Frost 4 - Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Frost frowned. "About what?"

  "About Ada - she's incontinent."

  Frost sounded surprised. "Is she?"

  "You know damn well she is. The last time you took her home she piddled all over your front seat."

  "I thought that was Mrs. Mullett," said Frost innocently. Then he snapped his fingers as if he had just remembered. "No, you're right . . . it was Ada." He smiled. "I suppose I shouldn't have let her drink my mug of tea."

  Wells's jaw sagged. "You gave her tea? Bloody hell, it'll go straight through her."

  "Let's hope he drives fast," said Frost. "Them blue velvet seats don't half stain, and Ada's output always seems to exceed her input."

  Feeling considerably bucked, he wandered into the incident room where Burton, the only occupant, was sitting by the phone, reading a paperback as he munched on a sandwich. He looked up guiltily as Frost entered. "It's all right, son." Frost dropped into the seat beside him. "Anything happened? Has the kid been found, but it slipped your mind to tell me?"

  Burton grinned and pointed to a filing basket brimming over with the night's phone messages. "Sightings galore, most of them worthless, but we're following them up. No joy from the road blocks. Too many kids out with guys for anyone to recall one specific boy." He tugged out a message from under the stapler. "This bloke phoned a couple of hours ago. Wouldn't give his name, but was most insistent we should follow it up. He said he and his girlfriend were having it away under the canal bridge off Union Street when they heard a car draw up overhead. He heard some grunting and groaning as if something heavy was being lifted from the car, then something was chucked into the canal. It sunk right away. He reckons it could have been a body."

  "Grunting and groaning?" said Frost. "I reckon him and his girlfriend were doing all the grunting and groaning." He took the message and skimmed through it. "We've got the frogmen arriving tomorrow, they can start off looking by the bridge."

  He poked a cigarette in his mouth. "Having it away under the canal bridge? Some people pick the most romantic spots - it's cold, it's damp and it stinks. I'm not fussy, but even I would think twice." He stood up and stretched. "Let's go home, son. Early start tomorrow. The briefing is at eight." He consulted his wristwatch. "Just over four hours time."

  Chapter 8

  The early morning TV news showed pictures of the 'sad bungalow of death' and of the undertakers carrying out the bodies in a single coffin. Interviewed neighbours said how shocked and saddened they were and what a loving family it was and how everyone was shattered. A photograph of the mother filled the screen and a grim-faced Superintendent Mullett explained that the police were concerned for her safety and appealed to members of the public to look out for her.

  Mullett clicked off the set with a nod of approval. An impressive performance, he thought. He picked up his gloves and patted his pocket to make sure he had his car keys. A final check in the hall mirror, a slight repositioning of the knot of his tie to dead centre and he was out to the car. As he opened the driver's door, he frowned and turned his head away, his nose wrinkling. The blue velvet seat cover on the passenger's side had been removed and was in soak with lots of disinfectant, but the smell still lingered. He vigorously squirted the interior with air freshener and drove to the station with the window open in spite of the cold. That damn woman! And Frost! Frost would have known all about her. He had set this up deliberately. He smiled grimly. Well, Detective Inspector Jack Frost was due for the biggest dressing down he had ever received.

  His car purred down Bath Hill and glided into Cork Street. A young, uniformed officer spotted his car and gave a smart salute which Mullett acknowledged with a smile and a wave, delighted to see that the officer was in uniform. He had noticed two officers entering the station in their street clothes and would have a few sharp words with Sergeant Wells about that.

  The car-park was crowded with vehicles of all types, most of which belonged to members of the search party. It was still dark and they would be having breakfast in the canteen before the main briefing. In the far corner two men were offloading aqualung cylinders from a van. The frogmen had arrived. Mullett had difficulty manoeuvring into his own parking space. As he locked the doors and tested the handle he was almost run down by a dirt-streaked Ford which squealed to a halt within inches of his heels. His face darkened when he saw Frost, a cigarette dangling insolently from his mouth, climb out.

  "Frost!"

  Frost looked up, startled. He hadn't expected to see Mullett in so early. A quick check confirmed that Hornrim Harry's seat cover was missing. A warm glow started up inside him. God bless incontinent old ladies. "Good morning, super!" he called cheerily.

  "That woman you induced me to take home - "spluttered Mullett.

  "Yes, very kind of you, sir," interrupted Frost. He smacked a palm to his forehead as if the thought had just struck him. "Meant to warn you about Ada, although I'm sure it isn't necessary in your case. I was going to say don't get sexy with her. If you rub your knee against hers, tickle her groin, or anything like that, she'll pee all over your front seat."

  Mullett's mouth opened and closed. He never quite knew how to take Frost.

  "What was it you wanted to say to me, sir?" asked Frost innocently.

  "Nothing," snapped Mullett. "Nothing." He spun on his heel and stamped off into the building.

  In the incident room, PC Jordan was waiting to report to Frost. He had got the information from the Discount Warehouse on the posthumous purchase made with Lemmy Hoxton's credit card. "That was flaming quick," said Frost, "I thought they didn't open until nine."

  "Mr. Cassidy said I should drag the manager and his staff out from their homes," said Jordan. "He reckoned a murder enquiry shouldn't have to wait for the store to open up."

  "Quite right," said Frost, wishing Cassidy wouldn't poke his nose in. Lemmy had been dead for months, so what was the point of dragging people out of bed to save a few minutes? "So what have you found out?"

  "The item purchased was a 28-inch Nicam Stereo Panasonic TV set. But after two weeks no-one at the Discount Warehouse had any recollection of the purchaser or what he looked like."

  "They wouldn't have known what he looked like after two flaming minutes," said Frost. "All they look at is your credit card. You could walk in those places with your dick hanging out and they wouldn't spot it."

  Jordan had asked the credit card company to fax a copy of the actual Visa docket and this was clipped to his report. Frost compared it with a genuine Lemmy signature. It was an all too obvious forgery. "You'd think the store would have queried the different signatures," he muttered. "I suppose there's no chance the set was delivered and we've got an address?"

  "No, it was collected."

  Frost swung from side to side in his chair, sucking at his fourth cigarette of the day. Someone had used Lemmy's credit card to buy an expensive large screen TV. So was Lemmy killed for his credit card? Hardly likely. The card was only used once and that was months after his death. More likely that someone with a reason had done Lemmy in and the credit card was a bonus. Or perhaps the killer had thrown the card away and someone else had used it? He flapped the Visa docket to shake off cigarette ash. He couldn't work up much enthusiasm in finding Lemmy's killer. The sod deserved to die. A thought struck him. "Check with Panasonic. See if the guarantee's been registered."

  "He'd be a bloody fool to do that," said Jordan.

  "It's the sort of stupid thing I'd do," said Frost. "Check it."

  Burton stuck his head round the door. "Time for the briefing, inspector." ,

  A fair-sized crowd waited for him in the canteen, not quite so many as the day before when hopes were high that the boy would be found alive. Frost noticed that Liz Maud was there, alone at a corner table, snatching a hurried breakfast, even though she must have been up until the small hours with the tragedy in Cresswell Street. He bought himself a hot sausage sandwich, its melted butter making the bread soggy, and took it, with a mug of tea, to the raised section at the en
d. He yelled for silence. As the burble of conversation died down he let his eyes drift around the room, checking who was present. He couldn't see Detective Sergeant Hanlon.

  "He's in the toilet," someone told him. Almost on cue there was the rumble off of a cistern emptying and Arthur Hanlon, looking a mite bedraggled, stumbled into the canteen, doing a mock bow to the applause that greeted his entrance. "Sorry I'm late, inspector," he apologized.

  "Flaming hell, Arthur," said Frost. "You always come out of the toilet looking as if you've just gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Which reminds me . . . did you hear about the constipated mathematician? He had to work everything out with a pencil and a piece of paper." A roar of laughter, the loudest coming from Frost himself who then almost choked on a lump of sausage sandwich. Mullett, who had just come in and was standing at the back, frowned. This was not the time nor place for poor taste jokes.

  "OK.," said Frost as the laughter subsided. "That's probably the last laugh any of us will have today." He jabbed his sandwich at the enlarged photograph of Bobby Kirby on the wall. "We didn't find the poor little sod yesterday. My gut feeling is that he is either dead, or he's being held captive somewhere. As you all know, another boy, Dean Anderson, was found dead near where Bobby went missing. Dean's naked body was stuffed into a black plastic dustbin sack and we've got to consider that the same fate might have overtaken Bobby. This means that some of you are going to have to go down to the Council refuse depot and start examining the hundreds of filled rubbish sacks collected by the Council yesterday." He gave a nod to Burton. "DC Burton will tell you which of you lucky lads and lassies have drawn the short straw." He took another sip at his tea. "But let's hope Bobby is still alive . . . in which case we've got to find him "bloody quickly, so the sooner you get started the better."

  Mullett moved forward and indicated to Frost that he would like to say a few words.

  "Bit of hush for Mr. Mullett," called Frost. "You've seen him on the telly, now hear him in the flesh."

  The thinnest of smiles from Mullett. "Inspector Frost forgot to mention that we are also looking for this woman." He waited as Liz Maud rose from her table and pinned up a large photograph on the wall by the side of the boy. "A tragic case. Her three children dead and she has gone missing. You have other priorities, I know, but please keep an eye out for her." A brisk nod to Frost and he strode back to his office.

  Frost sat on the corner of a table, legs swinging, watching the main group file out. He wiped the front of his jacket where the melted butter from the sandwich had dripped, then wandered over to the table where Liz was doing her crossword puzzle. He leant over her and pretended to read a clue. "Four down - "Little Richard that ladies love big?" That must be Dick!" She found herself looking at four down before she realized it was another of his childish jokes. Too tired even to fake a laugh, she knuckled her eyes and took another sip from her mug of black coffee.

  "Did you get any sleep last night?" Frost asked.

  She shook her head. "I was questioning neighbours until six and the postmortems are at eight thirty." She took the offered cigarette. "Mr. Cassidy suggested I attended."

  Frost clicked his lighter. "The kids? I'll get someone else to go if you like."

  Her eyes blazed. "Do you think I'll faint? I've been to post-mortems before."

  "I've been to the dentist before," said Frost, 'but that don't make me anxious to go again. It's worse when it's children, love. Wild horses wouldn't drag me if I didn't have to."

  "Very kind of you to be so concerned for me, but I'm going," she said, firmly.

  He drained his tea then dumped the crust from his sandwich in the mug. "Any developments after I left last night?"

  "Nothing particularly helpful. The father is still in hospital, heavily sedated, so we haven't been able to question him. I've found two more neighbours who say they heard raised voices from the bungalow just before midnight. They thought it was the husband and wife having one of their frequent rows."

  Frost frowned. "The husband? Could it have been him?"

  She shook her head. "Mark Grover never left the department store until just before two."

  "Are we sure about that?"

  "I've spoken to the night security guard. He confirms that the two men were there until a little before two o'clock in the morning."

  "Could they have got out without his knowledge?"

  "No. All the main doors are security locked and he would have to operate the release switch."

  "Damn," said Frost. The wife rowing with another man around midnight was a complication he would have preferred to be without.

  "And I've spoken to the owner of Denton Shopfitters," continued Liz. "He phoned the store just before midnight to check on their progress and spoke to the husband."

  "You're very thorough," said Frost ruefully.

  "Mr. Cassidy is suggesting that the man the neighbours heard could have been Sidney Snell."

  Frost treated this with scorn. "You don't have a row with a man who breaks into your house . . . you scream and shout at the bastard. Did the neighbours think she sounded frightened?"

  "No. They said it was a heated row."

  "Well then . . . " He stood up. "Sidney Snell is not a killer. Don't waste your time going down that road." He glanced up at the clock, then flicked his scarf over his shoulder and stood up. "Frogman time . . . if anyone wants me I'll be paddling in the canal." At the door he paused, trying to remember what it was he intended asking Liz to do. Oh yes. He wanted her to check with the Council to find out who used to live in the derelict houses where Lemmy's body was found. But the poor cow looked ready to drop and she had a three-body postmortem to attend. He'd get someone else to do it.

  PC John Collier pulled at the oars and winced as his blistered hands throbbed. He wished he hadn't volunteered for this. He'd thought it would be pleasant, scudding the boat across the water, watching the frogmen plunge in with a kick of their flippers. But it was hard, back-breaking work. There was a strong wind blowing the boat in the opposite direction to which he wanted it to go.

  "Steady as she goes, Number One." PC Ken Ridley, systematically prodding the murky bottom of the canal with a long pole, was doing his captain of the battleship act which got progressively less funny with constant repetition. Ahead of them a line of bubbles marked the progress of one of the police frogmen.

  Frost sat on the bank, moodily surveying the proceedings and sucking at a cigarette while tossing small stones into the water. It was cold and windy and he had the strong feeling this would be a waste of time. The canal at this point was crossed by the road bridge which made it the ideal point from which to hump junk out of a car boot and chuck it into the black soup of the stagnant water. Much of this had been retrieved by the frogmen and the towpath was cluttered with foul-smelling heaps. There were sodden mattresses, a couple of bundles of carpeting that looked almost new, but which would never lose the ripe canal smell, a black plastic bag which turned out to be full of offal from a butcher's shop and the bloated carcass of a long-dead goat. Particularly revolting was a soggy cardboard box crammed full with maggoty chickens' heads and feet. "All we want now is a few spuds and we've got ourselves our dinner," he commented bitterly, pulling a face as the wind changed and drove the smell of putrefaction straight at him. Many years ago, when he was a small child, he had sat on this same towpath, probably not far from this same spot, and had fished for tiddlers. But there was nothing living in the water now. Denton Union Canal, long since abandoned by the once thriving barge trade, was now a choked, evil-smelling backwater.

  A frogman's head broke the surface. He had been tying a rope to something enveloped in mud at the bottom and was signalling for Collier and Ridley to haul it up. A bulging, black plastic dustbin sack was dragged into the boat. Frost's heart sank. It was the right size and shape for a young boy's body.

  The boat bumped against the side of the towpath and the two policemen lifted out the sack which streamed water from holes, apparently punched in it to
make it sink. They laid the sodden mass alongside Frost who regarded it gloomily, dreading to think what was inside. He stood up, chucked his cigarette into the canal, then gave the sack a tentative prod with his foot. Something soft and yielding, like flesh . . . He crouched down and sliced through the string tying the neck of the sack with his penknife. He peered inside. A sodden mass of water-blackened human hair. He looked up at Ridley and nodded grimly. "It's the boy." He pulled the neck of the sack open wider, then the cold sweat of relief flooded through him. He looked up again at Ridley. "I'm a prize twat!" he said. It wasn't human hair. He reached inside the sack and pulled out a heavy sodden fur coat. He had no idea what a mink coat looked like, but this, even dripping with filthy canal water, looked expensive. As did the silver fox cape which was under it. At the bottom of the sack was a grey plastic bag which was tied tightly with clumsily knotted string and held something heavy. His penknife sawed through the string, leaving the knot intact so Forensic could submit it to their scrupulous examination and come up with sod all. Inside was a brick, put there to ensure the sack sunk, and also a jumble of jewellery. The haul from Robert Stanfield's house.

  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.