Frost 4 - Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "A heart attack?" offered Burton.

  "Don't be a fool!" snarled Cassidy.

  "Hold on," said Frost. "That could be it. You get a phone call telling you there's a quarter of a million quid waiting to be picked up . . . you could either wee yourself of have a heart attack." He pointed to Burton. "Phone Denton General and find out if anyone suffering from a heart attack was admitted last night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Frost nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Coincidence!" said Cassidy dismissively.

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

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

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

  "To spot what?" asked Cassidy.

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

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

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

  "The money!" exclaimed Burton.

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

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

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

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

  "Why?" Frost asked.

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

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

  Cassidy shook his head. He couldn't accept this. "You're not suggesting this whole kidnap was done for revenge? She died over eighteen months ago."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Two . . . three weeks."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Slowly and carefully," urged Liz.

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

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

  "What is this terrible smell?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Finch? The man who was attacked?"

  "Yes, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Going out, sir?" asked Frost.

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

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

  "Does he admit to kidnapping that poor boy?"

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

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

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

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

  Finch's eyebrows shot up. "Why?"

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

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

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

  "Do you have a warrant?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I won't, sir. Don't worry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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