Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Frost stared at it. Why had it been stolen, then dumped? It suggested an insurance fiddle, although the furs and jewellery looked genuine enough. He put everything back inside the plastic sack. "Trot it down to the station. We'll get Old Mother Stanfield in to identify it."

  Ridley's pole had prodded something that belched up large, rancid-looking bubbles which burst to exude a stomach-churning smell. He signalled to the frogmen, but before they could respond, Frost's radio squawked. Control calling him urgently. "Can you get back here at once, inspector. We've received a ransom demand for the missing boy."

  "What's the betting it's a bleeding hoax?" muttered Frost, clicking the radio off.

  He took one last look at Collier and Ridley, who were hauling up something slimy and phosphorescent that broke in half as they tried to get it into the boat, then made for his car.

  There was quite a crowd waiting for him in the incident room including Cassidy, Hanlon, Burton and Harding from Forensic, all looking grim. "So where's this ransom demand?" asked Frost.

  Cassidy pointed to a padded envelope lying on the desk. "It came in this morning's post." The typed label was addressed to The Missing Boy Officer, Denton Police Station." The postmark, date-stamped the previous evening, was that of the main Denton post office. "This was inside." He handed Frost a sheet of white A4 paper which had been slipped inside a transparent cover for protection.

  The message was printed out on a dot matrix printer in draft mode. Frost read it aloud.

  "To the officer in charge:

  "I have the missing boy the enclosed should enable you to convince Sir Richard Cordwell, Managing Director of the Savalot supermarket chain, that this is genuine."

  Frost paused. "What was enclosed?"

  Cassidy shook out a matchbox from the padded envelope and, holding it carefully by the corners, passed it to Frost without a word. Frost pushed open the tray, and stared in horrified disbelief. "No!" On a bed of blood-flecked cotton wool lay a severed human finger. He looked away, then back again in the hope it wouldn't still be there. A tiny finger, the flesh waxen, grime under the nail, dried blood caking the severed end. It almost looked too small to be real, but Forensic confirmed it was from a child of seven or eight years old.

  Frost stared at nothing, lost for words. Then, very carefully, he closed the tray and handed the matchbox back to Cassidy.

  He poked a cigarette in his mouth to compose himself before he resumed reading the letter.

  "I am sorry about the first boy. That was an accident, but if Bobby Kirby is to die, that will not be an accident. It will be because you have failed to carry out my instructions.

  '1. For the safe return of the boy, I require to be paid the sum of 250,000. This money is to be paid to me by Sir Richard Cordwell, Managing Director of the Savalot supermarket chain. This money will be a flea-bite to him.

  '2. I have also written to Sir Richard Cordwell explaining how the money is to be paid. If he refuses to pay, the boy will die and his company's name will be mud.

  '3. Your job is to convince Sir Richard he must pay and then to stay out of it. You will take no further part in the proceedings if the boy is not to be harmed further. Any sign of the police when the money is handed over to me even if a police car should accidentally pass by then the boy will die. I will be monitoring all police radio calls to ensure you keep out of it.

  '4. Any attempt at stalling for time and the boy will lose another finger.

  '5. The boy is well, but in some pain. He is hidden where you will never find him. Do what I request and I will tell you where he is. Ignore my requests and you will never see him again.

  '6. I am sending a copy of this letter and a cassette tape to the Denton Echo so the public are aware that it is up to Savalot whether the boy lives or dies."

  "Give credit where credit's due," muttered Frost, 'but he's a cold, calculating, business-like bastard." He read it through again, silently this time, then tossed it on the desk. "He forgot to sign it."

  "There were no prints on it," said Harding from Forensic.

  "Never mind," said Frost. "It's not entirely your fault." He pinched the scar on his face as he thought things over. "Someone get on the phone to Sandy Lane at the Denton Echo. I want that letter. He's not to open it or play the cassette he's to bring it straight over here."

  "Already done," said Cassidy. "He should be on his way over now."

  Frost tapped the matchbox. "Have we confirmed that this is Bobby Kirby's finger and not the dead boy's ... or even some other boy we don't know about yet?"

  "I've sent someone over to the mother's house to get prints from Bobby's room," said Harding. "We're also checking with the prints of the dead boy in the morgue."

  "For Pete's sake don't tell the mother about the ransom demand," said Frost.

  "Of course not," said Harding.

  Frost spun his chair round and looked at the wall map which charted the progress of the search parties. "Call off the search."

  "We haven't checked this is the boy's finger yet," protested Cassidy. "It could be some medical student's hoax."

  "A hoax? We should be so bloody lucky," said Frost. "It's genuine, I promise you." He waved a finger at Arthur Hanlon. "Call it off, Arthur." Back to Cassidy. "What about the letter he's sent to Sir Richard Cordwell?"

  "I've been on to Savalot's main office. They're going through all their post now. I've also spoken to his private secretary. She's going through the personal mail."

  The internal phone buzzed. Sandy Lane from the Denton Echo was here.

  Bill Wells ushered him in. Lane was carrying a padded envelope, identical to the one in front of Frost. He handed it over. It had been opened.

  "We asked you not to open it," said Cassidy.

  "I didn't get the message until I'd just slit the flap," lied Sandy.

  "Did it photostat all right?" Frost asked.

  "Perfectly," grinned the reporter. The postmark was the same. The envelope was addressed to "The Chief Crime Reporter, Denton Echo'.

  "Chief Crime Reporter?" queried Frost.

  "That's me, Jack Chief Crime Reporter, Chief Sports Reporter, Jumble Sales and Church Fetes."

  "I expect your bleeding fingerprints are all over it," said Frost, letting Harding extract the contents and slip them into transparent folders. There were two letters and a cassette tape. The first letter read:

  To The Chief Crime Reporter.

  I have the boy Bobby Kirby. The police will confirm this. I require 250,000 from Sir Richard Cordwell, Managing Director of Savalot supermarkets. His company can well afford this sum. If he refuses to pay, the boy will die and I am sure it will make an interesting story for your newspaper.

  Let the police have the tape after you have listened to it. Copy of my letter to the police enclosed.

  "I suppose you've played the tape as well?" said Frost.

  "I might have accidentally listened to it," affirmed Sandy.

  Burton took the tape and poked it into a cassette player. Everyone quietened down.

  For a second or so, nothing, just the hiss of raw tape and the rumble of the recorder motor, then a boy's voice. There were lots of pauses and clicks. The recorder had been switched on and off a few times while the man obviously told the boy what to say. Bobby was clearly distressed and it made harrowing listening.

  "My name is Bobby Kirby. I'm tied up and blindfolded. The man says if you do what he tells you, he will let me go home. He says you know what will happen if you don't do what he says. I want to go home. Please .. . I want to go home .. ." A click and the sound of raw tape without the recorder motor noise. Burton switched the machine off.

  Harding leant across and fast-forwarded the rest of the tape on cue and review. There was nothing else on it. He removed the cassette and carefully examined it. "I think that was the first recording on a brand-new tape, but I'll get it checked in case we can pick anything else up."

  "Any idea what sort of machine it was recorded on?" asked Cassidy.

  "J
udging by the sound quality certainly not a state of the art hi-fi. I'd guess at a cheap portable model with a built-in microphone that's why it's picking up the sound of the motor."

  "Are they rare?" asked Frost.

  "There's millions of them," said Harding.

  "What about the cassette? Could we trace the shop where he bought it?"

  Again Harding shook his head. "One of the commonest types ... sold in their thousands. I'll replay it back at the lab and boost up the background. It might give us a clue as to where it was recorded."

  "Get a copy made," said Cassidy, 'and take it to the mother see if she can identify the voice."

  "No!" said Frost. "Why upset the poor cow? If the fingerprint matches, we'll know it's genuine."

  Cassidy scowled. He resented being contradicted in front of everyone. He resented even more the fact that Frost was right on this occasion.

  "What's this about the boy losing another finger?" asked Sandy.

  Frost filled him in. "But I don't want it reported. We've got to keep that up our sleeve. In fact, I don't want any of this reported until we've got the boy back safe."

  "Bloody hell, Jack," the reporter protested, 'it's the biggest scoop I've ever had. I could make a bomb selling it to the London papers."

  "It'll still be a scoop when we get the boy back. You can have it as an exclusive."

  Sandy sighed. "AH right. I'll make do with that."

  "How do you know you can trust him?" asked Cassidy when Lane had left.

  "I can trust him," said Frost firmly. He read through the letters again. "The bastard's on to a winner here. Kidnap someone anyone. It doesn't matter if the parents have got any money because you then blackmail some large corporation into coughing up the cash, knowing the public will think them shit if they refuse and let the kid die." He groaned inwardly as Mullett came bustling in. He could do without another dose of Horn-rim Harry this morning.

  "I've just come from your office, Frost," said Mullett. "There's a terrible smell in there."

  "You don't have to apologize, super," said Frost, pretending to misunderstand. "We all have the odd accident." Mullett glared and Frost snapped his fingers. "Oh sorry. You mean the stuff we fished from the canal. It's the loot from the Stanfield robbery. I'm getting the insurance assessor over to have a look at it."

  "I understand there's been a ransom demand?" said Mullett, trying not to show his irritation at the suppressed giggles from some of the others in the room.

  Frost pushed the letter across, then showed Mullett the contents of the matchbox. Mullett's face creased with concern which grew as he listened to the tape. He took his glasses off and pinched his nose. "I do hope Savalot agree to co-operate."

  "They'll co-operate," said Frost. "They daren't risk the bad publicity."

  "Bad publicity?"

  "When the papers print the story that they've refused to come up with money they can well afford and the kid dies."

  "It's blackmail," said Mullett.

  "All ransom demands are blackmail," retorted Frost.

  Burton, the phone pressed to his ear, called him over. "Savalot. Sir Richard Cordwell's private secretary. She's been through all his private post nothing. The main office has opened up all the general mail and there's nothing there either."

  "It's got to be!" frowned Frost. "It's bloody well got to be." He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to think .. . "Wait a minute. He must have sent it to Cordwell's house. Get the number."

  The number was ex-directory which the secretary refused to pass on, but she did condescend to phone the house herself and was back within two minutes. The letter, marked "Strictly Personal and Confidential', was waiting for Cordwell who was still in bed.

  "Tell him not to touch it we're on our way over," said Frost. She started to suggest he made an appointment, but Frost had slammed the phone down.

  The internal phone rang. "There's a Mr. Hicks here to see you," said Bill Wells.

  "Send the sod away," said Frost. "We're too busy."

  "He says you asked him to come," insisted Wells. "He's the claims assessor from Cityrock Insurers."

  Frost snatched his mind away from the kidnapping and on to the furs and jewels dredged from the canal. "Send him to my office. Tell him to follow his nose he can't miss it."

  Hicks, a jolly little man wearing heavy horn-rimmed glasses, beamed as Frost tipped out the contents of the plastic bag. He held the furs at arm's length, his nose screwing up at the smell, nodded, then let them drop to the ground, more interested in the jewellery. His smile widened as he compared each item with his typewritten list. "Looks as if it is all here, inspector."

  "Is it worth what they're claiming?"

  A firm shake of the head. "They're claiming 75,000. I'd put it at 35/40,000 top whack."

  "An insurance fiddle?"

  Hicks pursed his lips. "Not a very clever one if it was. We'd have knocked the claim down to something nearer 35,000 which is what the items are worth. They could have sold them for that and there'd have been no need to chuck them in a canal." He zipped up his briefcase. "As far as my company is concerned, the stolen items have been recovered and we don't have to pay out. Mr. Stanfield can carry on paying the premiums for his own inflated valuation, but should they be "stolen" again, we'll settle on the basis of my own figure."

  "What about the money he claims he handed over to get his daughter returned?"

  Hicks shrugged. "If he was insured for such a loss then it wasn't with my company, but I don't think any insurers give cover for money held in a bank."

  Frost drummed the desk with his fingers. He still wasn't convinced this was a genuine robbery and abduction. If it was genuine, why steal stuff then dump it? He thanked Hicks, and steered him in the direction of the street.

  Back in the incident room Burton was on the phone. He put his hand over the mouthpiece as Frost entered. "Forensic were on. The prints check. The finger is from Bobby Kirby."

  Frost grunted his acknowledgement.

  "And I've got PC Ridley on the phone. He wants to know what we should do with all the stuff we pulled out of the canal."

  "He shouldn't have to ask," replied Frost. "There's a Keep Britain Tidy campaign in force this week. Tell him to chuck it back in the canal."

  Burton relayed the message and hung up. "All search parties stood down," he reported.

  Frost nodded and walked over to study the photographs of the two boys. "He intended Dean to be the kidnap victim. He chloroformed him, but the kid died. This didn't put the bastard off, he just looked for someone else and he found Bobby."

  "What made him pick Dean Anderson in the first place?"

  Frost took a deep drag at his cigarette then pushed out smoke. "Any kid would have done that's the clever part. The money is coming from a rich supermarket chain pay up or your customers will know you let a kid die. This bloke is a clever bastard and he's on to a flaming winner." He dropped his cigarette on the floor and crushed it with his foot. "Come on, son, let's find out how the rich people live. We're off to see the Supermarket King."

  Mullett stopped them on their way out. He had been told the result of the fingerprinting, but not by Frost as he should have expected.

  "Can't stop, super," grunted Frost, edging past. "We're on our way to see tricky Dicky."

  A concerned frown from Mullett. With someone as important as Sir Rirchard Cordwell involved, he was wondering if the uncouth Frost was the right person to handle the interview. "He's a very influential man, Frost, and I understand he can be quite nasty when he likes, so handle him with kid gloves."

  "Don't worry, super," said Frost, sidling past him towards the door to the car-park. "I shall treat him with my usual tact."

  Mullett's smile tightened to vanishing point. This was exactly what he feared. "I think I'd better come with you," he said.

  The Manor House was an imposing edifice, solidly Victorian, forests of chimney pots, standing in extensive grounds and enclosed by a high stone wall thickly coated with ivy.
The black, cast-iron gates were firmly closed and a video security camera scrutinized them closely as Burton announced who they were into a microphone. Their credentials established, the gates swung back, closing again immediately they were inside. They coasted up to the main entrance behind a gleaming, pearl grey Rolls-Royce. Frost checked its tax disc and seemed disappointed to find it was current. Up stone steps to the front door where a female secretary hovered and led them directly to Cordwell's study, a large, high-ceilinged room with tall french windows opening out on to a billiard table lawn, a rose garden, and a large fish pool with a weathered stone fountain in the shape of a boy with a dolphin.

  CordweU, a thickset, coarse-featured man in his early fifties, was at an antique mahogany desk, its green leather top scarred with cigarette burns. As they entered he was bawling down a white and gold phone and didn't give them a second glance. "If he's not measuring up, then chuck him out you can find a reason. I'm not carrying bloody passengers." He banged the phone down, grabbed an enormous cigar from a silver box and lit up with a lighter fashioned from a genuine flintlock pistol, then flapped a hand for Frost and Mullett to sit. Cordwell had started business selling broken biscuits from a barrow in street markets and, by cheating, scheming and doing down his associates, had worked his way up to owning one of the largest cut-price grocery chains in Britain. A grunt and a snap of his fingers signalled the hovering secretary to place a folder in front of him. He slid it across to the two policemen. "The letter."

  Frost opened the folder. The envelope had been slit open and the letter was fastened to it with a paper clip.

  "We asked you not to open it," he said.

  Cordwell gave him a sweet smile. "Nobody tells me what to do."

  While Frost read the letter, Cordwell was back on the phone tearing some other poor devil off a strip. "Cancel the bloody order!" he barked. "I don't care if they have got a binding agreement there's bound to be a bloody loophole somewhere, so cancel it." As he slammed the phone down he shouted across to his secretary. "What's that prat's name?" She told him. He scribbled the name on his pad. "Next lot of redundancies, he's got pole position."