"I could have, but I didn't."
"Do you possess a cassette recorder, Mr. Finch?"
"My wife had one a long time ago. I don't think I still have it."
Frost offered a cigarette which Finch waved away. "There's another point that puzzles me. Hudson says that when he charged across to grab the money, he saw you kicking the long grass as if you were looking for something."
"That's right - the dog's ball."
"But that was already back in your pocket, sir."
Finch creased a puzzled frown. Then his brow un-furrowed and he smiled as if the explanation was so simple. "Of course - I'd forgotten. My foot touched something hard in the grass. I was looking to see what it was, and that's when I discovered the travel bag."
"I see, sir," said Frost, trying not to show his disappointment. Either Finch was innocent, or he was bloody clever, and he was sure Finch wasn't innocent. He shook two photographs from the folder and slid them across the desk. "Seen either of these boys before, sir?"
Finch adjusted his glasses and studied them. "No."
Frost tapped one of the photos. "This little boy choked to death on his own vomit. I'm sure the kidnapper did not intend his death. When it comes to a charge, we . probably would not be talking murder."
Finch nodded vaguely as if this was of no interest to him.
"If we got the other boy back safe and sound, I think we might be able to say a few kind words on the kidnapper's behalf to the judge."
"You should be telling this to the kidnapper," said Finch, "not to me. Are you accusing me?"
"We have to keep an open mind, sir," said Frost. "Explore all possibilities."
Finch stood up. "You've searched my house, you've searched my car and you've found nothing. If you have anything at all to tie me to this crime, then please charge me. If not, I take it I am free to go?"
"Of course you're free to go," said Frost. "I'll get someone to drive you home."
"I can find my own way back, thank you," snapped Finch. He strode out of the office.
Frost hurried back to the incident room where Burton was waiting. "Well, sir?" he asked.
"Guilty as hell," said Frost. "I only need two things now to make an arrest - proof and the kid." He gratefully took the cup of tea Burton offered. "He's a glib bastard. Always comes up with a clever answer for everything."
"Perhaps it's because it's the right answer?" suggested Cassidy, who was feeling pleased with himself now that he had taken the confessions from the two women which tied up the Lemmy Hoxton case.
"He's guilty!" said Frost firmly. But even he was beginning to have doubts.
Collier nudged Jordan. They were back at the end of the road, watching Finch's house. Jordan yawned and opened his eyes. "What is it?"
"How much longer are we supposed to be stuck here?"
Jordan shrugged. "Until we're relieved, I suppose." He was glad to have a nice easy job for a change where he could catch up on lost sleep.
"For all we know they've arrested him. It's been more than three hours since they took him in. No-one would think of telling us."
"I'll check," said Jordan. He radioed Control.
"What do you mean, what's happening with Finch?" demanded Control. "Isn't he back?"
"If he was back, I wouldn't be asking," said Jordan.
Frost had returned to his office where he slumped down in a chair and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. He had plunged instantly into a deep sleep, a sleep boiling with jagged dreams involving Finch and the body of Bobby Kirby, hand flopping limply, the severed finger dripping blood. The phone woke him. He jerked up with a start, trying to work out where he was, groping for an alarm clock that wasn't there. Of course . . . he was in the office. He hooked the cord round his finger and bumped the phone off its rest and across the desk. "Frost."
Lambert in Control. He had Jordan on the radio and he wanted to know what was happening with Finch?
Frost yawned and shook his head to try and wake himself up. What was Jordan on about? He and Collier were supposed to be watching the house and Finch should have been back long ago. "I'm coming," he yawned into the phone and made his way to the incident room.
"What do you mean, he never came back to the house?" he asked Jordan over the radio. "He left here hours ago."
"I don't know about him leaving you, inspector," replied Jordan. "All I know is, he certainly hasn't come back here."
Frost creased his brow, trying to remember what had happened when he let Finch go. He couldn't remember allocating anyone to drive him back. Then he went cold. Finch had turned down the offer of a lift and he had let his number one suspect, his only bloody suspect, wander out of the station on his own. "You're sure he hasn't returned to the house?"
"Positive," said Jordan. "We've been watching." Collier, at his side, reacted to the 'we'.
"Then be even more bleeding positive," said Frost. "Go and bang on his door. That should set the dog barking. See if someone who isn't there tells the flaming thing to keep quiet."
"I know he isn't there," said Jordan.
"Just do it!" barked Frost. He waited impatiently, listening to little bursts of static from the speaker until Jordan returned.
"He's definitely not in the house," reported Jordan with an air of "I told you so'.
"You needn't sound so bloody pleased about it," said Frost. "What happened?"
"I knocked. The dog inside went mad . . . yapping and whining. I can still hear it barking from here. No-one told it to be quiet, no-one came to the door."
"Is his car still there?"
"Yes."
Frost sighed. What else could go bloody wrong? "Stay put. I'll get back to you." He clicked off the radio, conscious of everyone watching him, waiting to be told what to do. Control was instructed to order all patrols and mobiles to actively search for Finch. Bill Wells was to send every available man out to scour the town .. . pubs . . . cinemas . . . everywhere. He got one of the WPCs to phone all the firms Finch did accounts for, in the hope he was with one of them. Then he contacted Felford Division for someone to keep an eye on the caravan, should Finch decide to return there.
He briefed his team in the incident room, stressing how important it was to find him. "He's a calculating sod. If he's gone missing, there's a reason. If he's done a bunk, we'll never know where the kid is so we've got to find him. Someone check buses and the railway station." He paused, trying to think of anything he might have missed out. "And if anyone thinks of anywhere else he might be public lavatories, knocking shops, sex change clinics, Toys R Us - don't tell me, just go and look."
They bustled out, passing the Divisional Commander on his way in. Mullett always managed to appear when things were going wrong. "What's the position with Finch?"
Frost told him.
"You just let him walk out of here?" said Mullett, his voice shrill with incredulity. "You said you were having him followed. You said he would lead us to the boy."
"I know I said that!" snapped Frost. "But I sodded it up."
"Something you seem to be doing a lot of lately," said Mullett. "Strange that Cassidy seems to be having all the success while you have all the failures." He marched to the door, where he turned to fire one last bullet. "If you mess this one up, Frost . . ." The slamming of the door punctuated the threat.
"Thank you for your encouraging words," Frost muttered to the closed door.
He waited impatiently by the radio. Nothing. He got Control to radio out to everyone in case their radios had failed. Everything in order. Then the negative reports began flooding in. No sign of Finch anywhere.
Another half an hour passed. No news. He radioed through to Jordan. "Please," he pleaded, 'say Finch has come home, he's safe indoors, but you forgot to tell me."
"Sorry, inspector," said Jordan.
Burton and Liz returned, tired and unhappy. "Sorry, inspector," said Liz. "I don't know where else we can look."
Frost stood up. "You and Burton, come with me."
"Where are we going?" she asked,.
"To Finch's house. Let's go over the place again."
"But we didn't find anything before."
"Then let's hope we bloody well find something this time."
Chapter 18
The dog began barking again the minute they walked up the path. They could hear it scratching furiously at the kitchen door, trying to get out. Frost rang the bell and hammered on the door, just in case. He waited a couple of seconds then gave the nod to Burton, who moved forward with the heavy hammer. Two blows were enough. The door shuddered and screws squealed as they were wrenched from the woodwork. Burton kicked it open and they entered the house. The dog was barking itself into a state of hysteria and Frost had to raise his voice to make himself heard.
"This is make or break," Frost told his team. "Strip the place bare, peel the bleeding wallpaper off if you have to, but find me something that leads us to the kid."
He left them to it and wandered out to the Metro in the drive. Burton, with the help of an enormous bunch of keys borrowed from Traffic, had got the door open and was sitting in the front seat, going through the contents of the glove compartment. Car handbook, road map, old parking tickets . . . Frost took the road map, which was of Denton and the surrounding area. His pulse quickened when he saw a section carefully ringed, but it was simply showing the location of the caravan that Felford Division were keeping an eye on. Burton rummaged through the dash compartments. They yielded nothing. Frost left him to it and returned to the house and the barking dog. He told Collier to try and get the animal to keep quiet.
Collier wasn't too happy about this. It was yapping non-stop and scratching frenziedly at the door, sounding ready to tear the intruders' throats out. Gingerly, he opened the kitchen door inch by inch. The barking stopped. Collier froze. A danger signal. He had been told that when the barking stopped, the animal attacked. The dog waddled towards him, growling menacingly, then leapt up and licked his hand. He gave it a pat, and fed it some tinned dog food from the larder. It gulped the food down, then went off to sleep oblivious to the houseful of strangers. "Bloody good house dog," commented Frost.
In the lounge Jordan was on his knees by the magazine rack, taking each magazine out in turn, shaking it, then leafing through the pages. Frost wanted to tell him not to bother Finch wasn't going to hide the boy's location in a magazine - but he didn't want to discourage enthusiasm, no matter how misplaced.
Everyone was bustling with their own search areas. No need now to put everything back exactly as it was. Upstairs, in Finch's office, Burton was studying the items on the cork-based pin board taking each off and checking the backs. Nothing very exciting. A few business cards . . . a hand-written list of his premium bonds, a picture postcard from Spain . . . the telephone number of a plumber. In the bedroom Liz was going through the pockets of all the clothes in the wardrobe.
Frost was in the lounge. On a coffee table was an answer phone its little green light flashing to signal that a message had been left. He played it through . . . it was a call from a firm asking if Finch could do their accounts a week earner than planned. He switched it off. The phone had several numbers stored in its memory so he tried them all, only to get other people's answer phones They were all to do with Finch's accounting business. The man didn't seem to have much of a private life.
Bill Wells called him on the radio. "We've just had a complaint from the woman who lives next door. She says there's a gang of scruffs in Finch's house acting suspiciously."
"OK," said Frost. "I'll see to her." Everyone else was busy, so he ambled over to the next house himself and charmed his way into a cup of tea.
"Knock the dog off the chair," said the little grey-haired woman, pouring hot water into a cup and adding a tea-bag. As soon as Frost sat down, the animal, a fat, snuffling bulldog, was up on his lap dribbling all over his trousers.
"You're honoured," said the woman. "He doesn't take to everyone." She added milk and passed the cup, with its floating tea-bag, to Frost. "Why are the police here?" she asked. "Mr. Finch isn't in any sort of trouble, is he?" She said it as if she hoped he was.
"Good Lord no!" said Frost. "He kindly gave us permission to search his house in case we overlooked something." He didn't elaborate further.
"I saw him go out earlier," said the woman, 'but I didn't see him come back . . . and I usually notice."
I bet you do, you nosy cow, thought Frost. "Any idea where he might be?"
She shook her head. "Hardly know anything about him. I used to chat with his wife, but that stopped when she died."
"Yes, I suppose it would," said Frost.
"Killed herself," she said confidentially. "He never got over it." Frost nodded sympathetically, then his nose began to twitch. A most foul aroma. He hated to suspect the woman, but the dog was looking very innocent.
"Oh dear," said the woman, catching a whiff. "He's not being naughty, is he? He suffers from the odd touch of flatulence."
"He's not selfish. He shares it around," said Frost. He lifted the dog off and stood up. "I'd better make a move." The woman followed him to the front door where he bent and gave the dog a pat to show he bore it no grudge. "How does he get on with Mr. Finch's Jack Russell?"
"That's not Mr. Finch's dog," she said. "He's looking after it for someone while they're on holiday."
He gave her a wave and returned to Finch's house. A glum-faced team awaited him. "Nothing," reported Burton. "Not a damn thing."
He sat on one of the bottom stairs and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette to give him time to think. This was his last hope. There just had to be something here.
"I hate to say it," said Burton, 'but it could be you've made a mistake about Finch."
He shook his head. "It's him," he said, stubbornly. He was at his lowest ebb. The investigation had come to a dead end, it was peeing with rain and a seven-year-old was out there somewhere and he hadn't the slightest hope of doing anything about it.
"It's all a mess here," said Liz. "Shall we tidy up?"
"No," he said. "Leave it . . . Let's all go to the pub and get pissed."
From the kitchen a salvo of barks. Something must have disturbed the dog. Frost stopped dead. The barking triggered the memory of what the next-door neighbour had said, something that didn't seem important at the time. "It's not his dog!" he exclaimed. "It's not Finch's bloody dog!"
They looked at him as if he was mad. "Have I missed something?" asked Liz.
"No, but I nearly did," said Frost, beckoning to Burton. "Up on that pin board in his office there's a holiday postcard from Spain. Go and get it."
With a puzzled shrug to the others, Burton galloped up the stairs and brought down the card which he handed to Frost. A highly coloured beach scene with towering hotel blocks in the background. He turned it over and read the message." 'Dear Henry: Very hot here. We pity you shivering in Denton. Yes, please pay the phone bill for us and I'll settle up when we get back next week. Ethel and Wilf.' "
He looked up at them expectantly, only to be greeted by a wall of blank stares. "Flaming hell!" he moaned. "I'm supposed to be the dim one." He jabbed his finger on the card. " '. . . please pay the phone bill for us . . .' Doesn't that suggest anything?"
They looked at each other, eyebrows raised in bewilderment. "It means they want him to pay their phone bill," said Jordan as if answering a stupid, self-evident question.
"So how would Finch know about their phone bill?"
It was Liz who saw what he was getting at. "Finch is keeping an eye on their place while they're on holiday. He's checking their post for them."
"Which means he's got the key . . . to an empty house. A perfect place to hide a kid."
"Possible, I suppose," said Liz, grudgingly.
"It's all we've got, so it had better be bloody probable. So let's find out where Wilf and Ethel live. Did anyone spot an address book?"
They all shook their heads.
"His computer!" said Frost. "People keep names and addresses
in their computers."
"I tried to access it," said Burton, 'but it's password-protected."
"What does that mean?" frowned Frost.
"It means you've got to key in the password to gain access to the information. We could probably crack it, but it would take time."
"Time is what we haven't bloody got!" He paced up and down pounding his palm with his fist. "They must live in or near to Denton otherwise Finch couldn't keep popping in to check all was well."
"If we knew their surname it would help," said Burton.
"So would their bloody address," said Frost, 'but we haven't got it." Then his head came up slowly and he smiled. "I know how we can find them. The electoral register."
"How would that help?" Liz asked.
"The electoral register lists everyone living in the Denton area eligible to vote and I'm damn sure that anyone called Ethel and Wilf have got to be of voting age. All we've got to do is look through it until we find an Ethel and a Wilf living at the same address."
"But there's thousands of names on the register," moaned Burton.
"Then the sooner we start checking, the better. Let's go."
A blue haze of cigarette smoke was rolling around the incident room, the silence broken only by the drumming of rain from outside and the rustle of turned pages from within. Everyone available had been dragged in to help, even patrols dropping in for their meal break had to take sections of the register up to the canteen with them.
"I've got a Wilfred and Elizabeth Markham," called Jordan.
"Check it out," said Frost, blowing cigarette ash from his sheet. "People sometimes use a different name from that on their birth certificate." But he wasn't optimistic. No-one changed their name to Ethel from choice.
"What is going on?"
Frost raised his eyes from the page and groaned. Mullett again, scavenging around, trying to find something to complain about. Still, he was an extra pair of hands. He quickly explained and pushed a section of the register across to the Divisional Commander.
Frost 4 - Hard Frost Page 37
