"We'll keep this," said Frost, closing the folder and daring Cordwell to refuse, but this was agreed to with a wave of the hand.
"Is it genuine?"
"We believe so," said Mullett.
"Believe so? I'm not sodding about with it if it's a try-on."
"It's genuine," said Frost. "He sent us a tape of the boy."
Cordwell flicked a long cylinder of ash from his cigar on to the carpet. "And you reckon he'll carry out his threat to kill him?"
"Yes," said Frost.
Cordwell beamed. "Good. You got a photograph of the kid?" Frost slid one across the desk. Cordwell studied it through a fog of cigar smoke and nodded his approval. "Nice-looking kid - I was afraid he'd be an ugly little bastard with a squint and bad teeth." He flipped the switch on his intercom. "Roberts - come in!"
A tap on the door and Roberts entered. A lean, mean-looking man in a sharp silver-grey suit. Cordwell showed him the photograph. "The kidnapped kid," he grunted.
Roberts looked at it and nodded. "Nice-looking kid . . . and a good photograph. Should come up well in half-tone . . . I think we should go ahead."
"So do I," said Cordwell. "This is what I want you to do." He barked his orders. "Check with the parents and see if there are any more photographs - the kid as a baby would be nice. Then a press release for tomorrow to all the London dailies - Supermarket Chief To The Rescue, you know the sort of thing. And get me some television interviews - me and the boy." He dismissed Roberts then turned back to Frost. "If you give a press conference you can quote me as saying that to save the boy I'm giving the police my unstinted, wholehearted co-operation."
"You're too good for this world," said Frost. "Can you get the money together in time?"
"No problem."
"How soon can you get it over to us?"
Cordwell frowned. "Why should I let you have it?"
"We've got to mark the notes and record as many of the numbers as we can. We also need to put a small radio transmitter inside the case."
"No!" Mullett winced as Cordwell's fist thumped down on his desk top making the silver cigar case rattle. "The object of the exercise is to save the kid, so no tricks, no marked notes and no transmitters." He reached over and clicked on the intercom again. "Roberts! You can add this to the press release. 'The police wanted the notes to be marked, but supermarket chief, Sir Richard Cord well, said no. Even though the ransom money is being paid by Sir Richard, his first and only consideration is for the safe return of the boy.' " He clicked Roberts off in mid-acknowledgement.
"Now, listen to me - "began Frost.
"No!" snapped Cordwell. "You listen to me. I'm not doing this for the love of humanity. This bastard has grabbed a kid and is on my back for the money. He thinks he's blackmailing me, but he's not - I'm doing this of my own volition, because it suits me to do so."
"Hardly," smirked Mullett. "What would the public say if you refused?"
"Sod the public. They wouldn't desert Savalot. Knock tuppence off a tin of baked beans and they'd be fighting to come in whether the kid's dead or not. I don't usually give in to blackmail, but I can get some publicity out of this. For a lousy two hundred and fifty thousand quid I can get a million quid's worth of publicity and that's the sort of bargain I like. So you either do it my way, or I'm out!"
"All right," said Frost reluctantly. "We do it your way."
"No police involvement in any shape or form until the kid is safely returned?"
"No police involvement," agreed Frost.
"Do I have your word?"
"You have my word."
Cordwell jabbed a stubby finger at Frost. "Cross me and I'll crucify you - do you read me, buster?"
Frost put on his hurt look. "I've given you my word," he said.
They were curtly dismissed and ushered out to the car by the secretary. As Frost settled himself down in the seat, Mullett turned to him angrily. "You had no business giving him your word, Frost."
"Don't worry, super," said Frost, "I have no intention of keeping it."
Mullett's eyebrows soared. "What?"
Frost gave the same sort of sweet smile that Cordwell had given him. "No-one tells me what to do," he said. As the black gates closed behind them, he dug down in his pocket and produced three cigars. He stuck one in his mouth and offered the others to Mullett and Burton.
Mullett hesitated, but they were excellent cigars, probably costing something like £9 each. He accepted a light from Frost and inhaled with deep satisfaction. Soon the interior of the Ford was hazy blue and redolent with the rich Havana aroma. He thought wryly of the smell in his own car from that wretched woman last night. He took another drag and beamed with a glow of well-being. There was something about a good cigar . . . Maybe it wasn't Frost's fault. Perhaps, at times, he was too hard on the man. He took the cigar from his mouth and contemplated the glowing end. "An excellent smoke, Frost. Where did you get them?"
"I pinched them from Cordwell's box when he wasn't looking," said Frost.
Chapter 9
When Frost got back to his office he nearly tripped over the fur coats the insurance assessor had dropped on the floor. Mullett was right, the office did stink. He opened the window a fraction to let in some fresh air, while he made a few phone calls. Liz was still attending the postmortems where, no doubt, Drysdale was being his usual thorough self with all three tiny bodies. Bill Wells confirmed there was still no sign of the missing mother. Frost drummed the desk in thought - had he called off the dragging of the canal too soon?
The jewellery was still on his desk. He'd have to get Margie Stanfield down for a formal identification of her property and the sooner she took back her skunk-smelling furs, the better. Margie! She must be Stanfield's second wife. He seemed to remember an entirely different woman when he was at the house all those years ago for the arson case.
He stared at the jewellery. Damn. This phoney abduction case was irritating him. He wanted to get it out of the way, but he couldn't wait for Liz to come back from her autopsy treat so he collared Burton from the incident room.
"Where are we going?" asked the DC, sliding behind the steering wheel.
"Bennington's Bank," Frost told him. "I want to take a look at their security video for when Stanfield was drawing out all that cash." The car slowed at traffic lights. "How are you getting on with Sergeant Liz?"
"She tore me off a strip today," said Burton, moving forward as the lights changed. "I put the wrong date down on a report." He grinned. "I think I'm starting to fancy her."
"She wouldn't be a bad looker if she tarted herself up," mused Frost. "Reminds me of those old Hollywood films where the heroine is a schoolmistress with no make-up, thick glasses, her hair in a bun and a flat chest. When she has her first kiss from the hero, she takes off her glasses, lets her hair down and her tits swell up to twice their previous size." He started unbuckling his seat belt as the bank loomed into view. "The same thing could happen to our Liz."
Burton grinned again as he turned the car into the "Staff Only' car-park behind the bank. "I wouldn't mind being the bloke who makes it happen."
The bank manager brought in the videotape and fed it into the player for them. "I'm rather busy, so I'll leave you to it, inspector."
"Yes, you go and foreclose on some poor sod," answered Frost. "We'll manage." He pressed the play button.
On the monitor a black and white picture of the customer area of the bank. It was a minute to opening time so no customers. A running clock superimposed on the corner of the picture showed the seconds zipping on to 9.30 a.m. A cashier walked across the customer area, checked the time with the wall clock, then opened the doors. He was shoved to one side as an impatient Stanfield, barging his way through other customers, managed to reach the cashier's window before anyone else. He was carrying a large briefcase.
It was a wide angle shot taken from behind the counters. Other customers went to different cashiers, but the two detectives kept their eyes on Stanfield who pushed across a withdrawal
slip, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter as the cashier read it through. He snapped some angry remark and then moved to the end of the counter. The cashier came out and led Stanfield to the assistant manager's office and out of camera range. "He's waiting in there while they're getting the money out of the vaults," explained Frost.
More people came into the bank. Queues shuffled forward, cashing cheques or paying in money.
"What are we looking for?" asked Burton.
"I haven't the faintest bloody idea," admitted Frost.
Ten more minutes of watching people come and go and Frost's attention was starting to wander. He began to read a confidential letter on the manager's desk. "There he is!" said Burton. He was all attention again.
Stanfield moved back into the picture. The briefcase bulged and seemed heavier. He snarled at someone who dared to get in his path as he barged his way through the crowded customer area. The doors closed behind him and he was gone.
Frost let the tape run for a couple of minutes, then fished out his cigarette packet. "There's something there, son, something screaming at me . . . but I don't know what it is." He wound the tape back to the start and played it through again, only half watching as he dribbled smoke from his nose. Suddenly, he stiffened. "Yes I do!" His finger jabbed the freeze frame button making the picture quiver and stop. "In the corner, there - at the automatic cash machine." The frozen picture was quite blurred and Burton couldn't make out who Frost meant. Then he saw a figure right in the corner of the screen drawing money from the service till. The person's back was to the camera. They could just make out light-coloured trousers and a dark duffel coat with the hood up.
"So?" asked Burton.
Frost pressed the play button again. The figure, not much more than an out-of-focus blur, seemed to be getting money from the machine, then a swirl of customers hid him from view. Frost forwarded the tape. The superimposed clock had moved on another six or seven minutes. The crowd suddenly thinned. "Look!" said Frost. "The bastard is still there . . . What's he doing now?"
The figure had now moved away from the service till and was by the automatic deposit machine where he seemed to be finding difficulty in filling in one of the bank's forms, screwing up the current effort and starting on a new one. He was still there as Stanfield emerged from the assistant manager's office carrying the briefcase. Stanfield left. The man screwed his form up, tossed it in a bin and sauntered out of the bank.
"He followed Stanfield in," said Frost. "He was here all the time Stanfield was in the bank. When Stanfield left, so did he." He zipped back the tape, replaying some of it, freeze-framing from time to time.
"Assuming he was involved," said Burton, 'the picture's nowhere near good enough to identify him."
"There's more than one way of skinning a banana," said Frost. He called the manager back into the office and pointed at the shape on the screen. "I want to know who he is."
The manager gave a shrug. "I've no idea."
"Yes you have," said Frost. "Look - he's using his cash card to draw money from your cash machine. You can see the clock - that gives the exact time he took out the money. You've got to have a timed record of all money withdrawn from that machine."
The manager went to a computer terminal on a small table by his desk and rattled away at the keyboard. "Yes. 9.34. £5 withdrawn." He peered at the screen. "That's strange. At 9.39 it was paid back in again."
"He was stalling for time," said Frost. "I want his name, address and inside leg size."
The manager twitched an apologetic smile. "I can't give you information about our customers. You will have to go through the proper channels."
"Tell me that next time you come whining to me because you've got a parking ticket," said Frost.
The manager clicked away at a few more keys and the screen display changed. He stood up. "I have to go out for a few minutes. Please do not look at this screen. It contains classified customer information."
Frost beamed his thanks and was at the computer even as the door was closing behind the manager. His eyebrows rose in surprise. The customer was a girl. Tracey Neal, 6 Dean Court, Denton. She had a balance of £25 in her account. Her date of birth was shown. She was fifteen, the same age as Carol Stanfield. Burton scribbled down the details.
"Mullett banks here," said Frost, sitting down in the chair by the computer. "I wonder how much he's got in his account. What's the betting he's in the red? Let's see if he's made any cheques out to ladies of ill repute." He pulled the keyboard towards him.
Burton looked nervously towards the door, expecting the manager to return any minute. "Do you really think you should . . . ?"
Frost ignored Burton's concern. "Do you reckon we just type in his name?" He pressed a key and the words account name? appeared on the screen. Frost started to peck out M . . . U . . . L . . . when the computer let out a high-pitched buzz, the screen display kept flashing on and off, and a Dalek-like, electronic voice bawled: "Unauthorized input . . . unauthorized input . . ."
"Flaming hell!" Frost leapt from the keyboard to the vacant visitors' chair on the far side of the room. As the manager came running in, looking angry, Frost gave a puzzled frown towards the computer. "What the hell is up with that?" he asked with all the innocence he could muster.
Liz was sitting at the spare desk when he got back. She looked shaken, but was busying herself with heaps of papers. She accepted the cigarette Frost tossed over to her.
"How did it go?"
Her hand was unsteady as she put the cigarette in her mouth, but she tried to sound calm. It had been a harrowing experience. Drysdale was always thorough, even when the cause of death was obvious, and to watch him being thorough three times, and on the bodies of tiny children, was almost too much. Even Cassidy had been affected and had mumbled some excuse about a phone call, leaving her to see it through, and she had managed a smug smile as she watched him leave, but now she felt shattered. "Asphyxiated with a pillow, probably while they were sleeping. They wouldn't have cried out and they wouldn't have known anything about it."
"Poor little sods." He saw she was having trouble in striking a match, so leant across with his lighter. "What about the stab marks on the boy's arm?"
"Not very serious and made after death. That's all he could say."
"Time of death?"
"Between 11 p.m. and midnight, Drysdale will be able to pin it down closer when he knows the time they had their last meal. I'm seeing the father later on, he should be able to tell us when she usually fed them." Liz shuddered as she thought of the mother preparing their food, cooking it ever so carefully, the last meal they would ever have . . . "They all died within minutes of each other."
"And still no sign of the mother?"
"No."
"Let's hope she's killed herself. It'll save everyone a lot of sodding about."
Liz winced at Frost's apparent callousness, but she knew what he meant.
"What about that row people heard? Has anyone owned up to it?"
She shook her head. "I questioned our witnesses again and they still say they thought it was the wife and husband quarrelling, but as we know, the husband wasn't there."
Frost scratched his chin. "The man who never was. Ah well . . . one of life's little mysteries." He switched to the Stanfield case. "I've got a job for you." He told her about the girl hovering about in the bank when Stanfield drew out the money. "Check her out."
Glad of anything that would take her mind off the memory of those three small bodies on Drysdale's autopsy table, she inserted her papers in a folder and grabbed her handbag. She had to squeeze past Burton who was coming in and who hadn't left her enough room to get through easily.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you, son?" grunted Frost.
"Never thought I'd fancy a sergeant," replied Burton, pulling Liz's chair up to Frost's desk and sitting down.
"Is it still warm from her lovely bottom?"
"Red hot!" grinned Burton. "Right. The phone booths at the supermarket.
I've had them all bugged, as you asked, ready for when the kidnapper makes contact. Every phone call in and out is now being recorded."
"What about bugging the money case so we can track it?"
Burton took a padded envelope from his pocket and carefully tipped out a small, grey plastic object, not much bigger than a fifty pence piece, and put it on Frost's desk. "Self-powered . . . range up to two hundred yards."
Frost prodded it with a nicotine-stained finger. "Doen't look much. You sure it works?"
"Positive. I tested it on the way over. But how will we get it in the suitcase with the money if Cordwell refuses to co-operate?"
"Leave that to me, son. One of Savalot's security guards is going to slip it in for me."
"Which one?" Burton asked.
"A bloke called Tommy Dunn. He used to be a copper - took early retirement under pressure from Mullett. He'd been taking back-handers."
"Can you trust him?"
"No - but he'll do anything for a bottle of whisky. Tommy's done a bit of nosing around. The accounts manager is going to make the ransom money up from today's takings at the store. It will be put into an overnight case ready for Cordwell to collect. Tommy reckons he can slip the homing device under the lining so no-one will notice it." He returned the tiny transmitter to its padded envelope and handed it back to Burton. "Get over to Savalot, and ask for Tommy Dunn . . . Drop it in his pocket and leave."
As Burton went out the internal phone rang. Bill Wells from the front desk. Mrs. Stanfield was here to identify the furs and jewellery fished out of the canal. "Right," said Frost, but as he spoke, panic set in. His eyes began a swift search of the office. Liz had picked the sodden furs from the floor and had hooked them over the hat-stand, but where was the flaming jewellery? "Hold on a tick, Bill." He put the phone down and started to ransack the place, looking everywhere, even where he was sure he hadn't put it. £40,000 worth of jewellery and he'd left it lying on his desk in full view where anyone could see it and the door open . . . Don't say some bastard has nicked it, he silently pleaded. A sudden thought. The insurance assessor. He must have taken it. A quick phone call. "No, inspector. It was still on your desk in a black plastic bag when I left."
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