Hard Frost

Two

"We haven't found your son yet, Mrs. Kirby," said Frost, 'but we might have found his guy."

"Oh bloody marvelous," said the boyfriend. "Bring the guy home, put it to bed and that's the end of it."

"Why don't you shut your mouth?" said Mrs. Kirby. "It was your bloody idea we should go to the pub."

"You didn't try to talk me out of it, did you? I hadn't finished suggesting it before you had your hat and your bloody coat on and were half-way up the street."

Frost stretched out his arms like a referee parting two boxers. "Can you save the squabbling till later? We're very concerned about your son, Mrs. Kirby, and we want to find him as quickly as possible. Now, his guy white and green plastic zip-up jacket?"

She nodded. "Bobby's old one he'd grown out of it."

"And the mask Guy Fawkes with a green face?"

"Yes."

"We found it in a shop doorway in Patriot Street. Would Bobby have gone there with his guy?"

"I wouldn't have thought so. No-one goes through there at night. He was after money. He usually hangs about around pubs and bus stops."

"Tell me exactly what happened tonight."

"We've already told it once," said the boyfriend.

"And now you are going to tell it again," snapped Frost, 'and if I want you to tell it twenty bloody times, you'll tell it twenty bloody times. What's your name, by the way?"

"Green Terry Green."

Frost waited while Burton noted this down, then turned to the mother. "What happened tonight, Mrs. Kirby?"

"Bobby had his tea at five and then he wanted to go out with his guy. I said no. It was too dark and there's been this weirdo out at night stabbing kids."

Frost nodded vaguely. This must be the case Liz Maud was rabbi ting on about. "And how did Bobby take it?"

"He swore at me."

"Don't know where the little bastard gets it from," said the man. "Anyway, I gave him a clout, so he swears at me said I wasn't his bloody father and I said I was bloody glad I wasn't otherwise I'd have strangled him at birth '

"OK," said Frost, cutting him short, 'spare us the happy families stuff." Back to the woman. "What happened then?"

"Bobby sat and sulked in front of the telly. Just after seven, Terry suggested we went out for a quick drink. I told Bobby that as soon as his programme finished he was to go straight to bed. Me and Terry went out and were back just after ten. I went upstairs to check Bobby was all right and he wasn't there."

"Little sod just did it to spite us," said Green.

"Did the officers who came earlier do a search of the house? Sometimes kids hide, just for the fun of it."

"They turned the place upside down. He isn't here. We've been out pounding the streets, looking for him. We've been round to all his friends' houses and they haven't seen him!"

His friends. Could one of them be the dead boy? "None of his friends were missing, I suppose?"

She looked puzzled. "No we spoke to them all."

"I see. And you've absolutely no idea where Bobby might be?"

"I know where he is," said Green. "He's round his bloody father's moaning about us."

"If he was there, Harry would have phoned," said the woman.

"Hold on," said Frost. "The father he lives locally?" "He lives in Dane Street with his slag Chinese girl." "Suzie bloody Wong," added Green. "Are you telling me the father lives in Denton and you haven't checked to see if your son is with him?" "If Bobby was with him, he'd phone me." "And you haven't told him Bobby's missing?" "If he knew we'd left Bobby in the house on his own while we went to the pub, he'd come round and cause trouble. He's already threatened to smash Terry's face in." What better reason to go round and see him, thought

Frost.

Outside, in the car, he radioed through to Liz Maud to tell her that the dead boy wasn't Bobby Kirby and that the search for him should continue. "If we don't find him tonight, get Bill Wells to organize a search team for the morning. We'll have to pull men in off their rest days — tell him to clear it with Mullett."

"Right," she said.

"Circulate all forces with a description of the dead kid. Ask if anyone has reported him missing."

"Right."

"Anything you can't manage, let me know."

"There's nothing I can't manage," she snapped. "Over and out."

"What do you reckon to Ms Maud?" asked Burton, as he tried to get the engine of Frost's car to cough into life.

"Maud can come into my garden any time she likes," said Frost. "Hooray!" This because the engine suddenly belched and fired and they were away. "Put your foot down, son. I can't wait to see what this Chinese slag girlfriend looks like. Oriental nookie turns me on."

"Oriental women are old and wizened at thirteen," said Burton.

"Then let's hope she's only eleven," said Frost.

The house looked promising. Gone midnight, but lights were on downstairs. Burton thumbed the door bell and after a short while a woman's voice called, "Yes?"

"Police," said Burton. The door opened on a chain and he pushed his warrant card through the gap. "I wonder if we can have a word?"

The door opened. She was a stunner. A Chinese girl in her late teens, a doll's face and shiny black hair flowing loosely down her back. She had just showered and she glowed, squeaky clean and wholesome, in a white to welling bathrobe. She smelled of Johnson's baby powder. Her name was Koo Chen, a nurse at Denton Hospital, and she was getting ready for night duty. "How can I help you?"

Bloody easily, thought Frost, but he let Burton do the talking. "Is Bobby here?" Burton asked as she led them through to a tiny kitchen, everything spotless and gleaming.

"Bobby?" A flicker of concern darkened her face. "Bobby is with his mother."

"Could we speak to his father Mr. Harry Kirby?"

"He asleep. But I fetch."

Harry Kirby was thickset with tight fair curly hair. Some six feet tall, he towered over the tiny nurse who looked up to him with obvious pride. Straight from bed, he had pulled on a pair of jeans and a grey sweater. "What's this about Bobby?"

"Is he here, Mr. Kirby?" said Burton.

"Here? Why should he be here?" He glared at Frost. "What's happened?"

"He's gone missing, Mr. Kirby," said Frost.

Kirby listened, mouth agape with incredulity, anger reddening his face as Frost told him what had happened.

"That cow left my seven-year-old son alone in the house while she and that dickhead went to the pub?" He looked down at the nurse. "Shoes!" he commanded. Her eyes widened in alarm. "Where you go?" "Round to see that cow and her ponce of a boyfriend and smash their faces in." She thrust out her chin. "No you stay here." "He's not your son he's mine. Get those shoes!" "Hold it," said Frost wearily, his head aching from all the squabbling. "No-one's going anywhere. We're going to search the house."

Kirby stared open-mouthed at Frost. "You think he's here? You think I'm hiding my own son in my girlfriend's house? Where is he behind the attic wall like Anne flaming Frank?"

"He's missing," explained Frost patiently. "We don't know where he is. He might have sneaked in without you knowing. So, for everyone's peace of mind, we're going to do a search." The father went to follow them, but Frost jabbed a finger directing him back to the kitchen. "Stay here, please."

Burton checked the ground floor while Frost went up the stairs. First he checked the bathroom. Nowhere a child could hide, or be hidden. Just a wash-basin and a shower. A tin of Johnson's baby powder stood on the window ledge and the nurse's tiny damp footprints showed on the carpet tiles. Next to it was the spare bedroom, not much more than a box room with a single bed and a small, white-painted chest of drawers. Opposite this was the nurse's bedroom, clean, neat and small like the nurse herself. It was just big enough to hold a double bed, jammed tight against the wall to save space, and a dressing-table. In the corner a built-in cupboard. Frost pulled the door open. Men's and women's clothes swinging hangers, a stack of ironing on the shelf and two empty suitcases. He knelt and looked under the bed. Something yellow and wispy was on the floor. A very short, skimpy nightdress with a heady perfume that was not Johnson's baby powder. The thought of slipping into that double bed with the soft, compliant little nurse made Frost almost forget what he was there for and he jerked round guiltily as Burton came into the room.

"Nothing downstairs," reported Burton.

"Nor up here," said Frost, 'apart from this!" He held up the nightdress. "The naughty nurse's nightie… Cor, I bet her little bottom pokes out from under that like a couple of honeydew melons."

Burton grinned. The joy of working with Frost was that he never let the circumstances of the case he was working on get him down.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Kirby was pulling on a thick duffle coat, anxiously watched by the nurse.

"I come with you," she announced. She had a slight lisp which Frost was finding disconcertingly stimulating.

"No," snapped Kirby. "You get on to the hospital. You could well have two more patients in Emergency, by the time I've finished with them."

"Go to bed and save your bloody energy," said Frost. "If we don't find Bobby tonight, we'll be organizing a search party first thing in the morning and we're going to need all the help we can get, which means you and Dickhead."

As they stepped out into the street they could hear the car radio pleading for them to answer. "Can you get over to the mortuary, inspector. The pathologist wants to see you urgently."

The mortuary, a sombre-looking Victorian single-storey building, was situated in the grounds of Denton Hospital. Burton parked alongside the Rolls-Royce, which gleamed and sneered at Frost's mud-stained Ford. "Looks like a bloody hearse," sniffed Frost. There were other cars, a dark blue Audi which Frost recognized as belonging to Evans, the Scene of Crime officer, and the Vauxhall belonging to Harding from Forensic.

Most of the autopsy room was in darkness, but strong lights glared down at one of the tables where a gowned Drysdale, a green waterproof apron round his waist, beckoned the inspector over. Behind Drysdale, notebook in hand, was his ever faithful secretary. Drysdale preferred to dictate his notes rather than use cassette recorders which had let him down on more than one occasion. Evans, also' wearing a green mortuary overall, hovered in the background with his camera. Alongside Evans, similarly gowned, was Harding from Forensic.

The tiny corpse of the boy seemed lost on the large autopsy table.

"I want you to see this," said Drysdale. He bent over and carefully lifted the boy's right hand, the hand that had been covered by the white plastic bag.

Frost stared and his mouth sagged open. Behind him, Burton gasped. Where the boy's little finger should have been was now a bloodied stump. The finger had been hacked off just above the knuckle. Very gently, he took the cold, waxen hand from Drysdale to study it closer.

"A clean cut," said Drysdale, almost with a note of admiration at the craftsmanship. "I imagine a sharp blade was rested on the finger, then hit with something heavy. A single blow was sufficient. The wound was then doused with disinfectant, wrapped in cotton wool and strapped with sticking plaster. The bag was put on, I imagine, in case any blood leaked out."

"Was it done before, or after, death?"

"Definitely before."

"Poor little bastard! "said Frost.

"I doubt if he knew anything about it. I imagine that was why he was chloroformed."

"Would it have required some degree of surgical skill to sever the finger?" said Burton, peering over Frost's shoulder.

"No," said Drysdale. "Just a high degree of callousness."

"So a nurse could have done it?" suggested Frost.

Drysdale frowned. "Anyone could have done it… a nurse, a plumber, a television repair man."

"Would there have been much blood, doc?"

Drysdale pursed his lips and shook his head. "Very little. You would get more blood cutting yourself shaving." He nodded to his secretary who flipped over her

notebook. "Let's get on." He glanced up at the clock. "Examination of the body of Robert Kirby commenced at 1.57," he dictated.

"Oh!" interrupted Frost. "Sorry, doc should have told you. This isn't Bobby. We don't know who he is."

Drysdale glowered, his lips tight. "Thank you for sharing that information, inspector. I find these little details rather important." As he turned back to the table, Frost thumbed his nose at him.

Very slowly, Drysdale inspected the body, lifting the hands to examine the fingernails, searching for cuts, abrasions, any marks of injury. He raised the head and his fingers explored the scalp.

"If you could hurry it up, doc," urged Frost. "We don't know who the poor little sod is yet, and we want to get photographs off to the media."

Ignoring him, Drysdale dictated his findings to his secretary. "Little finger of right hand severed, but no other signs of external injuries." He bent over the face. "Vomit exuding from nose." He took samples and passed them over to Harding. "Mouth and eyes covered with brown plastic masking tape approximately 50mm wide." He moved to one side. "You may remove the tape now."

Harding carefully eased it off with tweezers, first from the eyes, then the mouth. A sour smell of vomit and chloroform. The boy's mouth, distorted by the tape, had been frozen into a grotesque teeth-baring grin. The flash gun crackled and the film-winding motor whirred as Evans took pictures.

Drysdale studied the area around the lips and nostrils, pointing out where small fibres of cotton wool still adhered. He tweeze red them off and passed them over to Harding. "The anaesthetic was poured on a pad of cotton wool and clamped over the mouth, causing a slight burning of the flesh… here… and here." He forced open the uiouth and shone a small pen torch inside. "Particles of undigested food and vomit. looks like ground meat, onion…" Then he tweeze red out a piece of sodden cloth and held it aloft before dropping it into the large glass container Harding was holding out for him. "The gag," he announced. Then, with agonizing slowness, he extracted more samples from the mouth and nose.

"Any sign of sexual interference, doc?" asked Frost impatiently.

"I'll jtell you when I'm ready," murmured Drysdale, 'and not before." He then proceeded to work even more slowly.

Frost sighed. The man was a bastard. He wandered off to a side room and helped himself to a mug of coffee from a thermos he found on the table. He had no wish to see the body opened and the organs removed and weighed. All he wanted was the findings… He sipped the coffee and smoked and tried to think of anything he should have done, but hadn't. He poured another mug of coffee, then wandered back to the autopsy room. The pathologist had finished and was washing his hands at the sink, while the mortuary attendant was busily suturing the gaping wounds. "Brief findings, doc?" He stressed the 'brief. Drysdale was inclined to be long-winded.

Drysdale tugged at the automatic towel dispenser. "No sign of sexual assault. If that was the intention, then it wasn't carried out."

"Good," nodded Frost, although this meant there was no way of knowing if they were looking for a sex attacker or not.

"His last meal was a proprietary hamburger sesanu seed bread roll, ground beef, onion rings, eaten verj shortly before death."

"How shortly?" Frost asked.

"Half an hour at the most."

Frost thought this over as he tried to rub some life intc his cheek. It was freezing cold in the autopsy room and his scar was starting to ache. The kid had a hamburger half an hour before he died. They'd have to check all the likely places McDonald's, Burger King in the hope someone might remember serving him amongst their hundreds of other customers… You're bound to remember him, he bought a hamburger! A forlorn, bloody hope, he knew.

"There's a very faint mark around the hair-line," said Drysdale, leading him back to the body. "You can hardly see it." He slipped a finger under the hair to lift it and showed Frost what he meant… a barely perceptible white mark, just under an eighth of an inch wide, running across the forehead.

"What do you make of it, doc?"

"Something elasticated pulled over the hair. My secretary suggested a shower cap." He nodded to the woman, who blushed and went back to writing out labels for the specimen jars.

"A shower cap?"

"Doesn't make much sense, but something like that. You'll get my fuller report in the morning."

"Send it to Mr. Allen," said Frost. "Not me it's not my case, thank God!" Then he remembered what he meant to ask. "Chloroform. Do they still use it in hospitals?"

Drysdale shook his head. "Not for many years. It's been superseded."

"So where would you get it a chemist?"

Another shake of the head. "Only if they've got some very old stock they haven't got around to throwing away yet. Years ago it was used in certain prescribed medicines, but not any more. Anything else?"

Frost scratched his head. "That's all I can think of, doc."

"I'll bid you good night then." He jerked his head to his secretary, who followed him out.

Evans began to bag up the materials removed from the body… the masking tape, the cotton wool and sticking plaster… The mortuary attendant came out to take the body back to the storage area, but Frost held up a hand to delay him. "Take a couple of Polaroid shots of the face," he instructed Evans. "I want them faxed out to all forces in the hope someone can identify the poor little git." He moved out of the way as the flash gun fired. One last look at the body. He lifted the hand with the severed finger. "Why the hell would anyone want to do this?"

"Liz Maud has got a weirdo breaking into houses and stabbing kids," said Burton. "Could be him."

"Could be," said Frost, not sounding very convinced. "I'll have a word with her."

On the way out they passed Drysdale and his secretary in the midst of an angry exchange with the mortuary attendant who was hotly denying helping himself to coffee from their thermos flask.

In the car Frost settled back into the passenger seat and offered his cigarettes to Burton. "I want you to check up on that little Chinese nurse. Find out where she was from four o'clock onwards, today."

Burton frowned. "You surely don't suspect her?"

"Sticking plaster, cotton wool, chloroform, things you'd find in a hospital. And she'd certainly know how to lop off a finger."

"But what on earth would her motive be?"

"I don't know, son." The cigarette waggled in his mouth as he spoke and sent a shower of ash down the front of his mac. "Perhaps she was jealous of Kirby's son perhaps he was spoiling their relationship."

"But this is a different boy."

"They all look the same to us maybe our kids all look the same to them. Perhaps she got the wrong kid." Even as he said it, it sounded weak. "Just check her out, son. It'll give us something to do. We've got no other leads at the moment."

A disgruntled Bill Wells grabbed Frost as soon as he entered the station. "If you want me to do anything for you, Jack, like organize a search party, do me the courtesy of talking to me direct. I'm not having that stuck-up tart telling me what to do."

"Sorry," said Frost, knowing how prickly Wells could be. "Have one of Mullett's fags and we'll say no more about it." Wells took one and let the inspector light it for him. He was still not mollified.

"And where is the good lady in question?" asked Frost.

"Lording it up in the murder incident room."

Frost nodded and breezed off down the corridor. "I'll give her your love," he called.

He sailed into the incident room. Liz had done a good job gel ling it organized, and under way. The fax machine in the corner was chirping away, spewing out yards of messages; two uniformed men were taking calls and another phone was ringing on an unoccupied desk. As Burton followed Frost in, she yelled, "Answer that phone."

Sullenly, Burton snatched it up. Like Wells, he wasn't happy taking orders from a woman.

"Be with you in a minute," she called to Frost, putting down her phone and galloping over to the fax machine. She skimmed through the messages, shook her head in disappointment and dumped them in an already full wire basket. She was annoyed. "We fax all forces asking if they've had a boy answering our description reported missing and they send us details of every missing boy they've got on their books whether he fits our description or not. Some have even sent details of missing girls!"

"Anything remotely like our boy?"

She pulled a fax from the pile. "Just this seven-year-old, Duncan Ford, reported missing this afternoon from Scotland."

Frost took the fax. "Last seen in Montrose just after four thirty," he read. "Well, unless Concorde has changed its route, we can rule him out." He gave her the Polaroid shots taken at the mortuary. "Fax these around." Then he remembered the photograph of Bobby the mother had given him. "You'd better send this out as well."

As she busied herself at the fax machine, he riffled through the heap of faxes received, then pushed the tray away. His gut feeling told him that the murdered child came from Denton and they were wasting their time enquiring elsewhere. When Liz came back he asked her about her child stabber.

"We've had four cases over the past week," she told him. "He breaks into the house, usually through a window, and stabs the kids while they sleep… just cuts their flesh. I think he gets a sexual kick out of seeing blood."

"Do you think he'd get a bigger sexual kick cutting off a finger?" She shuddered as he told her about the dead boy and of Drysdale's findings. "Let Mr. Allen know tomorrow and tell him his company is requested at the post-mortem, 10 a.m." top hat, white tie and tails." He yawned. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning. "I'm off home." A wave to everyone. "See you next week."

As he left, she was yelling for one of the PCs to start checking through the rubbish bags stacked in the car park to see if the dead boy's clothes had been dumped inside.

"Bossy little cow, isn't she?" whispered Frost to Burton.

"Too bleeding bossy," muttered the DC.

"Still," added Frost, "I wouldn't kick her out of bed on a frosty night."

Burton sniffed derisively. "I wouldn't have her in my bed in the first place."

It wasn't until he got home and the front door slammed behind him that he suddenly remembered Shirley. Shirley, who had been on holiday with him and who was going away again with him in the morning. He had left her in the house while he went off to the station to nick some fags from Mullett's goody box. Bloody hell! He had told her he would only be a couple of minutes and that was nearly five hours ago.

She wasn't in the living-room. He looked hopefully in the bedroom. The unmade bed was empty. Sod it! He snatched up the phone and dialled her number. The engaged tone. She had left the phone off the hook. Sod, sod and double sod. He considered driving round to her place, but was too damn tired. What a bloody fine holiday this was turning out to be. Piddling with rain all the time he was away, a murder case, a post-mortem and a solitary bed. He undressed, letting his clothes fall on the floor by the bed, then flopped down on the mattress.

He slept soundly until seven thirty when the insistent ringing of the phone brought him reluctantly to the surface. It could only be Shirley. But at this time? He lifted the phone.

"Frost," he mumbled, sounding very contrite.

It wasn't Shirley. It was the station. Mullett wanted him to report there right away.

"Tell the silly sod I'm on holiday," said Frost.

"The silly sod knows that," answered Bill Wells. "But he still wants to see you and he's in a real right mood."

Frost's heart nose-dived. "He's not been counting his bloody fags, has he?"

It was ten past eight and still dark as he turned the Ford into the car-park at the rear of the station. Usually half empty at this time of the morning, it was now jam-packed with alien vehicles of all kinds. Bobby Kirby was obviously still missing and the search party was assembling. Every available officer had been called in to help, including off-duty personnel and officers who could be spared from neighbouring divisions. All very efficiently organized. Frost was glad it wasn't his case. Organization and efficiency weren't his strong point. He'd have made a complete sod-up of it all.

As he bumped along, looking for somewhere to leave the Ford, a stray dog in the kennels started to bark and was answered by suppressed whining from the dog-handler's van over in the far corner. Space was at a premium, but he managed a clumsy double-park which effectively boxed in Mullett's blue Jaguar.

In the lobby, a weary-looking Sergeant Bill Wells, who should have gone off duty at six, was directing a group of constables from Thorrington Division up to the canteen where the main briefing was to take place. "Follow the smell of stewed tea and burnt bacon you can't miss it," called Frost.

Wells beckoned Frost over, his eyes glinting as they always did when he had an item of tasty gossip to impart. "Did you hear what happened last night?"

"You got your leg over with Liz Maud?" suggested Frost.

"She should be so lucky!" snorted Wells. He leant across the desk. "That booze-up that Mullett and Allen attended. It was some sort of senior police do top brass from all divisions were there."

"My invite must have been lost in the post," said Frost.

"Anyway," continued Wells, 'meting to the meaty bit, 'my information is, they sunk a lot more booze than was good for them and they were all well over the limit. Chief Inspector Formby from Greenford Division was giving four of them a lift back. He was in no fit state to drive, but that didn't stop him. Just outside the hotel car-park there's a lamp post. Formby wraps the car round it and turns it over."

Frost beamed. "I like happy endings."

"It's even happier," continued Wells. "They're all in Felstead Hospital with broken arms and ribs Formby's leg is broken as well."

"Serves the bastard right," said Frost. "If he had an inch of common decency he'd have given Allen and Mullett a lift as well and broken both their bloody legs."

Two more uniformed men swept in. Wells steered them up the stairs to the canteen, then leant over to Frost, lowering his voice. "Here's the best bit, Jack. The ambulance was called and the Traffic boys turn up anxious to breathalyse the driver the car just stunk of malt whisky."

"Bloody hell," said Frost. "I'd give up my pension for the chance to breathalyse a sod like Formby."

"He wasn't breathalysed, Jack. Someone pulled rank."

"There's no justice," said Frost.

"Anyway, five senior officers in hospital is going to make them a bit thin on the ground for a few weeks." The internal phone rang. Mullett. "He wants you," said Wells.

"He can't have everything he wants," said Frost.

Mullett dropped the Alka Seltzers in the glass of water and winced at the head splitting fizzing noise. He shouldn't have drunk so much last night, but the other officers were so insistent and he didn't want to appear the odd man out. A perfunctory tap at the door and before he could say "Enter' Frost had shuffled in. Mullett groaned. Was that the only suit the man had? He squeezed out a thin smile and waved Frost to a chair, then swilled down the Alka Seltzer.

"Have a good holiday?" he asked.

"Peed with rain all week," grunted Frost.

"Good," said Mullett, who wasn't listening.

"Did you get my comic postcard?" asked Frost.

Mullett frowned. Yes, he had got the card. And torn it up immediately. "It was extremely rude," he muttered.

Frost looked puzzled. "Rude? You must have spotted some double meaning I missed."

Mullett flapped a hand. "Be that as it may. Sorry to drag you in, Frost, but things happened last night. Five of our top men involved in a car accident."

"So I heard," said Frost. "The car had a fight with a lamppost."

"Yes a patch of oil on the road. They skidded." Mullett, not a good liar, didn't sound very convincing.

"Was Formby breathalysed?" asked Frost. "I understand he'd had a few."

"Oh Chief Inspector Formby wasn't driving," said Mullett, carefully avoiding Frost's eye. "His daughter was driving and she hadn't been drinking."

Frost smiled and gave a conspiratorial wink. "Bloody clever! You're a lot of crafty sods, sir, that's all I can say."

"What do you mean?"

"It's obvious. Formby was driving. He didn't dare be breathalysed, so you brought his daughter in from home to pretend she was the driver."

Mullett tried to sound suitably shocked. "That's a libellous thing to say, Frost. His daughter was driving. We all gave statements to that effect."

"Then the witness who claims to have seen it all differently is telling lies?" said Frost. He put on his innocent expression. "What did you want to see me about?"

But Mullett was now in a high state of agitation. "What witness? What does he claim to have seen? You must tell me."

"If what you say is true, then he couldn't have seen anything, could he, sir?" said Frost blandly. "It would be your word against his anyway, even if he is a vicar."

Mullett stared hard and jotted a note on his pad. He would have to talk to Frost about this later man to man on a friendly basis. He hadn't wanted to get involved in this wretched deception anyway, but they had pulled rank and twisted his arm. He cleared his throat. "The result of this unfortunate accident is that five senior officers are nursing broken bones in hospital."

"Then it wasn't all bad," said Frost.

Mullett ignored this. "Obviously, this has meant some temporary relocation of personnel. In our case it means that Inspector Allen has been seconded to Greenford Division as acting chief inspector until such time as Mr. Formby is fit enough to return."

"When is he going?" asked Frost.

"He's already gone. It was arranged last night."

"Do you mean to tell me," said Frost, 'that Allen knew he wouldn't be here when he conned me into taking over his cases on a temporary basis last night?"

"I don't know anything about that," said Mullett, again not meeting Frost's eye.

"The bastard," said Frost, banging his fist on Mullett's desk which jolted the headache into overdrive.

"Please!" Mullett held his head. "You will take over all his cases."

"That still leaves us a man short."

"There will be a temporary replacement for Mr. Allen… a detective sergeant as acting inspector. We haven't finalized the details yet."

"The sooner the better we're pushed enough as it is."

Mullett waved a hand of dismissal. "I'll leave you to it then. Sorry to have to cut your holiday short, but it couldn't be avoided."

"A few less drinks last night and it would have been," said Frost, pushing himself out of the chair.

As the door closed, Mullett heard a startled cry from his secretary and a raucous laugh from Frost. "Caught you bending there, Ida!"

The Divisional Commander shook his head sadly. What could you do with a man like that?

Frost took a quick look in Allen's office on his way up to the briefing. He shuddered. The room was so neat and tidy it almost hurt. Desk tops clear, wall charts meticulously entered, and the prissy smell of lavender wax polish. A cold, heartless room, which matched its former occupant, and which made Frost itch to get back to the warm, untidy fug of his own office. He delved into Allen's in-tray, and pulled out a neat stack of forms and returns which had to be completed and sent off to County by the third of the month. Trust the sod to leave them behind. He put them back and went across the corridor to the incident room where Liz Maud, still in her drab grey outfit, was surprised to see him.

"I thought you were on holiday, inspector?"

He explained about Allen. Her eyes narrowed. If a detective sergeant was to be made up to acting inspector, then who better than her!

"There's a few returns and things in his office," said Frost vaguely. "Perhaps you could see if you could handle them."

"No problem," she said. "I'll move in there."

"I take it we didn't find Bobby Kirby?"

"No. The briefing for the search party is in five minutes."

"Right — I suppose I'd better do it."

She concealed her disappointment. In the absence of Allen, she was hoping she could take this over.

"Have we identified the dead kid?"

"No."

"Damn." He lit up a cigarette and stared out of the window on to the car-park. "A young kid, eight years old at the most and dead for nearly fifteen hours. Why haven't his parents reported him missing?" He sucked hard at the cigarette as he had a thought. "It could be because it's his parents who killed him." He spun round to Liz. "As soon as the schools open, get on the phone to the head teachers. I want to know if there's any seven- or eight-year-old boys who haven't turned up for school today."

"Right."

"But don't tell them he's dead not until we've traced and informed the parents."

"Of course not." Give her credit for some common sense.

"Any joy with the rubbish sacks?"

"Plenty of prints, but we're checking with the shop people today to eliminate them. And no sign of the clothing."

"Has everyone in the briefing got copies of both photographs the dead kid and Bobby?"

"Yes."

"And the guy? People might not have noticed the kid, but they could remember the guy."

"Yes. And I've sent copies of the photograph of Bobby to the press and TV and we're having a pile of "Have you seen this boy" posters run off. Also some extra large ones to stick on a loudspeaker van to tour the neighbourhood."

"Good," nodded Frost. He had forgotten about that. "Right, let's get the search party briefed."

The canteen was packed. He snatched himself a mug of tea and a bacon sandwich and elbowed his way through to the front. "Your attention, please!"

There were murmurs of surprise. Everyone had been expecting Inspector Allen.

"First the good news and I must ask you to promise not to laugh. Chief Inspector Formby was injured in a car crash last night and is in hospital with two broken arms and a broken leg." He paused as delighted laughter roared out. "And this will really make you laugh he's in quite a bit of pain."

There were one or two cheers at this. Formby with his sneering manner and sarcastic tongue was not a popular officer.

"The bad news is that Inspector Allen has been seconded to Greenford as acting chief inspector and I'm in charge of this missing boy enquiry. You are looking for Bobby Kirby, aged seven. You all have a photograph and a description. His parents have split up and he lives with his mother and her boyfriend. Last night the mother and the boyfriend nipped out to the pub for a quick one, leaving the kid alone in the house. When they returned just after ten, the kid wasn't there. Apparently he sneaked out with his guy to collect money. About eleven o'clock last night we found the guy behind a pile or rubbish bags stacked in a shop doorway in Patriot Street. Next to the guy was a boy's body in a rubbish sack. The boy, aged around seven or eight, had been chloroformed and gagged with plastic masking tape and had choked on his own vomit. He was naked, but there was no sign of sexual assault. The boy was not Bobby Kirby and up to now he has not been reported as missing so we don't know who he is. We'll be checking with schools as soon as they open. So our task is twofold. To find Bobby and to find out all we can about the dead boy."

He deliberately didn't say anything about the severed finger. There'd be floods of hoax calls and fake confessions and he wanted there to be something that only the real murderer would know.

"About half an hour before he died, the boy ate a hamburger. It's going to be a bloody waste of time, but we've got to check all the fast food joints in Denton and ask if they remember serving something as unusual as a hamburger to the boy in the photograph around, say, four to five o'clock. I'm sure this will give us about three hundred useless leads, but it's got to be done. Any questions?"

A duffle-coated PC from Lexton Division put up his hand. "You think there's a connection between the dead boy and Bobby?"

"The dead kid was found next to Bobby's guy. That's the only connection we've got at the moment. It could be a coincidence, but it's good enough for me. I say there's a connection." He looked around. No-one else had any questions. "Right. You've been allocated your search areas, so the very best of luck."

He watched them file out clutching the copies of the photographs. He was hoping for the best, but he had a nasty feeling at the pit of his stomach that they were not going to find anything.