Frost 4 - Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

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

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

  "We know about him. Anyone else?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "He asked to see me."

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

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

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

  "He said he didn't do it."

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

  "He wants to withdraw it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "What - now?" asked Burton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Police!"

  "What do they bloody want?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "And they didn't ask?"

  "No." Another yawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "And you lied to us?"

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

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

  "All right. They turned up just after eight, like I said, and they worked like the clappers - didn't even stop for anything to eat. By midnight they were well on the way to finishing and they find there's a dirty great chunk of carpeting left over . . . worth around a thousand quid, so Mark Grover reckoned. We made a deal. They'd lay it in my lounge for me and they'd keep the rest. Just before midnight I let them out. They dropped off my bit and took their own piece. They were back again around half-past one and finished off at the store . . . Yesterday afternoon the fat one - Phil Collard - called here to lay it for me. He stressed we should all keep our mouths shut about the other night, in case we got found out."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Stop . . . Police!" she yelled.

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

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

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

  "Craig Hudson. Is this you?"

  The man, white-faced, nodded.

  "And is this your car?"

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

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

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

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

  "Get yourself covered up," hissed Liz.

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

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

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