Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

  It was an uncomfortable walk in the dark over bumpy and puddle-ridden ground fighting against the wind and the rain, and it was making Cassidy's stomach hurt like hell. Was this why Frost had asked him along to show up his damn weakness? If so, and he winced as a flame of pain rippled across his stomach, if so, Frost was going to be disappointed.

  Burton was crouched behind the trunk of a stunted tree. Not much of a place to hide, but better than nothing. He pointed to a dark mass ahead and handed Frost the night glasses. "The money is behind there somewhere."

  Frost shook off the rain and raised them to his eyes. "I can't see a bleeding thing."

  Cassidy took the glasses. "Those bushes?" he exclaimed. "They're seventy yards away. Can't we get any closer?"

  "It's all open ground," said Burton. "We'd be seen."

  "So where's the money?"

  "Round the back somewhere," Burton told him.

  "Somewhere? Can't you be more precise?"

  "I saw him go behind with the money and come back without it."

  "So it could be any of those flaming bushes and we're on the wrong side seventy yards away."

  Burton indicated the sprawling terrain. "There's nowhere on the other side to hide. We'd be seen miles away."

  "What about those bushes there?" Cassidy pointed.

  Frost gave them a glance, then shook his head. There was too much open ground between them. "This is as good a place as any."

  The call light on the receiver flashed. Burton turned the volume down and listened. Charlie Baker reporting in. Cordwell had made one stop on the way back at a phone box. As he approached it, it rang. He spoke briefly, then drove straight home.

  "The kidnapper wanting confirmation the drop had been made," said Frost. "He must have phoned from a call box. Where's the nearest one from here?"

  "The one in Forest Row," said Burton.

  "If that was the one he used, he should be here in less than ten minutes," said Frost to Burton. "Get back to your car and wait and be ready to tail him after he collects the money."

  "He might not have used that one," objected Cassidy. "He might have a mobile phone. For all we know he could be standing in those trees over there, watching."

  "If he had a mobile phone and was standing in those trees," said Frost, 'he'd have seen Cordwell drop the money and wouldn't have needed to make the phone call." He nodded Burton on his way.

  Burton hurried off while Frost panned the area through the night glasses to see if he could spot anyone watching them. A radio call from Burton. He was back in his car awaiting further instructions.

  Frost consulted his wrist-watch. Nine forty-six. His clothes were sodden and rain was beating down on them. Too wet to smoke and nothing to do but to wait.

  They waited.

  Twelve.

  Cassidy wriggled and tried to make himself comfortable on the soaking wet grass. "How long do you think we'll have to wait?"

  "Not too long," muttered Frost, scanning the far ground through the night glasses. "There's too much money just lying around. He won't want to risk anyone else finding it."

  "Car coming," reported Burton over the radio.

  They held their breath and waited. But it sped past. And so did the next.

  A lull in the traffic and Frost went back to his surveillance of the bleak-looking area. It was tricky using the night glasses and he hadn't got the hang of them. Every now and then his view would be completely obscured as a large bush or tree trunk took up the entire field of vision. He swung back to the bushes where the money was hidden.

  A clap of thunder and the heavens opened, rain drumming on the ground so they had to shout to hear each other. Cassidy wiped stinging rain from his eyes and brushed back dripping wet hair. "Bloody weather," he snarled.

  "It's perfect," said Frost. "No-one but kidnappers and prats of policemen would be out in this. Whoever turns up has got to be our man." Again he raised the glasses and focused on some trees eighty yards or so away. Just before the downpour, he thought he had seen something move. The stair rods of rain were making it difficult to see anything and he was just convincing himself he was mistaken when .. . Yes, there it was. He nudged Cassidy. "I spy, with my little eye, something that looks like a motor."

  "Where?" hissed Cassidy, straining his eyes into the blurred darkness.

  Frost handed him the glasses and pointed. "Behind the trees."

  Cassidy panned carefully. He located the trees and .. . yes. Frost was right. Half hidden ... a car. He locked on to it, holding his breath and bracing himself to steady the night glasses. A Ford Escort. The glasses gave everything a green tinge, but it was a light colour .. . cream, brown or grey, perhaps. "I see it. Its lights are out."

  "Most of the cars that come down here turn their lights out," grunted Frost. "They only turn them on if the girl can't find her knickers afterwards. Can you see anyone inside?"

  Cassidy stared hard, trying to penetrate the curtain of blurring rain. "No."

  "Let me have a go." Frost took the glasses.

  "Shall we pick him up?"

  "No," said Frost. "Until he collects up the money, we've nothing on him .. . Hello .. He steadied the glasses and started to chuckle.

  "What is it?" hissed Cassidy.

  "You'd better see this."

  Cassidy snatched the glasses, then he snorted with disgust. The car was bouncing up and down on its springs and the windows were well steamed up.

  "Not our kidnapper, I'm afraid," said Frost ruefully. Then he remembered a poem he'd seen on a lavatory wall once and began to recite:

  "You could tell he was a master, In the art of love. First the slight withdrawal Then the mighty shove."

  Cassidy snorted his disgust. Hadn't Frost got any damn taste? They were trying to catch the killer of a child, for Pete's sake!

  The car gave a sudden lurch. "Flaming heck," said Frost with admiration. "That was a mighty shove all right. I bet that brought the colour to her cheeks."

  "Bloody animals!" snarled Cassidy.

  But Frost was lost in recollection. "I used to come here and behave like a bloody animal .. . Long time ago of course .. ." It was when he was in his teens, young and lusty ... Who was that dark girl... the little goer. What was her name .. . ? And then he remembered. Flaming heck, how could he have forgotten! It was his wife. Long before they were married. She was a little doll in those days .. . bouncy, little figure, jet black hair, snub nose, and she thought the world of him .. . that showed how long ago it was! A time, before all the rows, when everything marvelous was going to happen. When they made plans about getting married, about him joining the police force and rising in the ranks to chief superintendent. It all came back... that night... that summer night when it was so hot you could have trampled through the grass in the nude at midnight and not feel cold. That was when it happened for the first time .. . when he undressed her and... Someone was shaking his arm. "Frost!"

  "Eh?" It wasn't a summer night any more. It was peeing with rain and he was wet and cold. Cassidy was shaking his arm and pointing back to the road. "What did you say?"

  "Another car coming."

  All they could see at first were the headlights shining blearily through the rain. Then the car. A dark blue Austin Metro.

  "He's slowing down," said Cassidy in excitement. "He's stopped... the bugger's stopped."

  Frost squinted through the glasses. He could just about make out the figure at the wheel. There didn't appear to be anyone else in the car, which splashed to a stop, almost dead in line with the clump of bushes where the money was hidden.

  "It's him!" hissed Frost. "It's bloody got to be him."

  For some minutes the car just stood there, engine ticking, lights on. Then the lights went out, the engine was switched off and the only sound was the drumming rain.

  "Keep down," hissed Frost, tugging at Cassidy who was raising his head to get a better view.

  They waited. Frost was able to wriggle through the long grass and pick out the registration number
through the binoculars. Cassidy whispered it into the radio for Control to check. The reply came back in seconds. The registered owner was a Henry Finch, 2 Lincoln Road, Denton. It hadn't been reported stolen and nothing was known about the owner.

  Frost grabbed the radio. "The kidnapper would be a prat driving his own car. The owner might not realize his motor's gone. Phone Finch and ask where his car is. If he says it's parked in the street outside, then we know this one's been nicked. If there's no answer, send an area car round to his house to nose around. If Finch is the kidnapper the kid might be in the house. Get cracking."

  "Will do," acknowledged Control. "Don't switch off -Mr. Mullett wants a word."

  "Over and out," said Frost, dropping the radio back in his pocket.

  Cassidy nudged him. "Someone's getting out the car."

  The driver's door had swung open and a man in a dark blue raincoat, shortish and plump, got out, snapping open an umbrella before stepping gingerly over a puddle. For a while he stood still, head turning from side to side, like an animal checking for signs of danger. It was difficult to make out his features as rain streamed off the umbrella and curtained down to the ground. Frost guessed he would be somewhere in his late fifties.

  There seemed to be no-one else in the car. Frost nodded his satisfaction. "Not a courting couple and this is definitely not the weather for a peeping tom .. . This could be our bloke!" Then he frowned. "Bloody hell .. . what's he doing now?" The man had turned and was leaning back inside the car and seemed to be taking something from the glove compartment and stuffing it into his pocket.

  "Did you see what it was?" asked Cassidy. "Could it have been a gun?"

  i} flaming hope not," said Frost. "It looked too small for a gun." He had the glasses firmly fixed on the man, who was now opening the rear passenger door and seemed to be talking to someone inside. His mouth was moving but the wind tore the words to shreds before they reached them.

  "There's someone else in there!" said Cassidy.

  "They must be bleeding small, then," said Frost, 'because I can't see anyone."

  The man, huddling under the umbrella, took a few steps, then turned and called out something. A small, white and brown Jack Russell terrier, its tail docked far too short, jumped from the back seat, yapping excitedly. The man closed the car door, then took the object from his mac pocket a well-chewed tennis ball, which he hurled across the waste ground, urging the dog to fetch it. Undeterred by the rain, the dog raced after it while the man stood by the car and watched.

  Cassidy snorted his disappointment. "He's exercising his dog. He's not our bloke after all."

  "Worse than that," said Frost, glumly. "Him and bloody Rin Tin Tin could drive the real kidnapper away."

  The radio in his pocket called him. Control reporting. As ordered they had rung Finch's number. No reply. An area car had been despatched and was at the house now. The house was in darkness and no-one answered their knocking. A neighbour said she had seen Mr. Finch drive off with his dog about half an hour ago.

  Frost grunted resignedly. It was just telling them what they already knew. This flaming clown had stumbled on the very spot the ransom money was to be collected from and was going to play ball with Fido all flaming night.

  The cigarette he tugged from the packet was sodden before he could get his lighter to it and flopped limply in his hand. He shoved it into his top pocket to dry out for later. That damn man, seemingly oblivious to the belting rain, was huddled under the umbrella, calmly hurling the ball; no sooner had the dog retrieved it, than he would take it and fling it again. Bite the bastard, Frost silently urged the animal. He shrunk his neck down deeper into his mac in response to the cold trickle of rain running down the inside of his upturned collar. He was wet, and uncomfortable, and was getting that all too familiar feeling that, bad as things were, they were going to get a bloody sight worse. He could sense the smirk of satisfaction at his discomfiture on Cassidy's face.

  Then, in a flash, his despair evaporated. The dog had returned with the ball which it dumped proudly at the man's feet, its stump of a tail wagging wildly. Scooping up the ball, the man suddenly turned at right angles and hurled it straight into the midst of the clump of bushes where the money was hidden, apparently unobserved by the dog which was still sniffing around in the grass. They could hear the man saying "Fetch, fetch," pointing to the bushes, but the dog just yapped its puzzlement and jumped up at him for the ball to be thrown again.

  Finch bent down and picked up the dog, then carried it back to the car. With the waggle of a finger, telling the dog to "Be good!" he turned and walked back towards the bushes, disappearing from view behind them.

  "It was him all the time!" breathed Frost. "He's putting on a bloody good act, but it's him!" He radioed through to Burton. "Get ready to tail him, son. He's collecting the money now." There was no denying the simple brilliance of Finch's ploy. If the police pounced, he could feign innocence he was simply looking for his dog's ball and if he had already collected the money he could claim he found it by accident. And there'd be no way we could prove otherwise, thought Frost .. . unless the bastard has got the kid in the boot of his car. He swung the binoculars over to the Austin. All he could see was the brown and white head of the Jack Russell, paws up at the window, waiting for its master.

  Control radioed through. A further report from the area car at Finch's house. They had nosed around as much as they could without actually breaking in. Nothing obviously suspicious could be seen from the outside.

  "Tell them to stay put," said Frost. If Finch was arrested they could help search the premises. He clicked off and returned to his surveillance of the thicket. "Hasn't he come out yet?"

  Cassidy shook his head.

  Frost wiped the rain from his eyes and raised the night glasses again. He stared at the thicket until his eyes hurt. No movement. Nothing. "He's taking his damn time." Worry started gnawing. "Could he have come out and we didn't see him?"

  "We'd see him going for his car," said Cassidy. Then a thought struck him. "Unless he's letting us watch the Austin and he's got another car parked further up the road for his getaway."

  "Shit!" Frost hadn't thought of this. He turned and looked again at the Austin. The dog was still staring out of the window and seemed to be whimpering. "I can't see him abandoning his dog," said Frost. "The bastard might kill a kid, but he'd never leave his dog." He hoped and prayed he was right and that the dog wasn't some poor stray Finch had collected from the gutter on the way over.

  Cassidy came up with another depressing theory.

  "We're not even certain this man is Finch. He could have pinched Finch's car and his dog and left Finch tied up somewhere."

  Frost checked his watch. "How long has he been behind there?" It seemed like hours, but it was only six minutes. Finch might have grabbed the money: they might be sitting here like a couple of wallies, looking at a lousy bush. On the other hand, if they charged across now, they might find Finch doing a long pee and the real kidnapper could spot them and jag it in. He sighed. Whatever he did could be wrong. But he always believed that doing something was much better than doing nothing. He jerked his head at Cassidy and stood up. "Come on let's take a look."

  "I think we should wait," said Cassidy, just to get it on record that he had his doubts. But Frost was already lumbering over the uneven ground. Cassidy pushed himself up, hissing in agony at the damp-aggravated pain from his scar. He hobbled along behind Frost, moving as quickly as he could while stamping his foot and muttering about "Damn cramp'.

  They split and went around each side of the thicket, Cassidy praying that Finch wouldn't break away in a run. There was no way he could run after him.

  Their torches slashed through the darkness, the beams steaming in the rain. There was no-one there. A noise. "What was that?" They listened. Just the drumming of the rain then .. . There it was again. A groan. Frost directed his torch downwards. Someone sprawled on the ground. It was Finch.

  He was lying face down in the l
ong grass. As they turned him over, the dog's ball rolled from the pocket of his raincoat. His eyes were closed and the blood trickling from a swelling lump on his forehead was diluted to a watery pink and spread over his face by the rain. He felt cold. As Cassidy radioed for an ambulance Frost looked everywhere, beating the grass flat, kicking aside the thick carpet of fallen leaves, looking for the travel bag. It had gone.

  "The Ford Escort!" exclaimed Frost. "The bloody Ford Escort!" He turned the glasses towards the trees. No sign of the damn thing. He fumbled for the radio and called up Control. "Message for all mobiles. I'm anxious to interview the occupants of a Ford Escort, lightish colour, last seen on the outskirts of Denton Woods by Forest Row. Believe man and woman inside. Any vehicles answering this description to be stopped and held."

  "Do you have details of the registration number?" asked Control.

  "If I had, I would have bloody well told you," shouted Frost.

  "It's not much to go on," said Control.

  "It had four wheels and two red lights at the back," snarled Frost. "Does that help?"

  "Thank you," said Lambert, his mildness tacitly rebuking Frost's outburst. "Mr. Mullett wants a word."

  "How did it go?" asked Mullett eagerly.

  Frost stared at the radio, trying to think of a pithy reply that would shut Mullett up for all time. The bugger never asked how things had gone when they had gone off brilliantly. "Couple of minor snags, super," he said. "I'll fill you in when I get back."

  "Snags?" roared Mullett. "What snags?"

  But Frost had switched off.

  The junior house doctor, looking dead tired, came into the waiting-room. "Inspector Frost?"

  Frost stood up, pinching out the cigarette and dropping it into his mac pocket. "How is he?"

  "He's had a nasty knock. Mild concussion, nothing serious. We'll keep an eye on him tonight, but he can go home tomorrow."

  "Is he conscious?"

  "Yes, but I'd prefer it if you didn't question him tonight."