"Delighted to help," boomed Mullett. "We are, after all, a team." He settled himself down at an empty desk, which made Frost's heart sink as his stomach was rumbling and he was hoping to send out for another feast of fish and chips. "You'd be more comfortable in your own office, sir," he suggested hopefully.
"I'm quite happy here," smiled Mullett. "What were those names we were looking for . . . George and Mildred?"
"Wilf and Ethel."
"Of course, of course." Mullett coughed pointedly. "I'm sure we'd all work a lot better if people didn't smoke."
They had three false dawns. Two "Wilfred and Ethel's that seemed promising, but were at home watching television when the car called to check. At the third, the house was empty, but the next-door neighbour said they were at the pub and would be back in half an hour.
Frost rubbed a weary hand over his face. The names were beginning to blur and wriggle in front of his eyes. At one stage he suddenly realized he had turned a page but hadn't consciously read any of the names on it. There must be an easier way.
"What names did you say again?" asked Mullett.
Bloody hell. The man had a memory like a bleeding sieve - and how could he have been checking away for half an hour without knowing the names he was looking for? "Wilf and Ethel," said Frost patiently.
"I've got a Wilfred and Ethel here," said Mullett, tapping the page with his finger. Frost dashed across and snatched it from him. "Wilfred Percival Watkins and Ethel Maureen Watkins, 2 Wrights Lane, Denton." He checked the map. Wrights Lane was a fairly exclusive area with a few detached Victorian houses in extensive grounds on the outskirts of Denton, not too far from the woods and the river.
After three disappointments, no-one got too excited; they plodded on with their own lists while Frost sent an area car to check this one out.
Within five minutes an excited radio message. "Charlie Baker to Mr. Frost. Checked the Wrights Lane address. Lights are showing, but as you instructed we did not approach. Neighbours say the owners are a retired pharmacist and his wife, holidaying in Spain. They also confirm they have a Jack Russell terrier which is being looked after by a friend."
"Bingo!" yelled Frost, throwing his list up in the air where the papers fluttered and autumn-leafed to the ground. He grinned broadly at Mullett. "Thank you, super. I always said you weren't entirely useless."
By the time Mullett had worked out that this wasn't the whole-hearted compliment he had assumed, Frost and his team were racing across the rain-swept car-park, leaving empty desks and sheaves and sheaves of printed lists.
The car slithered and bumped up the unmade road that led them to Wrights Lane. Rain bounced and drained off the road into an overflowing ditch which ran along its length. The road dipped sharply as the car went beneath a small, iron railway bridge and churned its way through a deep puddle; a slight bend and there was the house, just to their left behind a fringe of trees. Its lights were on.
They turned into the drive, skidding to a splashing halt by the front door, the second car with the rest of the team having to brake sharply to avoid running into the back of them. Out of the car, heads down against the driving rain, and Frost was hammering at the front door after sending Burton and Jordan round to the back. No answer but he could see someone moving about inside the hall through the frosted glass of the door.
He was about to knock again when Finch's voice called, "Who is it?"
"Police - open up."
"Just a minute."
A brief pause, then the door was opened by Finch, his jacket off, a sponge mop in his hand. He raised his eyebrows in pretended surprise. "Inspector Frost! Twice in one day - what an unexpected pleasure!"
"We want to search these premises," said Frost.
"Do you have a warrant?"
"No, but it won't take long to get one."
"Is it about the missing boy?"
"Yes."
"Then I waive my right to demand a warrant. Please search where you like." He moved back so they could pass. "Do wipe your feet . . . and don't make a mess. This isn't my house."
He's too cocky, thought Frost, hoping and praying this wasn't going to turn out yet another wasted exercise. He's too bloody cocky.
They thudded past him. Liz went straight through to the back door to let in Burton and Jordan who were shivering in the rain. They stepped thankfully into the dry and on to gleaming chequer-board linoleum tiles, dripping pools of water which Finch hastily sponged up with the mop. "Please," he admonished. "I've gone to a great deal of trouble to tidy this place up. It belongs to friends of mine who return from Spain tomorrow." He checked the washing machine which was churning away. "I've got so much to do before then."
Liz allocated areas of search, while Frost sat with Finch in the lounge, a large, high-ceilinged room, its gleaming furniture reeking of polish.
"How did you find me here?" asked Finch, slipping on his jacket. Then he smiled. "Of course the address on the dog's name tag. How clever of you!"
Bloody hell, thought Frost. Don't tell me it was on the flaming dog's name tag all the time! He smiled back modestly as if pleased at his cleverness. "That's right."
"Why do you think the boy is here, inspector?"
"Because you are here, Mr. Finch." He took a cigarette from the packet and lit up.
Finch grabbed at a heavy glass ashtray and pushed it over to him. "This smacks of harassment. I have already told you I know nothing about the boy. You have nothing to suggest otherwise, yet I am constantly having to put up with this cavalier treatment."
"Where is he?" asked Frost.
"I wish I knew," said Finch. "The poor little mite, away from his parents . . ."
An urgent call from upstairs. "Sir here!"
Burton had found something. Frost shot a glance across to Finch, who remained impassive and was carefully blowing flakes of cigarette ash from the polished top of the table.
"In here, sir." Burton was waiting on the landing outside a grey-painted door. "Put your cigarette out, please." Frost, puzzled, did as the DC requested. He exhaled smoke which Burton fanned away before opening the door a fraction, pushing Frost in, then quickly closing it behind them both.
They were in a small bedroom at the back of the house. An oak wardrobe, a small matching dressing-table and a single bed which was pushed tight against the wall. The bed had been stripped down to the ticking on the mattress and pillows. A smell of wet wool from the carpet which had been shampooed recently and was still slightly damp.
"Take a sniff, sir," said Burton.
Frost sniffed. "Polish? Carpet shampoo?"
Burton looked disappointed. "Nothing else?"
Frost tried again, then frowned. A sickly, sweet smell. Very faint, but it was there. "Chloroform?"
Burton nodded in agreement. "That's what I think."
"The kid's been in this room," said Frost. "On that bed!" He lowered his nose to the mattress and sniffed, but could detect nothing. He went to the door, opened it briefly and called for Liz to bring Finch up.
Finch came in and stood in the middle of the bedroom. "Smell anything?" Frost asked him.
With a cocky smile, Finch took a deep breath, his nose twitching delicately as if he was savouring the bouquet of a rare wine. "Furniture polish . . . carpet shampoo . . . ?" he suggested. His nose wrinkled in distaste. "And stale tobacco smoke which I imagine is coming from you. May I open the window?"
"No," snapped Frost. He gave a tentative sniff, but by now the dying linger of the anaesthetic had expired. "We could smell chloroform!"
Finch gave a knowing smirk and shook his head. "Dry cleaning fluid. There was a stain on the carpet - the dog. I cleaned it off and shampooed it." He bent over and peered. "It's completely gone now."
Frost pointed to the stripped bed. "Where's the bedding?"
"In the washing machine. The dog again - he was sick over the pillow."
Liz was told to dash down to the kitchen and rescue the bedding from the washing machine in the hope Forensic could do
their stuff on it.
"Inspector!" Jordan calling from below. It sounded important. Frost scuttled down the stairs, two at a time, hoping and praying that it was something that would wipe the supercilious smile from Finch's face. Under the stairs an open door led to steps to the cellar. Jordan was calling from there.
A large cellar, its floor of flagstones, the bare brick walls white-washed. An unshaded 75-watt bulb swung in a holder, flickering grotesque shadows on the walls, along which ran metal shelving stacked high with cardboard boxes, bottles, carboys, drums, stock left over from when Finch's friend sold his chemist shop.
"I found this," said Jordan, handing the inspector a large bottle in blue, fluted glass with a label that read "Trichloromethane CHCI3 - Chloroform'.
Frost held it up to the light. It was about a third full. Removing the stopper, he lifted it to his nose. Not white spirit this time. Definitely chloroform. He nodded grimly, then looked down at the floor, stamping his foot down on the flagstones, pointing out a couple that appeared loose. Where better to bury a body? "Have them up, son. All of them . . . especially the ones that don't look as if they have been moved."
Back up the cellar steps, squeezing tight against the wall to get out of the way of the Forensic team who were crawling everywhere. Harding didn't look very optimistic even when he told him about the chloroform. "You'd expect to find it amongst a chemist's stock. It doesn't really prove anything."
"How's the search going?" Frost asked.
"He seems to have made sure there's nothing for us to find. This place has been scrubbed, sponged, polished and vacuumed. The vacuum cleaner is a wet and dry model, so it's had water through it which has removed nearly all traces of dust and fibre."
"What about the bedding from the washing machine?"
"We'll have a go at it over the lab, but I reckon it's been too well washed to yield anything."
"The kid was here," said Frost firmly. "I'm pretty certain he was here up to a couple of hours ago."
"Would he have had the run of the place?" asked Harding.
"Hardly," replied Frost. "I reckon the poor little sod was trussed like a chicken on that bed."
Harding shrugged. "Then he wouldn't have left much trace in the rest of the house, would he?"
"Inspector!" Liz, this time calling him from the landing. Another bloody clue that would probably lead nowhere. Harding followed up the stairs. She took them into a small box room which had been converted to an office. It was very similar to the one in Finch's house. A small desk had been jammed up against one wall. On the desk was an IBM 286 PC connected to a printer. Liz pointed. "A twenty-four pin dot matrix printer, the same type as the one used for the ransom demand."
Frost grinned with delight. "Then we've got him." He turned to Harding. "Can we prove the ransom note was written on this machine?"
Harding swiftly disillusioned him. "All we can say is that the note was printed on a machine of the same type. There is no way we can prove this was the actual machine used."
Yet again Frost was deflated. "There must be some way."
"I don't think so." Harding sat himself down at the desk and peered at the printer. It was a Star 24 -10, some five years old. "There's no typeface, only little pins."
"The ribbon," suggested Frost. "Wouldn't it leave an imprint on the ribbon?"
Harding sniffed his doubts. "The ribbons are a continuous loop. They go round and round with subsequent letters printed on top of earlier ones. It would be almost impossible to separate them out."
"Try anyway," said Frost.
Harding lifted the printer cover. "If it was a fairly new ribbon I suppose there might be a chance." He took out the cassette and examined it, before shaking his head and passing it across to Frost. "Out of luck again, inspector. It's too damn new. It hasn't been used. The old one has been replaced. As I said, your Mr. Finch is determined not to give us anything to go on."
Frost thudded down the stairs with the cassette and held it aloft. "We're looking for a used printer ribbon, just like this one. Check waste bins, rubbish bags, dustbin sacks. We've got to find it." But he knew Finch was too damn clever to replace the ribbon without making sure there was no way they could get at the old one.
In the living-room Finch was sitting, watching the proceedings with a cynical smile, a smile which said, all too clearly, There's no way you dumb policemen are going to find anything that would incriminate me.
"We found chloroform downstairs," said Frost.
"That's hardly surprising. My friend used to run a chemist shop. Old stock, I imagine."
"Chloroform was used on the first boy."
"So you said." He looked at Frost in mock reproach. "You are surely not suggesting my friend had anything to do with it? I think you will find he was in Spain at the time."
"You seem to be finding this all very amusing, Mr. Finch. A boy of seven kidnapped, mutilated, frightened . . . a boy who might even be dead."
"I don't find it remotely amusing, inspector. What I do find amusing although I suppose "pathetic" is the right word - is that you should be wasting your time here . . . all these men . . . all these resources." He stared at Frost. "Can you tell me one thing, one single thing, you've found that proves I had anything to do with it . . . just one . . . ?" He gave a superior smile that made Frost fight hard to control the urge to smash his face in. "You can't, because there isn't anything."
"We'll find it," said Frost, trying to believe it himself. He jerked his head at Liz and told her to take Finch to the station. "We'll question him again there."
Clanging noises echoing from the cellar drew him down the stairs to investigate. Jordan and Collier, both sweating profusely, were levering up flagstones. It was a tiring job. The flagstones were big and heavy, needing all their efforts to lift and move without crushing their fingers. Two stacks of removed flagstones stood in one corner. A large rectangle of earth was exposed. Dry earth, untouched since the floor was laid. Jordan wiped sweat from his brow. "Nothing yet, inspector."
Frost went over to the stacks. The flags were nearly three inches thick. He thought for a second. "Pack it in -forget it. If it's taking two of you to lift one of them, he could never had done it on his own." The smug look on Finch's face had convinced him they could tear the place apart and not find anything. They would have to look elsewhere. But where . . . where?
When he went back into the lounge to check progress, one of the Forensic team going over the upholstery with a hand-held vacuum cleaner kept moving him on from wherever he tried to settle. He took the hint he was in the way and yelled that he was going back to the station.
He was standing in the shelter of the porch, turning up his mac collar ready for the plunge through the rain to his car, when he noticed the garage door was slightly ajar. It had already been searched, but on impulse he splashed across and went inside. A chocolate brown Renault took up most of the space. He squeezed through and checked the boot in the remote hope that the original searcher had been as slapdash as he usually was and that he would find Bobby curled up, fast asleep, happy to be rescued. All the boot yielded was a spare tire, some tools, a metal petrol can and a towing rope. He flashed his torch to the ceiling and the beam caught a shelf high up on the wall. On the shelf were a couple of bulging blue plastic bags which didn't look as if anyone had had them down to check. He reached up and managed to grab the corner of one bag. He tugged, then a bit harder. The entire shelf tipped up and the bags slithered off and thudded to the ground, bouncing off his head on the way. Hitting the cement floor, they burst open, spewing out tins of summing foods which rolled and clattered everywhere, and packs of cotton wool. More junk from the chemist's shop.
He rubbed his head ruefully, then booted one of the tins to relieve his feelings. It rolled underneath the car. He dropped on his hands and knees to retrieve it and it was then he noticed there was mud in the tread of the tires. Fresh mud, still wet. Finch had been out in the car, very recently, and then must have dried off the body work to disguise th
e fact. Frost stood up. The kid. Finch had used the car to move the kid. That was why he was so smug and unconcerned when they were searching the house.
He yelled for Harding, who was annoyed at having to run through the rain and glared at Frost with his hair streaming and his jacket soaking. Frost indicated the mud and asked if there was any way of determining where it came from . . . "Some little six-inch square of Denton which had this unique type of mud, found nowhere else in the universe?"
Harding squatted and studied it, then he stood up. "I can tell you exactly where this came from, inspector." He pointed. "From the lane just outside the front gate. Wherever he went, he picked that up on the way back but I don't suppose that is much help."
"About as good as the sort of help Forensic have been giving me all bloody day," snarled Frost, plunging out through the heavy curtain of rain back to the house. He went to the bedroom. The smell of chloroform had completely gone. He wondered how long it would have lingered. He was guessing that Finch had chloroformed and removed Bobby not too long before the police turned up. Burton came in to join him. He told the DC of his theory.
"You're saying that wherever he took the kid, it isn't very far away from here?" said Burton.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," said Frost. "Otherwise we wouldn't still have been able to smell chloroform." He went to the window and looked out. The wind was blowing the rain almost horizontal. A few dotted lights of houses could be seen, but beyond them, just visible, was the dark, sprawling mass of Denton Woods. The woods! That had to be it. That's where the boy was. "He's dumped the kid in the woods, somewhere," said Frost.
Burton joined him at the window. The woods stretched on and on. "If you're right, he could be anywhere."
"I know," said Frost.
"We'll have to wait until morning," said Burton. "We'll never find him in the dark in this weather."
"By the morning the poor little sod could be dead," said Frost. He tugged his radio from his pocket and called Mullett.
Frost 4 - Hard Frost Page 38
