Frost 4 - Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

  "Snags?" roared Mullett. "What snags?"

  But Frost had switched off.

  The junior house doctor, looking dead tired, came into the waiting-room. "Inspector Frost?"

  Frost stood up, pinching out the cigarette and dropping it into his mac pocket. "How is he?"

  "He's had a nasty knock. Mild concussion, nothing serious. We'll keep an eye on him tonight, but he can go home tomorrow."

  "Is he conscious?"

  "Yes, but I'd prefer it if you didn't question him tonight."

  "Your preference noted, doc, but I've got a missing seven-year-old kid . . ."

  The doctor shrugged and pointed to the end bed where a young nurse was twitching back the curtains. He yawned again. He was too tired to argue.

  Frost shuffled over to the bed. He too was tired. It had been a long day and the adrenaline that had kept him hyped up while they were waiting for the money to be collected was now drained by failure and he felt ready to drop. The little nurse smiled. She recognized him. The number of visits he had made at night to the hospital. The times they had called him in because they hadn't thought his wife would last out until the morning, but she had hung on. There was an empty bed in the centre of the row, its clean white sheets folded back. He wished he could just climb in and go straight off to sleep. But Mullett was waiting for him back at the station. There was a bollocking to be got through before he could enjoy the luxury of sleep.

  The clipboard at the foot of the bed read: "Henry Alan Finch, aged 66." There were figures for temperature and blood pressure and a scribbled prescription for pain killers.

  Finch looked older than when he had climbed out of the car. His face was grey, his eyes were closed and his breathing heavy, almost a snore. A rectangle of plaster covered the wound on his forehead. Plumpish, with thinning, gingerish hair and a cupped, ginger moustache, he had the appearance of a retired army officer.

  Frost dragged a chair up to the bed and dropped down into it. He loosened his scarf and unbuttoned his mac. The ward was hot and he had to fight off the urge to close his own eyes and drift off to sleep. "Mr. Finch?"

  The eyes fluttered open and he winced as he swivelled his head to look at Frost. "Who are you?"

  Frost held up his warrant card. Fincn blinked at it. "Where's my dog?"

  "At the station. He's being looked after. How do you feel?"

  "I'm all right. I want to go home." He squinted down the darkened ward. "Where's the nurse?"

  "A couple of questions first. What were you doing on the common at that time of night?"

  "Taking the dog for a run."

  "In the peeing rain?"

  "I do it every night. There's no law against it, is there?"

  "Do you always go to the common?"

  "Yes." His eyes were still focused down the ward. "Nurse!"

  "What happened tonight?"

  "Some bastard attacked me - knocked me out."

  "Let's take it step by step. We saw you pull up in your car."

  Finch's eyes narrowed. "What were you doing there?"

  "Never mind why we were there. You're lucky we were. You could have been lying unconscious all night and ended up with pneumonia. You pulled up in the car. You took your time getting out - why?"

  "The rain suddenly came down heavily. I was wondering whether to give it a miss."

  "But you didn't?"

  "The dog was all excited. I didn't want to disappoint him."

  "Did you see anyone else about?"

  "No."

  "There was another car parked under the trees. Did you see that?"

  "No." He gritted his teeth as he wriggled his back and tried to make himself comfortable. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

  "Please."

  "I was throwing the ball for the dog when it went into those bushes. I tried to get him to fetch it, but he wasn't interested, so I put him in the car and went off to look for it."

  "In all that rain? A lot of trouble for a ball." Frost fished the well-chewed, almost bald tennis ball from his pocket and placed it on the bedside locker.

  "Have you got a dog?"

  "No," admitted Frost.

  "Then you don't bloody know! It was his favourite ball. If you had a dog you'd understand."

  "OK. You went behind the clump of bushes . . ."

  "I looked for the ball when I saw this travel bag. It looked new and felt heavy. It was still fairly dry so I guessed it hadn't been there long. I decided to lug it back to the car and hand it in to the police station in the morning."

  "Very commendable," said Frost. "You weren't at all curious as to what might have been inside?"

  Finch sighed. "All right. I was going to take it home and force the lock. If it was full of drugs, I'd take it to the police, but if it was money . . ." He twitched his shoulders. "Well, I don't know. But I never had the chance to find out how honest I was. Suddenly this lout is there. He says, "Ah, you've found my bag . . . thanks very much," and tried to get it off me."

  "Did you give it to him?"

  "No, I damn well didn't. So he threatened me. He said, "If you don't want to get hurt, grand ad just hand it over," and he balls his fists as if he's going to hit me. Me - I was in the war. I fought for bastards like him. "Just you try it, sonny," I said. So he shrugs as if to say "You win" and makes to go. Like a silly sod I turned my back on him and, wham!" he's belted me with a brick or something. I hit the ground with a thud. The next thing I knew I was in the ambulance."

  "Can you describe him?"

  "About five foot nine, clean-shaven and a sneer on his bloody face."

  "How old, do you reckon?"

  "I don't know - mid-twenties, I suppose."

  "Colour of hair?"

  "Couldn't see he wore one of those anorak things with the hood up."

  "What colour anorak?"

  "Dark blue, red lining and sort of rabbit's fur round the hood."

  "Trousers?"

  "Dark - darkish . . . didn't pay much attention to them. But I'll tell you something. I'd recognize him anywhere. Let me get near him when he hasn't got a brick in his hand, I'll show the little swine."

  Frost was now beaming. "You'd recognize him?"

  "Like a bloody shot!"

  Frost jumped up. He wasn't tired now. "Nurse get this gentleman his clothes. He's coming with me."

  The dog, sensing its master was in the station, was yapping almost hysterically. Sergeant Wells let it into the interview room where it went mad, jumping up at Finch, its stumpy tail a blur. Finch was settled down at the table with a cup of tea from the vending machine and the books of photographs placed in front of him. "Take your time," said Frost. "If you're not sure, just say so."

  "If he's in your books, I'll spot him," said Finch, firmly. He took a swig at the tea, patted the dog which was now stretched out on the floor at his feet, and turned the first page. Frost left him with Button and went into his office.

  Another batch of paperwork had been heaped in his in-tray, most of it nagging rubbish from Mullett. Didn't the sod have anything better to do? He flopped heavily into his chair, lit up a cigarette and pulled the tray towards him, at the same time dragging the wastepaper basket over with his foot. The first three were Mullett memos beginning "When may I expect . . . ?" "You can expect whenever you flaming well like," he muttered, 'but you're not going to get." He screwed them into a ball and flipped them into the bin. The fourth was again from Mullett: "I have repeatedly asked for . . ." It joined the others.

  "Ah Frost, there you are! I've been waiting for you in my office."

  Heck! Hornrim flaming Harry! He had been putting off attending the old log cabin for his bollocking until he had some good news from Finch to take the edge off it.

  "I was just coming, super."

  Mullett eyed the screwed-up balls of paper in the waste-paper bin. They looked suspiciously like the memos he had dictated earlier. "I sent you some memos," he said.

  "Did you?" said Frost, all wide-eyed and innocent. "I haven't com
e across them yet." He jumped from his chair and footed the waste bin under his desk. "What was it you wanted to see me about?" He followed Mullett to his office.

  Mullett went on and on. Frost managed to shut most of it out, but the words 'fiasco', 'ill-conceived', 'sloppy', 'utter disgrace', kept filtering through. The old log cabin, like the hospital, was overheated and that, plus Mullett's droning, was sending him to sleep. His head began to droop, then snapped up as his auto-pilot told him Mullett was expecting an answer.

  "Sorry, super . . . won't happen again," he muttered, hoping it was the right response.

  "Sorry! Sorry isn't good enough," said Mullett, getting his second wind.

  Isn't it, thought Frost, then what about 'balls'? How was this helping? He was just working himself up to the point where he was going to tell Mullett to stuff his flaming job when he was saved by the bell. The phone.

  Annoyed at being interrupted, Mullett snatched at it. "Mullett," he barked. A look of alarm crossed his face. He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Sir Richard Cordwell," he hissed. Back to the phone. "Hello, Sir Richard . . . Yes, I've just got into the office and I believe that what you say is correct. I know he gave his word . . . I shall look into it . . . I don't know the details . . . I wasn't involved, of course . . . No, disappointingly the man got away . . . No, regretfully we have no idea who he is . . ." He eased the phone away from his ear and the buzzing of angry invective crackled round the room. At a pause for breath from the other end, Mullett smiled ingratiatingly into the mouthpiece and asked, "I suppose the kidnapper hasn't contacted you with news of the boy's release?" He winced and pulled the phone away again as another molten lava of abuse erupted from the earpiece. "No contact from the kidnapper," he hissed superfluously to Frost. Back to the phone. "Yes, Sir Richard, but I don't really think you can blame us . . . Oh come . . . that's hardly fair . . ." His feeble interjections were receiving short shrift.

  The internal phone buzzed and, at Mullett's signalling, Frost, who was wondering if this might not be a good opportunity to slip out, answered it. An excited Burton. "Mr. Finch has made an identification. We're checking it out now."

  "Is he sure?" said Frost, waving down Mullett who was signalling for him to be quiet.

  "He says he's bloody positive."

  He put the phone down and waved to Mullett who again slapped his hand over the mouthpiece. "We could have an identification. If so, we could make the arrest tonight."

  Mullett hesitated. "Is he definite?"

  "He says he's positive. I'm checking on it now."

  A deep sigh of relief from Mullett who conveyed this information to Cordwell. "I'll be back to you very shortly," he assured him. "You'll be the first to know, Sir Richard." He replaced the phone and gave it a little satisfied pat. "I'll come with you," he said.

  He followed Frost back to the interview room where a smugly self-satisfied Finch was leaning back in his chair, his hand ruffling the neck of his dog. "Definitely him," he told Frost proudly. "I'd know him anywhere. I never forget a face."

  Mullett beamed and gave the dog a couple of tentative pats while Frost studied the details under a photograph of a scowling youth. Richard Francis Hartley, aged twenty-four. Lots of petty of fences scaling up to robbery with violence for which he had served a two-year stretch. Not one of Frost's arrests, so he couldn't place him, but from his mug shot, he looked a real right charmer.

  The door opened and Burton looked in. He caught Frost's eye and beckoned, at the same time giving the thumbs-down sign to signal it was not good news. A dismayed Frost went to sidle out but Mullett wanted to hear the good news first hand and called Burton in.

  "A slight complication," said Burton. "The man Mr. Finch positively identified is in the remand centre at Bister. He's been there for the past two weeks."

  Mullett glared at Frost whose fault this clearly was. "Typical," he snapped. "Damn typical!"

  "I could have sworn it was him," said Finch, completely unabashed. "If it wasn't him, it was someone very much like him."

  "The courts don't go much on lookalikes said Frost. "They insist on the real thing."

  "Sorry," shrugged Finch, taking the dog's lead.

  "Never mind," smiled Frost through clenched teeth. "We'll catch him."

  "When you do," said Finch, 'just give me a shout. I'll identify him."

  "Or someone very much like him," added Frost as the door closed. "Stupid old sod." He dropped into the chair vacated by Finch. The tiredness was back.

  "Tonight's stupidity was not confined to him," said Mullett significantly.

  Frost was too tired to come up with an answer. He could barely make the V sign as Mullett left. From outside he could hear Finch's dog yapping. Bloody dog. It had the chance to bite Mullett and didn't do so. He took another look at the photograph Finch had identified. "I suppose he hasn't got a twin brother who's done time for kidnapping?"

  Burton grinned and shook his head. "A sister on the game, that's all."

  A match flared as Frost scratched it down the side of the table and lit up. "Not one of my better days, son. We don't know who the kidnapper is, we've lost the money and the kid isn't back. On the credit side, Mullett isn't very happy, but even that doesn't entirely cheer me up." The interview door opened and Cassidy came in. Frost forced a smile of welcome. "You've heard about Finch's identification?"

  "Yes, rotten luck," said Cassidy, in a tone completely devoid of sympathy. "We've got Snell."

  "Good," said Frost. He was too bloody tired to care. "Where was he?"

  "PC Jordan spotted him driving away from his mother's place. He went back to collect his things. They're bringing him in now."

  "Terrific!"

  "I'd like to do the questioning."

  "Sure." He wasn't going to fight over the questioning. All he wanted to do was go to bed. In any event, he wasn't sold on the idea that Snell had killed the woman and the kids. He stood up and wound his scarf round his neck. "See you in the morning."

  "Yes," agreed Cassidy. "In the morning."

  A tap at the door. "Do you want Snell in here?" asked Wells.

  Cassidy nodded. He decided to ignore the lack of a 'sir' or 'inspector'. "Yes, sergeant. Bring him in." He quickly sat down in the chair vacated by Frost in case the inspector decided to stay after all, then smiled in anticipation as Jordan and Simms ushered in Snell. He looked frightened. None of his cockiness from the previous day remained. It was Frost he turned to.

  "I didn't do it, Mr. Frost. I never touched them."

  Frost pointed to Cassidy. "This is the gentleman you tell your lies to tonight, Sidney."

  Cassidy indicated the chair opposite him. "Sit down."

  As Snell dragged out the chair, his coat sleeve rode up showing the edge of the bandage round his wrist. Frost grabbed his arm and pulled the sleeve back further. "Hurt yourself, Sidney?"

  Snell snatched his arm away. "Cut myself," he muttered.

  "What with - the edge of a sharp bible?"

  Cassidy showed concern as Frost started to unwind his scarf as if he had decided to stay. There was no way he was going to let Frost elbow his way in for a share of the limelight. "I'll see you in the morning, then, inspector."

  Frost took the hint and, with a brief nod, wandered out to the car-park. He heard hurrying footsteps clattering down the corridor behind: a grim-faced Mullett in his tailored overcoat was determined to get out of the station before Cordwell rang back to ask about the promised arrest of the kidnapper.

  "Mr. Mullett!"

  Mullett's brow creased with annoyance as Wells hurried after him. "Sir Richard Cordwell on the phone. Wants to know if we've made the arrest."

  "Tell him I've left," said Mullett, pushing open the doors to the car-park. "Tell him you can't contact me."

  Wells stood by Frost, staring at the undignified sight of the Divisional Commander, overcoat flapping, running to his car. "Then he wants to speak to you, Jack."

  "Tell him I'm with Mr. Mullett," said Frost.

 
; Now that there was no need to lie in the open on wet grass, the rain had eased off. He didn't drive straight home. For some reason he detoured and took the road by the golf course, finding himself coasting down Cresswell Street where he stopped outside the house and switched off the engine. The murder house, dark and silent like the other houses in the street, but a different dark, a different silence. A creaking sound. The front gate swinging in the wind, the way it was swinging when Mark Grover came home in the early hours of the morning. Frost climbed out of the car to click it shut, then decided to take a quick look around.

  His footsteps crunched up the path. The evening paper was poking from the letter box. No-one had stopped it. It signalled that the house was empty, an open invitation to burglars. He pushed it through and heard it plop on the door mat. On impulse he took the key from his pocket and let himself in. Still the lingering smell of Johnson's baby powder. Still that terrible silence. Not a rustle, not a creak. He dug down deep in his mac pocket for a torch and let the beam creep along the passage. He hesitated outside the nursery blue door, but didn't want to go in that empty bedroom with its row of sad-faced dolls.

  On to the kitchen. All the mugs and plates the police had used had now been washed up and the place looked neat and tidy. Crossing to the back door, he undid the bolts and stepped outside to the garden. The original sheet of plywood covering the broken glass panel had been removed by Forensic for tests on the traces of blood and skin tissue. A new square of ply had been nailed securely in place. Was he standing where Snell had stood, where Snell had poked his hand through and let himself in? The same Snell he could have arrested, but had let off with a caution because he was too damn lazy and wanted someone else to do all the paper work.

  He stepped back into the kitchen and bolted the door. An involuntary shiver shook his body, so strong was the aura of tragedy that pervaded the whole house. What the hell was he doing here? He pocketed the torch and hurried back to his car where Cassidy, oozing smugness, was calling on the radio, anxious to impart his news.