickly told Mullett about Finch.

"Finch? The man who was attacked?"

"Yes, sir."

Mullett scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The boy could be at Finch's house? We could get him back to his mother tonight?" That would be a triumph. It would make the papers look absolute fools in the morning.

"It's possible, super," said Frost. "I doubt if the boy is hidden in the house, but we should find something that would lead us to him."

"So what do you suggest?" He consulted his watch. "It could take some time getting a search warrant."

Frost gave him a knowing wink. "Just leave that to me, sir."

Mullett stared at Frost. He had no wish to know about the underhand methods Frost intended to use. "Stick to the rules, Frost," he said, 'and let me know how you get on." When Frost had left, he smiled a smug smile of satisfaction as he practised what he would say to the Chief Constable if Frost pulled it off. "I know it was bending the rules, sir, but the child came first… I realized my career would be on the line, but that wasn't a consideration.. He practised saying it silently, but with the right degree of modesty. Then his expression changed and his eyes narrowed as he rehearsed what he would say if things went wrong. "I specifically told Frost to play it by the book… there was a child's life at stake and no reason for taking chances…" He congratulated himself. This was the sort of situation he liked. Either way, he couldn't lose.

In the incident room, Frost was briefing his team. His cigarette packet was empty, but he found a fair-sized stub in his top jacket pocket and poked it in his mouth. "Finch mustn't know we suspect him. If we don't find the kid in the house, then we'll put him under constant surveillance in the hope he leads us to him."

"You don't want him to know we suspect him?" said Cassidy. "But the minute we turn up with a search warrant, of course he'll flaming well know."

"We don't turn up with a search warrant," said Frost. He puffed a mouthful of smoke up to the ceiling and watched it get sucked out of the open window into the cold night air. "We use a bit of the tact and subtlety for which I am world famous."

The dog barked incessantly at the knocking at the door and wouldn't be hushed as Finch switched on the passage light and demanded, "Who's there?"

"Police," replied Frost. "Can you spare us a moment?"

Finch opened the door and there was that scruffy man with the mac and the trailing scarf. "Mr. Frost, isn't it?"

"That's right, sir. Sorry to bother you, but we've had a bit of luck. We've caught the man who attacked you and stole the money."

Finch's face lit up. "Good work, inspector." He led them into a living-room, all neat, tidy and polished, the room of a methodical man. He had his jacket on., "Going out, sir?" asked Frost.

"Just taking the dog for a run. I do it every night. So how can I help you?"

"We need formal identification of the travel bag and we'd like you to identify the man."

"Does he admit to kidnapping that poor boy?"

"He's lying his head off, sir. He says he found the money by chance and you tried to take it away from him."

"That is ridiculous. He put me in hospital. Of course I'll identify him. If you could hand me my overcoat."

It was hanging neatly over the back of a chair. Frost passed it across. Seeing his master getting ready to go out, the dog began yapping its excitement and leaping up and down at the prospect of an outing.

"Take him with you, sir," suggested Frost. He wanted the dog out of the way. "There is just one more thing, sir…" He smiled his most frank and open smile. "You're probably going to think it a bloody cheek, but do you think I could do a quick search of your premises?"

Finch's eyebrows shot up. "Why?"

"Once you've identified this man, he is going to deny all knowledge of the kidnapping and try and involve you in it. He'll claim you were there for the sole purpose of collecting the ransom."

"But this is preposterous," spluttered Finch. "I found the bag simply by chance."

Frost nodded sympathetically. "Of course you did, sir. But he's going to say you've got the boy hidden away. What I'd like to do with your permission of course is do a token search of the premises, so we can refute his allegations right from the start."

"Do you have a warrant?"

"It hardly justifies a warrant, sir. I'm not really taking it seriously. I can get one if you like, but it won't take more than a couple of minutes." He opened a door and clicked on the light. "Is this the lounge?" He peeked inside. "Well, he's obviously not in here." He pulled the door shut. "I'd better see the kitchen in case you've got him hidden in the bread bin."

A knock at the front door. The dog went ha ring up the passage, barking again. Jordan stood on the doorstep. "The station have radioed through. They've moved the time of the identity parade they want us there now."

"Damn!" said Frost. "I want to get this finished. Can it wait five minutes?"

"Sorry, sir," said Jordan, 'but they say it's got to be now. They've got everyone lined up."

Frost turned to Finch who was trying to calm the dog. "Do you think you could go with the officer, sir? I'll finish off here and follow on in a couple of minutes."

Finch hesitated, then shrugged and hurried out to the car. "Don't forget to close the front door."

"I won't, sir. Don't worry."

He watched Finch, followed by the dog, climb into the back seat of the area car. As soon as it turned the corner he was whispering urgently into his radio. "He's gone. Let's have you!"

Two cars that had been waiting round the corner disgorged eight men, mostly from Forensic, who quietly entered the house.

He gave them a quick briefing. "Be bloody thorough, but put everything back where you found it, because Finch mustn't know. We are looking for anything that could prove the kid was here… hairs, fibers, blood. And look for a cassette recorder, a dot matrix printer, bottles that could have contained chloroform. If you find the kid, tied to a chair, watching the telly, I'd even settle for that."

They went about their task with practised efficiency while he mooched about, opening and closing cupboard doors, trying not to get in anyone's way. Finch was a very methodical man with everything in its proper place and this made the search relatively simple.

On the wall of the living-room was a framed photograph of a younger Finch and a fair-haired woman taken at a dance of some sort. Frost studied it. They both looked very happy.

"Sir!" Burton was calling from the hall where he had found a door under the stairs. His torch revealed stone steps leading to a cellar which exuded a musty smell of long disuse. "There's nothing there," said Frost, 'but look anyway." He stayed at the top, watching half-heartedly as Burton slowly descended, his torch beam bouncing off heaps of stored junk. Jordan was called in to help and together they shifted as much as was necessary to ascertain there was no child, alive or dead, hidden there. Carefully, they moved everything back to where it was. Burton's foot kicked a blue fluted bottle which rolled across the stone floor. Burton pulled out the stopper and sniffed it hopefully. It was turpentine substitute.

"Jack!" Arthur Hanlon calling him from a first-floor room. He thudded up the stairs.

One of the bedrooms had been converted into a small office and Arthur Hanlon was excitedly indicating an Amstrad word processor on a wooden desk with a dot matrix printer alongside it. Hopes were quickly dashed by Harding who pointed out it was a nine pin machine and the ransom demand had been printed out by a twenty-four pin model.

Frost mouthed a silent expletive and looked through some of the print-outs at the side of the machine. Stock records and account details. The wastepaper bin had been recently emptied and contained only a torn window envelope. He peeked through the curtains to the darkened street below. Just inside the front gate a rubbish sack awaited its morning collection by the refuse van. Frost pointed it out to Hanlon. "Get someone to pick it up and take it to the station." He pulled a desk drawer open. Neat clipped stacks of bills and statements. A quick riffle through, but nothing of interest.

He was hindering Hanlon, so went downstairs to the kitchen where two men from Forensic, on their hands and knees, were painstakingly checking for prints and fibres. "Mainly dog hairs so far," they told him.

"Probably from the dog," said Frost, ever anxious to help.

The kitchen table bore further testimony to Finch's methodical habits. One cup, one saucer and one spoon laid out alongside a cereal bowl and a bread and butter plate, all ready for the next morning's breakfast. "I bet there's one senna pod and one sheet of toilet paper in the loo," grunted Frost, who was never impressed by neatness.

He consulted his watch. Nearly ten minutes had passed since Finch had left. "I'd better get down to the station before he gets suspicious. Let me know the minute you find anything, but please, put everything back exactly where you found it."

Finch was becoming impatient. He knocked back the dregs of the cup of tea Liz had brought him and gave the custard cream to his dog. "I thought it was all ready."

"Last-minute hitch," Liz told him, and was so relieved when Frost walked in.

"Sorry I'm late," said Frost. "Got another call on the way back. Have you identified him yet?"

"It still hasn't started," snapped Finch. "I'm not very impressed at police efficiency."

"Go and see what the delay is," Frost said to Liz.

"Did you find anything?" said Finch.

"Eh?" said Frost vaguely, as if he didn't know what Finch was on about.

"The search."

"Oh, that?" He gave a short laugh. "I found six boys in the fridge, but none of them was the one we wanted." He was relieved when Finch grinned back. "I shut the front door as you asked."

Liz returned. "Hudson has signed a statement admitting taking the money and assaulting Mr. Finch," she said. "So there's no need for an identity parade."

"What about the kidnapping?" asked Frost.

"He strongly denies that."

"Let's see if he still denies it after I've finished with him," said Frost, grimly. "Get Mr. Finch to formally identify the travel bag. It's in the Exhibits Stores."

"Won't take long, sir," said Liz, leading Finch out. As soon as he had gone, Frost was on the radio to Burton at the house.

"We've found nothing that would tie him to the kidnapping and nothing that would suggest the boy was ever in the house," reported Burton.

"The car… did you check his car?"

"Forensic gave it a proper going over nothing."

"Right." It was a sod, but what the hell. He'd have to think out his next move. "Get out of there. He'll be back soon."

Cassidy walked in on the tail end of the conversation, taking secret delight at Frost's downcast expression. "Doesn't look as if your theory was right then, inspector."

"I'm not wrong on this one," said Frost stubbornly. He bent to pat the dog which was asleep under the table. "It's your bloody master, Fido, and I'm going to get the bastard." The dog opened one eye and licked his hand.

Finch returned. "All right for me to go now?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you very much for your help. Our lady sergeant will drive you back." Frost tried to sound as if his mind was on other, more important, matters.

Mullett waylaid him on his way to the incident room. "Frost!" He sounded angry. Very angry. He had been sitting in his office, the phone in the centre of his desk, ready to ring the Chief Constable with the good news. "The Denton team have done it again, sir," he would announce. "No, no," he would add modestly after the Chief had congratulated him. "I can't claim all the credit." But his speech would remain unspoken. He had seen Finch come and long faces all round but no-one had bothered to tell him what had happened.

Bloody hell, thought Frost. I was supposed to keep him informed. "Just on my way to see you, sir," he said.

"You've let Finch go? Do I take it you found nothing?"

"Not a bleeding thing," said Frost.

"Nothing at all?" persisted Mullett.

"That's what "not a bleeding thing" means," said Frost.

"All this time and effort," snapped Mullett. "All those men a full Forensic team all on overtime. Do you know how much this little jaunt has cost?"

"I neither know, nor care," Frost snapped back. "If there's a cash limit on the amount we must spend to find the kid, then let me know."

"An expensive success I can accept, Frost, but not an expensive failure." He stamped back to his office.

Frost joined his dispirited team in the incident room. "All right, so we found nothing, but that doesn't mean we're on the wrong track. Finch is our man." He ignored the scoffing snort from Cassidy. "Take it from me. Finch has got the kid. The only ques ton is, where the hell is he? Can anyone come up with some bright idea, beau se I'm blowedif lean."

"Assuming Finch is the kidnapper," said Burton, 'why hasn't he come up with a second ransom demand?"

"He's probably got to work out another way of collecting the money. He's been seen at the collection point once, a second time would be too much of a coincidence even for dim twats like us."

Lambert raised a hand. "Do you think he's got an accomplice looking after the kid?"

"No," said Frost. "Finch is a loner. He's in this absolutely on his own. He's got the kid gagged, blindfolded and trussed up somewhere, so how do we find him?"

"We tail him," suggested Hanlon. "Twenty-four hour surveillance. Let him lead us to the kid."

"Why should he go to the kid?" asked Frost. "It would be too dangerous."

"He's got to feed him see if he is all right. The poor little sod is only seven."

"Finch is a callous bastard. I don't think he gives a toss about the kid," said Frost.

"If there's nothing to connect him to the kid and he doesn't lead us to him, then what do we do?" said Liz.

"We worry ourselves bleeding sick," said Frost. Then he stopped dead. "I think I know where the boy might be."

"Where?" asked Cassidy, without enthusiasm. Nearly all Frosts bright ideas had fallen flat on their face up to now.

"I was looking through some invoices and bills in his office. One bill was for the ground rent for the parking of a holiday caravan. A holiday caravan in the autumn… what better place?"

"Worth a look," said Cassidy begrudgingly. "So where is it?"

Frost spread his palms. "I don't know. I wasn't paying that much attention at the time."

Cassidy shook his head in exasperation. "So how do we find out, short of asking Finch?"

"Leave it to me." Frost glanced up at the wall clock. Liz should still be driving Finch back. He snatched up the internal phone and told Control to radio through to her in the car. She was to phone Inspector Frost urgently as soon as she reached the house. He hoped she would twig that this was something he didn't want mentioned over the radio in Finch's hearing.

The next few minutes crept by as he waited for her to ring back. It was a few minutes to midnight. The phone rang. Liz.

"Can Finch hear us?" He found himself whispering although there was no need.

"No. He's in the kitchen feeding the dog."

"If he asks, tell him it's about a rape case. This is what I want you to do. There's a room upstairs he uses as an office. In the left-hand desk drawer there's a bulldog clip of bills waiting to be paid. One is from a caravan site. I want the address of that site."

"How do I get it?"

"Tell him you want to do a Jimmy Riddle the bathroom's upstairs next to his office. If he offers you a bucket we'll have to think again. Do your best, love. It's bloody important."

"I'll try."

"Good girl! Don't forget to pull the chain afterwards — he's a suspicious sod."

She radioed back from her car in eight minutes. The invoice was for the ground rent of a caravan at the East Seaton Holiday Caravan Park.

"That's nearly forty miles away!" protested Cassidy.

"So?" replied Frost. "About an hour's drive. He could get there and back to Denton in good time to take the dog out for a walk." He walked over to the regional map and marked it with his finger. "There it is! Forty miles from Denton, remote and no-one staying there in the autumn. If I wanted to hide a kidnap victim, I couldn't think of a better place."

Cassidy studied the map. The caravan parking site was tucked away well off the beaten track. "We'll need a search warrant," he said.

"No time for that," said Frost, already winding his scarf round his neck.

"Then Mr. Mullett will have to be told."

"No time for that, either." Mullett would only say no.

"Seaton is in Felford Division. Shouldn't we let them handle it?" asked Burton.

It was Cassidy who answered. If the boy was there, no other division was going to steal the glory for finding him. "It's our case," he said firmly.

"There could be trouble," said Burton, shaking his head doubtfully.

"Not if we play our cards right," said Frost.

But Frost rarely played his cards right.

Burton coasted the car up the bumping approach to the caravan site and switched off the lights. A high, chain-link fence enclosed a field, its grass overgrown and sagging with the weight of rain water. Huddling under the shelter of a group of trees to the rear of the site was a line of caravans of all shapes and sizes. The wind rattled the fencing and caused the trees to groan in protest. In this weather the caravan park was a cheerless, desolate place.

There were four of them, Frost, Burton, Cassidy and Liz. He had considered bringing at least another four in a second car, but Mullett's dire threats about overtime payments decided him against it. In any case, for this clandestine operation, the fewer people involved, the better. "What a dump!" he grunted, holding out his hand for the night glasses. Burton gripped his arm and pointed. A light had come on in one of the caravans. But he'd already seen it.

He fumbled at the focusing control and panned across the front of the caravan. The curtains were tightly drawn, but a thin crack of light seeped out into the night. He located the door and the number shimmered into focus: 12. It was Finch's caravan. He grinned to the others. "I think our luck's changed."

The chain link fence was too high for them to scale and the heavy padlock on the main gates refused to yield to any of Frost's skeleton keys, so they watched impatiently as Burton, his face contorted with the effort, clamped the cutters across the chain and squeezed. The jaws bit through the chain and the padlock dropped on the mud. The gate creaked and ploughed a groove in the muddy ground as they pushed it open.

Crouching low, the long, wet grass slapping at their legs, they squelched past the silent row of dark caravans on to number 12.

Frost checked to make sure the only exit from the caravan was by the main door, then he mounted its two wooden steps. From inside they could hear a voice babbling, then music. A radio playing. He banged the door with his fist. "Police. Open up!"

Almost immediately, the light went out and the radio was silenced. "Don't sod us about. We know you are in there." He waited. Silence. He stepped to one side so Burton could smash the glass of the door panel with the heavy duty cutters and slip his hand inside to turn the catch. The door swung open. A stale, empty smell. They stepped gingerly into darkness and silence.

"Torch!"

Burton's torch beam sliced through the darkness and picked out a light switch. Frost tried it. It worked, the dim bulb revealing a plastic-topped table that could be folded back and two bunk beds stripped of clothing. There was a lamp and a small mains radio on the table, both connected to an electronic control programmed to come on at different times during the night. Frost pressed the manual button. The lamp lit up and the radio came on. A burglar deterrent.

The bottom bunk was over a storage area. They opened the doors to reveal bedding and table linen jam-packed. A partitioned section was the kitchen, its oven powered by propane gas. Opposite the cooker was the sink. Frost spun the tap and a jet of rust-coloured water hammered out, bouncing off the sink and splashing everywhere. He quickly turned it off and wiped water from the front of his mac. The carpeting on the floor was sodden. "I don't know why I did that," he said.

"It doesn't look as if anyone's here," observed Liz, rather redundantly.

"I was beginning to come to that conclusion myself," sighed Frost. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"What about the broken door glass?" asked Cassidy.

"It was already broken when we got here," said Frost. "Bloody kids!" It had been a long day. A fruitless day. He wanted to get home and put an end to it and hope that the morning would bring something marginally better.

He switched off the light and closed the door behind them as they descended the wooden steps. Then he stopped dead, a finger to his lips. "I heard something," he whispered.

A rustling in the grass. Someone moving about. Burton's head turned from left to right, trying to locate the source, then he nudged Frost and pointed. "There!"

A dark shape loomed, then another. A white, blinding glare as torches were shone straight into their eyes.

"Hold it! None of you move. Police!"

"Oh shit!" groaned Frost.

Mullett was almost foaming at the mouth. "You went into another division's area and you neither sought my permission, nor did you have the common courtesy to let them know!"

"I forgot," said Frost, edging towards the door. He was too tired and fed up to think of a decent excuse and, in any case, this sort of escapade was excusable only if it produced results. They had been dragged off to Seaton station by the uniformed men who ignored all their protests, but luckily their Station Sergeant recognized Frost. "Why didn't you let us know, Jack? We've had a spate of break-ins on those caravans, so when someone phoned to report four suspicious-looking thugs creeping about and we find the padlock cut off…"

"I have been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, phoned personally by the Seaton Divisional Commander," continued Mullett. "He was absolutely furious, and justifiably so. Fortunately he is a personal friend of mine, so I apologized profusely on your behalf."

"Good," grunted Frost, reaching for the door handle. "No harm done, then."

"No harm done?" Mullett's voice had soared to a screech. He pointed to a chair. "Sit!" He was getting his second wind. "You've done lasting harm, Frost. There are certain basic procedures, procedures that even the rawest recruit would automatically follow. You do not leave your own division without telling me. You do not enter another division without permission and you do not break into other people's property without a search warrant."

"I was sure the kid was there. There wasn't time to get a warrant."

"There was plenty of time. You just couldn't be bothered. In my division you do things by the book — understand?"

"Yes, I'll bear it in mind," said Frost vaguely. His mind was elsewhere and he was only giving the superintendent a small part of his attention. He stood up.

"And what is worse, you dragged Cassidy along with you, giving him the impression you had my permission."

Frost's lips tightened. Cassidy knew what the score was and had obviously got his own version of events in first. "That was unforgivable of me, sir," he said flatly.

Mullett glared. He never knew how to take it when

Frost agreed with him. The sooner he could find a way of replacing him with Cassidy, the better. "There are going to be some changes in this division," he warned grimly.

Frost visibly brightened up at this. "They're not moving you on, are they, sir? It's not fair, you're doing your best…"

"No, Frost," snapped Mullett icily. "They are not moving me on."

"Oh!" Frost tried not to sound disappointed, but didn't succeed. He pushed himself up from the chair. "Well, if there's nothing else…"

Mullett sighed. What was the point? "No, inspector. There is nothing else." The man was impossible, but this strengthened his resolve. Frost would have to be transferred.

Frost climbed into his car, his mind churning over the events in the caravan park. Something in the caravan had flashed the briefest, subliminal message… something important. He yawned. Whatever it was, it would have to wait. Three o'clock in the morning and he was deadbeat. Sod everything.

He dug into his pocket for a cigarette. The packet was empty. Panic broke in as he searched deep into every pocket and scrabbled through the glove compartment. The ashtray held only ash. Sod it. He couldn't get through the night without a cigarette and the knowledge that he didn't have any made the craving almost unbearable. No shops open in Denton at this hour of the morning. Nothing else for it then. He spun the wheel and took a detour.

She hadn't been able to sleep and was in bed reading when she heard the car draw up outside. She picked up the bedside clock. Sixteen minutes past three in the morning. Footsteps up the path, then the ringing of her door bell. She slipped on her dressing-gown and cautiously made her way down the stairs.

A quick peek through the spy-hole and a deep sigh as she opened the door. A scruffy, apologetic-looking individual stood on the doorstep, shuffling his feet and grinning hopefully.

"Jack flaming Frost!"

"Hello, Shirl. Sorry I'm so late."

"Late? Only thirty-six flaming hours late. You were supposed to be taking me out for dinner."

He clapped a hand to his forehead. "So I bloody was! Sorry, Shirl this missing kid…"

"You could have phoned. I was all dressed up, sitting, waiting, stomach rumbling…"

He hung his head in contrition. "I'm truly sorry, Shirl. I've been on the go non-stop ever since that kid went missing. I had no sleep at all last night."

She shook her head in mock sympathy. "You poor old git. You'd better come in then."

He shuffled in after her into the lounge and took off his coat. She switched on the electric fire with its flickering flame log effect. He felt warmer, happier, and perhaps a little less tired as he dropped down on the settee. "Better late than never," he murmured. "I just had to come and see you."

Her expression softened. She sat down on the settee beside him and snuggled in closer. "Perhaps you're not such a rotten old sod after all."

He silently counted up to ten, then nuzzled her soft, warm cheek. "You wouldn't have a packet of fags on you by any chance?"

She jerked upright. "You bastard!" she said.

The bed was hard and uncomfortable and as he lay there a thousand thoughts hurtled around his brain making sleep impossible. Wearily, he clicked on the bedside lamp and lit up one of the cigarettes from the packet Shirley had hurled at him and lay back, watching the smoke curl to the ceiling.

His mind was replaying the abortive visit to the caravan. There was something there, something that tried to jog his memory, but his thoughts just kept going endlessly round and round, getting him nowhere. He tried to switch to something else, but again his mind insisted on replaying the search… the stripped bunk beds with the thin mattresses, about as uncomfortable as the one he was lying on… the cupboards full of bedding… the kitchen… the rusty water belting out and soaking the carpet… At last tiredness began to envelop him and the bed suddenly became warm and comfortable and the outside cold and unfriendly. He stubbed out his cigarette and sank back, sinking down, down, down into a deep sleep, his brain fading on the picture of the caravan… the tap… the sodden carpet… He sat up with a start. The carpet! The bloody carpet… That's what his mind was scratching and nagging away at, trying to nudge him into action. The right clue for the wrong bloody case… Out of bed, and he was in the car within minutes and back at the station in a quarter of an hour. As he pushed open the door into the lobby the siren smell of frying bacon lured him up to the canteen where he was pleased to see Bill Wells and Burton sitting together, polishing off the standard fry-up breakfast before they finished their shift. He joined them, dumping his loaded tray on the empty chair.

Wells looked at his watch. Half-past five. "What's the matter, Jack? Did she kick you out of bed?"

"She kicked me out before I got in," said Frost, dipping his piece of bread into Wells's fried egg. He turned to Burton. "I've got a job for you, son."

"I'm just going home," said Burton.

"No, you're not," said Frost. "You're on extended overtime." A clatter of trays made him spin round. Jordan and Collier from the night shift, stoking up with food before going back to the Police House. He called them over. "Job for you… overtime."

"Mr. Mullett's got to authorize overtime, Jack," protested Wells.

"Sod Mr. Mullett. It can't wait." He dragged his chair back so he could include Jordan and Collier at the adjoining table in the conversation. "Remember when you were dragging the canal for the kid all that junk we found and chucked back? I want some of it out again."

"Not the dead goat?" said Jordan.

"No that roll of carpeting."

"It'll never fit your lounge, Jack," said Wells. "And it will be stinking to high heaven by now."

"Especially if that bag of offal has leaked over it," added Jordan.

Frost ignored the wisecracks. "Go and hire a rowing boat."

"We need Mullett's authorization for that as well," objected Wells.

"Or that of the senior officer, which is me," replied Frost, 'so let's get cracking before he comes in and says no."

It was still dark. Lights from the road bridge reflected off the oily black velvet of the canal and broke up into tiny shimmering dots as the oar blades cut through.

"I think we've got it," called Burton to Frost who was standing on the towpath, watching. Collier stuck his pole down alongside Burton's and they heaved up a dripping bundle.

Frost's heart started to hammer. Not another bleeding body, he pleaded. If so, they can chuck the bugger back. The smell of decay seemed to confirm his worst fears but they had dredged up the bag of butcher's offal. "Dump it," yelled Frost. "I've had breakfast." They let it slither back into the depths where it belched evil-smelling bubbles.

"It was more to your left," said Frost.

They followed his pointing finger and tried again. Half an hour later they found it, nowhere near where Frost had said. They had to remove the putrefying goat carcass to get to it, but managed to drag up into the boat a sodden bundle of folded carpeting, about four feet square, tied with string and stained with stinking black mud.

"Now what?" called Burton.

"Let's have a look at it."

They rowed to the bank and heaved the squelchy bundle on to the towpath. It had been too near the goat and stunk to high heaven. Holding his breath, Frost bent over and teased out a corner of the carpet material so he could see the pattern. At first he was disappointed. It was far too dark, almost black, and the sodium lights from the bridge distorted the colour. He illuminated it with his torch and this time, he knew he was right. He straightened up and beckoned to Burton who was climbing from the rowing boat. "Recognize it, son?"

Filthy, sodden red and blue carpeting. What was he on about? Then Burton frowned. A frown of puzzled recognition. Yes, he did recognize it. "This is the carpet they laid at Bonley's?"

"Top of the class, my son. The special, exclusive pattern obtainable nowhere else." His penknife slashed at the string. The bundle fell open and disgorged a flood of stinking water all over his shoes. "Knickers!" The expletive would have been stronger, but his attention was snatched by a couple of large chunks of coloured paving slabs used to weigh the bundle down.

"They wanted it to sink. Brand spanking new carpeting worth about twenty quid a square metre." He looked across at Jordan and Collier who were manhandling the rowing boat up to the towpath. "Your luck's in, lads… another lovely job for you." He prodded the bundle with his foot. "Get this over to Forensic. If there's no-one on duty get someone in… sod the overtime bill. I want them to go over this with a tooth comb… stains, marks, dribble, jam, wee-wee or even bloodstains… Tell them it's urgent."

Jordan regarded the waterlogged bale with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "It's wringing wet, sir, and it will stink the car out… couldn't we get a van or something?"

"No," said Frost. "And when you've done that, another job for you. Go to the house where the kiddies were killed… take the bits of slab with you. Check if it's the same as their new patio and see if you can spot where in the garden it came from." He yawned. A quick check on his watch. Quarter to seven. No point in trying to get any sleep now. "I'm off to the station," he announced.

"Shall we drop you off?" asked Jordan.

Frost backed away from the smelly carpet. "No thanks. I'll go in Burton's car."