Hard Frost

Sixteen

He sat in the incident room smoking the cigarettes Shirley had flung at him and waiting for Forensic to come back to him with their report on the carpeting. They were taking their flaming time. He reached for the phone, but hesitated. They had given him a right mouthful the last time he rang them "We're going as fast as we can and we'd go a damn sight faster if we didn't have to keep answering these stupid phone calls every five minutes. Don't call us we'll call you."

A rattle of buckets from outside. The cleaners had arrived. Through the grimy windows dawn was giving the sky an orange glow to start off another cold day. He extended his arms and yawned, a long drawn out yawn, almost hurting his mouth as it stretched open. He felt sticky and grubby. His eyelids were scratching his eyes. He was so damn tired. If he hadn't asked Shirley for those fags he would be tucked up alongside her, warm and happy, not sitting all on his own in this cheerless incident room. He raised his wrist and tried to focus on his watch. Just gone seven. Mullett would be here in a couple of hours, all clean shaven and gleaming, ready to start the day off with a moan about the boat being used and the overtime agreed without his authority. And he'd moan even more if there were nothing to show for it. He shook his head and looked pleadingly at the phone. Come on, Forensic. Do your bloody stuff.

As he poked another one of Shirley's cigarettes into his mouth, his nose wrinkled. He couldn't get rid of the smell of that flaming goat which was almost as bad as one of Drysdale's choicest autopsies. Even the cigarettes tasted of it, but he persevered.

Bill Wells brought in the local paper. "Thought you'd like to see this, Jack." A large photograph of Bobby Kirby's tear-stained mother took up most of the front page, with an insert of Bobby. Above it, the caption read "Police Dragging Heels In Search For Little Bobby Claims Weeping Mother'. Further down a sub-heading read "Millionaire Supermarket Chief Offers Reward For Boy's Return'. A publicity photograph of a grinning Sir Richard Cordwell headed the story that he was offering a reward of 10,000 for information leading to the return of the boy. "Thanks," grunted Frost, consigning it to the rubbish bin. "I needed cheering up." He turned his attention back to the phone. "Ring, you sod, ring… I haven't got all day." As if answering his plea, the phone gave a throat-clearing cough. He snatched it up even before it rang properly, but it wasn't Forensic. Jordan reporting that he and Collier had searched the Grovers' garden and had found a heap of broken patio slabs, a couple of which matched those used to weigh down the carpet. "You did say we were on official overtime?" asked Jordan, sounding worried. "Yes, yes," Frost assured him. He thanked them and told them to go to bed. Again he yawned and wished someone would tell him to go to bed.

He banged the phone down, almost jumping from his seat as the sudden, immediate ringing caught him off guard. This time it was Forensic.

"Bloodstains," reported Harding cheerfully. "Quite a lot of blood."

Suddenly the cigarette tasted fine. "I'm all ears."

"Blood group A."

He exhaled a stream of smoke in a long sigh of relief. "The same as the dead mother! Don't let anyone call you a load of useless twats again."

"The overtime has been authorized on this?" queried Harding. "Only I've had to get a couple of men in."

"Of course it is," he said, wondering how the hell he was going to get Mullett to agree. He picked up a pencil and practised writing Mullett's signature on a scrap of paper. A little judicious forgery might be required. Then he hurled the pencil up in the air with a whoop of delight. He didn't give a damn if Mullett moaned about the overtime, or not. It had paid off. Blood, the same group as Nancy Grover, on the carpet retrieved from the canal. He looked again through the window at the lightening sky. It wasn't going to be such a lousy day after all, although Mark Grover wasn't going to enjoy it.

He no longer felt tired, but wished there was someone with whom he could share his triumph. He grinned delightedly as Burton came in with two steaming mugs of tea. "You're early, my son. I'm afraid your lady love isn't in yet."

Burton smiled and placed one of the mugs on Frost's desk.

"Did you see the way she kneed that bloke in the goo lies yesterday?" asked Frost, stirring his tea with a pencil. "You'd better watch it if you take her out that could have been you squirming on the floor."

"If my luck's in," said Burton.

Frost laughed and took a sip at the tea. "Talking of luck, we've had a break with the Grover case." He told Burton about Forensic's examination of the carpet.

"So Graver's involved?"

"Right up to his bloody neck, son. Let's start the day off by arresting him."

He phoned the hospital, but was told by the staff nurse that Mark Grover had discharged himself last night and was staying with his sister. Yes, she did have the address… He sent Burton to the Forensic Lab to bring back the carpet, then sauntered out into the car-park.

A plump little woman answered the door to his knock. Mark Graver's sister was some ten years older than her brother and her face was full of concern when Frost announced himself. "I don't think he's up to answering any questions. The poor boy is absolutely shattered." She took him through to the kitchen. "He loved those children… just idolized them."

Frost nodded in sympathy. "I know, love… I know… If it wasn't important I wouldn't bother him."

Mark Grover didn't look well, the pallor of his face emphasizing the dark, bruise-like rings round his eyes. He recognized Frost and greeted him without enthusiasm. "Any news?"

"Couple of promising leads," said Frost. "I know you don't feel up to it, but it would help if you could come down to the station and look at some of the things we've found and tell me if they came from your house."

Glover hesitated. "I don't know…"

"Go with the man," urged his sister. "The fresh air will do you good." When he went off to fetch his coat, she whispered to Frost, "Mark could do with cheering up."

"I'll see what I can do," promised Frost, leaving her thinking what a nice man he was.

Grover kept fidgeting in the car, gazing blankly out of the window, not listening to Frost's aimless chatter. He frowned and turned to the inspector. "Are we going the right way?"

Frost had deliberately detoured to go down Cresswell Street. "Just wanted to take a look," said Frost. He drove slowly past the house, where a mass of wreaths and floral tributes from neighbours were laid out in the front garden. One wreath was in the heart-rending shape of a teddy bear. Grover swallowed hard, then snatched his eyes away and shuddered. "I'm never going back in there again. I couldn't."

Frost nodded sympathetically, but he'd achieved what he wanted Grover to be emotional and unprepared for the little surprise he had in store for him.

"What exactly do you want me to identify?" Grover asked.

"Won't take long," said Frost vaguely as he turned the car into the station car-park, pulling up by the large storage shed at the rear. He opened the shed doors and ushered Grover in. "This way," he said. The smell greeted them as he switched on the fluorescent lights. They flickered on and Grover stepped in to face the large section of exclusive Bonley's carpeting hanging to dry by the end wall, covered with chalked circles to outline the siting of the bloodstains located by Forensic. Grover stood stock still, his mouth gaping open, then he turned, shouldering Frost out of the way as he charged out of the shed and into the car-park.

"Don't be a twat," yelled Frost making no move to follow. "Where can you go… where would you hide?"

Grover faltered, then stopped and slowly turned, shoulders slumped, his face the picture of despair. He was trembling violently. "My God," he said. "Oh my God!"

Frost ambled over and took his arm. "Let's talk about it, son. It'll make you feel better."

Mullett, who had seen Frost arrive and had learned of the unauthorized overtime, met Frost in the corridor. "I want to see you," he snapped.

"Later," said Frost, moving him to one side so Grover could pass.

"Now!" shouted Mullett, quivering with rage.

"Later!" snarled Frost. "Bloody later!"

He sat Grover down in the small interview room which smelt stalely of sweat and unwashed socks. Burton brought in mugs of tea, then started up the recorder while Frost lit up a cigarette and shook out the match. "Right, Mr. Grover. You've been cautioned. You know you don't have to say anything, but let me tell you how I see it. You had a row with your wife. You were sick and tired of her and the kids. You went off to Bonley's, but returned later with the chunk of carpet you had nicked and your wife was waiting, ready to start the row again. Something snapped. You grabbed up a knife and you killed her. The kids saw you do it and started screaming, so you had to silence them, so you killed them as well."

Frost knew this fitted few of the facts, but his intention was to stir the suspect up and it worked.

"No!" Grover was standing up and shouting at Frost. "I wouldn't harm my kids. I loved them."

Frost took another deep drag and continued doggedly. "Her blood was all over the nice carpeting you'd brought, so you had to get rid of it. You dumped it in the canal on the way to the railway tunnel where you chucked your wife's body in front of a train to make it look like suicide. Then you went back to work to earn an honest crust and establish your alibi."

"No!"

Frost beamed up at him. "Sit down, son, you'll be more comfortable." He waited for Grover to sit. "I'm open-minded. If you've got a better story, I'm willing to listen, but if not, I'm perfectly happy with my own version."

"It didn't happen like that," Grover turned to Burton, who seemed to have a more sympathetic face. "It didn't happen like that."

"Then tell us how it did happen," said Burton.

Grover wiped hair away from his forehead. "Yes we'd been rowing. We were always bloody rowing that was our life, one long bleeding row! She said the kids were getting her down and I was never there when she wanted me. I told her I had to earn the bloody money for her to spend and I couldn't do that sitting at home all day. Then we had this rush job at Bonley's. That really got her going. She said that if I went out and left her on her own, she'd kill herself. I said, "Good then we'll have a bit of peace and bloody quiet." I stormed out, slamming the door."

"Had she threatened to kill herself before?" asked Frost.

"It was her bleeding theme song. She'd get hysterical… the kids would cry… she'd shout at the kids and I'd shout at her. Happy bloody Families! It used to end up with me saying, "Kill your bloody self then it'll do me and the kids a big favour."

Frost's expression must have registered. Grover lowered his head and stared into his empty tea mug. "I know. I was a bastard. She hadn't been well. She'd go to the doctor's, then she wouldn't take his bleeding pills — said he was trying to poison her. I suppose I should have felt sorry for the poor cow."

"I don't suppose she got many kind words," said Frost.

A door slammed outside somewhere. Footsteps clattered up the passage. The motor of the cassette deck whirred as Frost shot smoke up to the ceiling and waited for Grover to continue.

"There was this chunk of carpet over. Some silly sod had messed up the measurements. It was good quality stuff and would only go to waste, so we did a deal with the security guard. Half for him and we would keep the rest. Phil Collard didn't want his share, but the kids had messed up our old lounge carpet so we were going to drop it into my place. Just before midnight we took one piece round to the security bloke's place, then went on to my house. I didn't want any nosy gits to see us, so we went in round the back way. The house was all dark so I thought Nancy was in bed. I got a knife from the kitchen to cut the string and me and Phil carried the carpet through to the lounge. I switched on the light and spread it on the floor to see how it looked. Then I realized Nancy was there. She'd been sitting in the dark. She had a smug, sort of self-satisfied expression on her face and she was giggling away as if she cnew something funny that I didn't. I said, "What's the joke?" She said it was a very funny joke. She said, "We won't have to shout at the children any more because they are all dead." He shook his head, registering the disbelief he felt that night. "I said, "What are you talking about, you silly cow?" And she pointed to the kids' room and giggled. I charged into their bedroom.. He stopped. He couldn't go on. He buried his face in his hands and his body shook convulsively.

Frost waited. The cassette recorder counter clicked to its next number. Burton raised his eyebrows, tacitly suggesting they should break off the interview at this point. Frost shook his head. A break could give Graver a chance to compose himself, to change his story. He lit up another cigarette and waited. The shuddering subsided. Frost pushed a cigarette across to Graver who snatched it up gratefully, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.

"Thanks." He leant across to receive a light.

"You went to the kiddies' room," prompted Frost.

Grover knuckled his eyes and nodded.

Frost waited.

Grover stared at the glowing end of his cigarette, swallowing hard.

"And…?" prompted Frost again.

Grover glared angrily. Then he was shouting. "You know bloody well what I saw.. He sniffed back the tears.

"The children?" said Frost softly.

Grover nodded, suddenly calmer. "They were lying in their cots, still and quiet. I thought they were sleeping. I prayed that they were sleeping. But…" Again he couldn't go on. His body shook and he screwed up his face as if in intense pain. "It was a bloody nightmare."

"They were dead?" asked Frost.

"Of course they were. She killed them. That bitch had killed them. Aren't you listening?"

"I'm listening," said Frost.

"I could hear her in the lounge, laughing. I charged in there. She was sitting in the chair, rocking from side to side and sniggering. She said, "I told you I would do it… you wouldn't believe me." She said it as if it was something to be proud of. I still had the knife in my hand. I went berserk."

"You stabbed her?"

"Yes. The next thing I knew, Phil was dragging at my arm, yelling at me to stop. But it was too late. She was dead."

"Where had he been all this time?"

"Out in the kitchen. He saw there was going to be a row and didn't want to get involved."

"He went out there, when?"

"Immediately after we brought the carpet in. When he heard her screaming he came running back."

"And she was already dead?"

"Yes. There was no pulse… nothing. I said call the police. He told me not to be a bloody fool. He said they'd bang me inside for murder. She kills my kids and I end up in the nick for life. He brought me some clean clothes and made me wash and change. He said if we dumped her in front of a train it would look like suicide."

"And the carpet?"

"It had her blood all over it. He said we should chuck it in the canal."

"And you did what he said?"

"I was in no state to argue. He poured me a couple of brandies and we manhandled her out to the van. Then we rolled up the carpet and Phil put some bits of patio slab in to make sure it sunk. We dropped it in the canal on the way to the railway cutting."

"What happened to your bloodstained clothes?"

"Phil burnt them. He's got a coal-fired boiler."

Frost scratched his chin. "Good old Phil."

"She killed my kids," said Grover defiantly.

"I know," said Frost.

"She was pregnant. She wanted an abortion. I said no. I didn't want an unborn child killed." The irony of this made him bow his head and sniff back more tears.

Frost said nothing. Whatever the reason, whoever was to blame, the poor sod had lost his wife and his children. "We'll get this typed up, then you can sign it."

Suddenly Grover looked small and helpless. "Will I be let out for the funeral? The kids not her. I want them buried with their favourite toys."

"I'm sure that can be arranged." Frost stood up. This was a mucky case. Nothing would bring the kids back and there was no satisfaction in cracking it.

"What happens now?" asked Grover as Burton took his arm to lead him out.

"I think you'd better get yourself a solicitor," said Frost. "You're going to need one… and so is good old Phil."

In the corridor outside the interview room Cassidy was pacing up and down. He watched Grover being led out, then angrily marched over to meet Frost. "Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on? This is supposed to be my damn case, don't forget."

"It's still your damn case," said Frost. "He's confessed. She killed the kids and he killed her. His mate Phil Collard is an accessory after the fact." He handed Cassidy the cassette. "It's all on tape get it typed."

He never made it back to his office. Bill Wells came running up to him. "Jack. We've got a couple in the front office who reckon they know where the kidnapped boy is being held."

Frost was unimpressed. They'd had so many false leads from people absolutely positive they had seen Bobby.

"These two sound genuine," Wells assured him.

"All bloody nutters sound genuine," grunted Frost. Sod it. It was probably another time-waster, but he daren't ignore it. "All right, I'll see them."

They were eagerly waiting for him in the spare interview room. The man, in his late fifties, was small and sharp-featured, his head constantly moving from side to side like a terrier looking for a rat. His wife, a few years younger, was short and plump; her light brown hair, worn with a little girl's fringe, and her short-skirted dress revealing tubby legs, made her look like a retarded schoolgirl. Frost introduced himself and sat down. He glanced at the information sheet Wells had given him. "Mr. and Mrs. Mason, 18 Fullers Lane. You reckon you have information about this missing boy."

"It's not the reward," said Mason. "I want you to understand it's not the reward."

"Of course it isn't," said Frost, thinking, I bet it is, you bastard.

"We should have come sooner, but one hates sneaking on one's neighbours… and they used to be so good to me."

"When were they ever good to us?" asked his wife.

"Well, he lent me his lawn mower."

"His old rusty one he wouldn't let you have his precious new one. And those tight clothes his wife wears… you can see her nipples."

Frost cleared his throat. "If you could get to the point…"

"Yes, of course," said the man. "This missing boy." He looked from side to side, as if checking on eavesdroppers, then leant over the table, lowering his voice. "They'd be the last people on earth I'd suspect of doing anything like this, but '

"Who are they" asked Frost.

"Oh sorry. I'm talking about Mr. and Mrs. Younger… 20 Fullers Lane."

"Mrs. Younger she's the one with the nipples?" asked Frost, wishing it was her who was sitting opposite him.

"That's right. We live at number 18 they live next door," explained the woman. "They've got this shed…"

"Let me tell it, dear," said her husband, glaring her to silence. Back to Frost. "It's a shed at the end of their garden. Nice little shed he keeps his lawn mower and stuff in it." He hesitated and looked at his wife. "No dear, we must be wrong… They're such a nice couple. They wouldn't hurt a fly."

"All right," snapped Frost. "They're living bloody saints and she's got terrific nipples. Now, for Pete's sake tell me why you think they've got the boy."

Mason exchanged hurt glances with his wife, but decided to overlook Frost's outburst.

"This shed. Last week he ran an extension lead from the house so he can have electric light in it. And yesterday I noticed they'd put curtains up."

"It was me that noticed it," corrected his wife. "I told you about it." She turned to Frost. "Curtains in their shed! And they're kept drawn so you can't see inside. So what I want to know is, what has he got to hide?"

An enormous dick, thought Frost wearily, slumping down in his chair.

"The light comes on at all hours of the day and night," added her husband.

"So?" asked Frost, getting fidgety. This all seemed a waste of time.

"I've seen him taking food down there," said the woman. "Hot food on a tray."

"Food?" Now Frost was interested. He sat up straight and gave them his full attention. "Go on."

"The last couple of days, just before he goes to work and just after he comes home at night, he sticks his head out of the back door checking that no-one's watching, then he scurries off down the garden as fast as he can with a tray of food and he's inside that shed with the doors shut and the curtains drawn."

"And you reckon he's taking food there for the boy?" asked Frost.

"Well, he's not feeding his bloody rusty lawn mower," said the man. "And apart from the food, he's taken bedding down there… a big heap of bedding, I saw him,"

Gleefully, Frost rubbed his hands. This was getting more and more promising. "And what does Mr. Younger do for a living?"

"He's a paramedic… drives around in an ambulance treating people for strokes and helping girls who have babies on buses."

"If you swallow your false teeth, he's the man to call on," added his wife. "There was that woman round the corner- the one who had her womb scraped…"

Frost winced and held up a hand in protest. It was too early in the morning for scraped wombs. "You've actually seen him taking food down to the shed?"

"Come down to our house now and you can see for yourself," said the man. "He does it half-past eight on the dot."

Frost checked the time. Quarter past eight. He drummed his fingers on the table with excitement. Bedding, food, drawn curtains, and, as an ambulance driver, Younger would have access to chloroform or ether. Knock out the kid and bung him in the back. Who would suspect an ambulance?

Frost smiled at the couple. The dislike he had felt when he first met them had almost gone. "Hold on a moment be right back."

He raced off to the incident room. "Got a strong lead on the kid. A couple of nosy neighbours reckon he's hidden in a shed in the garden of 20 Fullers Lane." He gave them the details.

"So it looks as if you were wrong about Finch?" said Liz.

"Infallibility is not my strong point," answered Frost. "I've been wrong before and I'll be wrong again." He moved over to the wall map. "Where the hell is Fullers Lane?"

Burton showed him.

"Right." He studied the location. "One car round the front and one round the back ought to do it. Burton — you take the back-up car. Liz, Collier you come with me."

They were in the Masons' bedroom with its cute pictures of puppies on the wall and zip-up pussy cat pyjama cases on both pillows of the bed. Two large windows overlooked the rear gardens and a comfortable chair was already in position at each. Hanging from the back of each chair was a pair of field glasses in a case. Between the chairs was a coffee table holding fruit, snacks and a thermos flask. "The complete nosy bastard's outfit," commented Frost, picturing the Masons, side by side each night, spying on the neighbours through the Terylene curtains, chomping away at their snacks and nudging each other when something tasty clicked into focus. Frost sat in one of the chairs and picked up the field glasses. Liz sat in the other.

A creaking of stairs and the chinking of crockery as Mr. Mason came in with mugs of tea on a tray and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. "Thought you might like this." He peered through the curtains and pointed. "That's the shed, there!"

At the end of the next garden, a shed about eight feet by six, in creosoted wood with a green felt roof. The drawn, thick red curtains looked incongruous. Frost swung the glasses to the door. It was fitted with a heavy padlock which looked new and far too hefty for a garden shed.

"How long has that padlock been there?"

"We saw him putting it up last week," said Mason. "Probably frightened someone will steal his lousy lawn mower that's too good to lend people."

Frost slowly panned across the window, but nothing at all could be seen through the curtaining.

"Look out! He'll see you." Mason jerked Frost back, letting the lace curtain drop into place. "He's coming out."

By pressing his face close to the window pane Frost was able to see the back door of the adjoining house open and a man's head emerge to look furtively around. The man stared up suspiciously at the window of the Masons' bedroom and Frost jerked back. Younger must know what a pair of nosy bastards he had as neighbours. He hesitated, then came out carrying a tray covered with a cloth. He hurried to the shed, unlocked it and was inside in a couple of seconds. The light came on, but the curtains remained drawn.

"Good enough for me," grunted Frost. He clicked on his radio and told Burton to hold his position at the rear of the property. He jerked his head to Liz. "Come on. We're going in."

The woman who opened the door was in her mid-thirties, a hard-faced blonde in an electric blue dress. "Yes?" Her expression changed to anger as Frost and Liz barged past her, Collier following behind. "What the bloody '

"Police!" snapped Frost, flashing his warrant card. "We're going to search your premises."

"You are bloody not." She parked herself in front of Frost, blocking his way, but was yanked off by Liz.

"Calm down or I'm putting the cuffs on you," she threatened.

"Cuffs? In my own flaming house? Where's your search warrant?"

"We don't need a warrant if we believe there's a life in danger," Liz told her.

"Danger? What bloody danger?"

"Look after the lady," Frost told Collier. "We're going to take a look in their shed."

As he and Liz went out to the garden, the blonde yelled after them. "Arrest the, bastard Lock him up. It's nothing to do with me."

They charged up the garden and burst into the shed. A man was sitting inside eating beans on toast from a tray. A portable radio was playing. As they burst in, he leapt up, sending the tray on his lap clattering to the floor.

"Police!" yelled Frost.

"Oh, shit!" said the man.

Along one wall was a camp bed. Stacked at the rear was a pile of hospital sheets, blankets and medical supplies. There was no-one else.

"Where's the boy?" demanded Frost.

"What boy?"

Frost radioed Burton who scrambled over the rear fence. "Bring him into the house."

The blonde was at the back door, trying to get past Collier. "Keep that bastard out of my house," she yelled. "I'm having nothing to do with him."

"Isn't this your husband?" asked Frost.

"Until I divorce the sod, yes. Until then, he cooks his own meals and has them in the shed and he sleeps in the shed. I am not having him in the house."

"Why?" Frost added.

"The bugger's only been having it away with a tart in the back of his ambulance."

"Once it happened once," moaned the man.

"You were only found out bloody once," she snapped back. She turned to Frost. "Do me a favour. Arrest him. Lock him up. Throw away the flaming key."

"On what charge?"

"You've seen that stuff in the shed. All the gear he's nicked from the hospital. It's no bloody use to anyone, but he nicks it."

Frost's shoulders slumped. Another false lead. "You can have this one," he told Liz. "I'm sure the hospital will want to press charges."

Liz radioed for a van to collect the loot, then marched Younger out to the car. "I suppose it was those two nosy bastards next door who shopped me?" he said, glaring up at their bedroom window where the curtains suddenly twitched and sunlight flashed on the lenses of two pairs of field glasses. "I'll get you, you sods," he yelled. "I'll bloody get you."

"Another false lead, Frost?" said Mullett, striding into Frost's office and pulling a face to show his disapproval of its untidiness. He had the local paper in his hand.

"Yes, another false lead," agreed Frost, swinging his legs off the desk. Why did the bloody man always have to state the obvious?

"You probably haven't heard," continued Mullett with a sadistic smirk, 'but Cassidy has obtained a confession from the husband in the child-killing case."

"Yes, I had heard," muttered Frost.

"The wife killed the children and the husband murdered the wife."

"Something like that."

He's jealous, thought Mullett, jealous of Cassidy's success in the face of his own failures. Well, let's twist the knife a little more. "And this clears Snell the man you refused to arrest?"

Frost nodded and started patting the layer of papers on his desk to locate his cigarette packet.

"Cassidy got you off the hook with this one, Frost. You should be eternally grateful."

"I am," said Frost, lighting up. "Anything else?"

Mullett frowned. He produced the local paper and dropped it on Frost's desk. He tapped the front page item "Police Dragging Heels In Search For Little Bobby'. "Have you seen this?"

Frost picked up the paper. '"Flasher At Pensioners' Tea Party"," he read. He frowned in pretended puzzlement. "Is he a friend of yours, sir?"

Mullett banged his finger on the correct news item. He knew Frost was just trying to be aggravating. "That is what I mean, Frost. Police dragging their heels. Not the sort of thing I want to read about my division. So what is the position on the kidnapping?"

Frost rubbed his face wearily. "After Cordwell's magnanimous offer, we're being flooded out with more sightings and leads from the public who hadn't said a word before the reward was offered. We're following them all through, but I don't expect they will lead anywhere."

"We can't waste time or money or manpower on false leads," said Mullett, 'but if it transpires we ignored one that would have led us to the boy…" A typical Mullett instruction making sure he was covered whatever happened.

"And I'm going to have Finch followed," said Frost.

"Finch? You've gone over every inch of his house, his caravan, his car… you've found nothing."

"He's our man." Even as he said it, he had his doubts. Earlier today he was damn sure Younger was the kidnapper. He took a drag at the cigarette. "He'd better be our man… he's all we've bloody got."

"And what do you hope to achieve by following him?"

"I'm hoping he'll lead us to the kid."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then we're in trouble."

"You will be in trouble," said Mullett grimly. "Make no mistake about it, inspector. You will be in serious trouble." He made no attempt to suppress his smile of satisfaction as he turned and marched out of the office.

"When am I never in trouble?" sighed Frost, swinging his feet up on the desk again.

Liz Maud led Harold Younger out of the charge room and walked him to the main entrance. He had been charged and released on police bail and was free to return to his shed at the bottom of the garden. He had been warned that if he tried to make trouble with his neighbours his bail would be revoked.

Harold Younger was a toe-rag. He thought he was God's gift to women. He kept calling her sweetheart and in the car on the way to the station had slyly rested his hand on her knee. She had given him a sweet, encouraging smile, then stubbed her cigarette out on the back of his hand. He had sucked the burn and sworn at her, but didn't try anything else.

She ushered him out of the door, then returned to the incident room. Liz was not very happy. Cassidy, the same rank as her in spite of his temporary promotion, was tidying up on a murder investigation, while she was stuck with the petty theft of items from the hospital storeroom.

She found Frost in the incident room, seated at a desk, holding the phone away from his ear while a stream of angry abuse buzzed and crackled into empty air. When the noise stopped, he put the phone back to his ear. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Stanfield. The enquiries into the abduction of your daughter are proceeding. I have every hope we will be able to make an early arrest." More angry buzzing, so he put the phone down on the desk and n't up a cigarette, then when it went quiet, picked the phone up again. "Got to go now, sir… urgent call." He hung up and swung round to Liz. "That was Mr. Stanfield. He read in the paper how we're dragging our heels over the kidnapping and intends telling the paper how we're dragging our heels over his daughter's abduction." He stood up and stretched. "So I suppose we had better do something about it. Let's find out how…" He clicked his fingers. "What was his name the one with the pigtail?"

"Ian Grafton?" suggested Liz.

"Yes… how an out-of-work layabout can afford an expensive hi-fi."

"We were going to call on those two women at Primrose Cottage," Liz reminded him.

"Primrose Cottage?" frowned Frost, trying to recall what it was about.

"Lemmy Hoxton. They lived in the area where he was found."

"Oh, flip, yes." He had completely forgotten about that case. Too much happening at once. He couldn't keep up with it.

Jordan came in with PC Collier trailing behind. "You wanted to see us, inspector?"

"Did I?" asked Frost. "What the hell for?" Then he remembered. "Finch… I've promoted him to my number one suspect in the kidnapping case again." Noting their surprise, he added, "All right so he's my only bleeding suspect. I want him tailed. I'm hoping he'll lead us to where the kid is, but for Pete's sake don't let him know you're following him. If he suspects anything he'll probably sit tight, stay indoors and let the kid die of starvation. You can call on other cars to help if necessary."

He sat down again at the desk, then realized Liz was still standing there. "Primose Cottage?" she said.

"No." He shook his head. "Lemmy's been dead for months, another couple of hours won't make any difference. We'll go and see Ian Grafton."

He was feeling too fragile to let Liz drive, so he took the wheel himself. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. The poor old sod looked dead tired and much older than when she had first seen him when he turned up out of the blue at Patriot Street. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?" she said.

"As long as it's not rude," said Frost.

"It's about Mr. Cassidy's daughter."

"Oh yes?" said Frost, guardedly.

"He seems to blame you for the failure of the investigation."

"Yes," agreed Frost. "He thought I should have tried harder."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"He idolized his daughter," said Frost, 'but he was always very busy in those days. He was never able to spend much time with her. That night he'd arranged to take her out for a treat or something — I think his wife was away. Anyway, he had to call it off at the last minute as something boiled over on a case he was working on. The next thing we know is a call from Tommy Dunn that she'd been knocked down and killed by a hit and run driver outside the Coconut Grove."

"The Coconut Grove? What was she doing there?"

Frost shrugged. "God knows! She might have tried to get inside the club you know what kids are like but Baskin would never allow that: he knows how keen we are to take his licence away. I went straight down there. Plenty of people who heard the car hitting her, not a soul who saw it." He sighed. "So another of my failures. We never caught the driver and Mr. Cassidy has never forgiven me."

"Mr. Cassidy suggests you didn't follow up the case with your customary vigour," persisted Liz.

"I bet he didn't put it that politely," said Frost. "Let's drop the subject." He turned the car into Fairfield Road. He couldn't park outside Ian Grafton's house. The battered old van was missing. In its place was a gleaming black Porsche.

"When they come into money, they buy fast cars," said Frost with a smirk of satisfaction. He had no doubt now who had abducted Carol Stanfield. Grafton answered their ring. He was disconcerted to see them and had to shout over the sound of heavy meral music rolling down the stairs. "You can't come up I've got someone with me."

"Only take a couple of minutes," breezed Frost, barging past him.

As he opened the door the blast of noise from the massive floor-standing tannoy speakers almost hit him in the face. The speakers and the state of the art hi-fi unit almost filled the room. But there was still room for the bed. And sitting on the bed, her expression changing from delight to utter dismay when she saw it was Frost and not Ian, was Carol Stanfield. Spread on the bed next to her were heaps and heaps of banknotes. She said something, but he couldn't hear. The noise from the hi-fi was deafening and when he struggled to turn it off he only succeeded in turning up the volume. Liz pushed past him and cut the power off from the mains. In the sudden, stunning silence' they were slow to hear the sound of running feet taking the stairs two at a time. Ian and Carol were dashing for the front door.

By the time Frost and Liz reached the street, the Porsche was roaring round the corner.

Liz started to run for the Ford, but Frost stopped her. "We'll never catch them in that, love. They've got no money and nowhere to go. They'll be back."

They went back inside the flat to gather up the banknotes. He radioed the station to ask all units to keep an eye out for the Porsche and report its position. "Apprehend the occupants if possible, but I want no Brands Hatch speed chase."

He dropped Liz off at the station with the money, then went on his own to Primrose Cottage.