Frost 4 - Hard Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Frost waited. The cassette recorder counter clicked to its next number. Burton raised his eyebrows, tacitly suggesting they should break off the interview at this point. Frost shook his head. A break could give Grover a chance to compose himself, to change his story. He lit up another cigarette and waited. The shuddering subsided. Frost pushed a cigarette across to Grover who snatched it up gratefully, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.

  "Thanks." He leant across to receive a light.

  "You went to the kiddies' room," prompted Frost.

  Grover knuckled his eyes and nodded.

  Frost waited.

  Grover stared at the glowing end of his cigarette, swallowing hard.

  "And . . . ?" prompted Frost again.

  Grover glared angrily. Then he was shouting. "You know bloody well what I saw . . ." He sniffed back the tears.

  "The children?" said Frost softly.

  Grover nodded, suddenly calmer. "They were lying in their cots, still and quiet. I thought they were sleeping. I prayed that they were sleeping. But . . ." Again he couldn't go on. His body shook and he screwed up his face as if in intense pain. "It was a bloody nightmare."

  "They were dead?" asked Frost.

  "Of course they were. She killed them. That bitch had killed them. Aren't you listening?"

  "I'm listening," said Frost.

  "I could hear her in the lounge, laughing. I charged in there. She was sitting in the chair, rocking from side to side and sniggering. She said, "I told you I would do it . . . you wouldn't believe me." She said it as if it was something to be proud of. I still had the knife in my hand. I went berserk."

  "You stabbed her?"

  "Yes. The next thing I knew, Phil was dragging at my arm, yelling at me to stop. But it was too late. She was dead."

  "Where had he been all this time?"

  "Out in the kitchen. He saw there was going to be a row and didn't want to get involved."

  "He went out there, when?"

  "Immediately after we brought the carpet in. When he heard her screaming he came running back."

  "And she was already dead?"

  "Yes. There was no pulse . . . nothing. I said call the police. He told me not to be a bloody fool. He said they'd bang me inside for murder. She kills my kids and I end up in the nick for life. He brought me some clean clothes and made me wash and change. He said if we dumped her in front of a train it would look like suicide."

  "And the carpet?"

  "It had her blood all over it. He said we should chuck it in the canal."

  "And you did what he said?"

  "I was in no state to argue. He poured me a couple of brandies and we manhandled her out to the van. Then we rolled up the carpet and Phil put some bits of patio slab in to make sure it sunk. We dropped it in the canal on the way to the railway cutting."

  "What happened to your bloodstained clothes?"

  "Phil burnt them. He's got a coal-fired boiler."

  Frost scratched his chin. "Good old Phil."

  "She killed my kids," said Grover defiantly.

  "I know," said Frost.

  "She was pregnant. She wanted an abortion. I said no. I didn't want an unborn child killed." The irony of this made him bow his head and sniff back more tears.

  Frost said nothing. Whatever the reason, whoever was to blame, the poor sod had lost his wife and his children. "We'll get this typed up, then you can sign it."

  Suddenly Grover looked small and helpless. "Will I be let out for the funeral? The kids - not her. I want them buried with their favourite toys."

  "I'm sure that can be arranged." Frost stood up. This was a mucky case. Nothing would bring the kids back and there was no satisfaction in cracking it.

  "What happens now?" asked Grover as Burton took his arm to lead him out.

  "I think you'd better get yourself a solicitor," said Frost. "You're going to need one . . . and so is good old Phil."

  In the corridor outside the interview room Cassidy was pacing up and down. He watched Grover being led out, then angrily marched over to meet Frost. "Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on? This is supposed to be my damn case, don't forget."

  "It's still your damn case," said Frost. "He's confessed. She killed the kids and he killed her. His mate Phil Collard is an accessory after the fact." He handed Cassidy the cassette. "It's all on tape get it typed."

  He never made it back to his office. Bill Wells came running up to him. "Jack. We've got a couple in the front office who reckon they know where the kidnapped boy is being held."

  Frost was unimpressed. They'd had so many false leads from people absolutely positive they had seen Bobby.

  "These two sound genuine," Wells assured him.

  "All bloody nutters sound genuine," grunted Frost. Sod it. It was probably another time-waster, but he daren't ignore it. "All right, I'll see them."

  They were eagerly waiting for him in the spare interview room. The man, in his late fifties, was small and sharp-featured, his head constantly moving from side to side like a terrier looking for a rat. His wife, a few years younger, was short and plump; her light brown hair, worn with a little girl's fringe, and her short-skirted dress revealing tubby legs, made her look like a retarded schoolgirl. Frost introduced himself and sat down. He glanced at the information sheet Wells had given him. "Mr. and Mrs. Mason, 18 Fullers Lane. You reckon you have information about this missing boy."

  "It's not the reward," said Mason. "I want you to understand it's not the reward."

  "Of course it isn't," said Frost, thinking, I bet it is, you bastard.

  "We should have come sooner, but one hates sneaking on one's neighbours . . . and they used to be so good to me."

  "When were they ever good to us?" asked his wife.

  "Well, he lent me his lawn mower."

  "His old rusty one - he wouldn't let you have his precious new one. And those tight clothes his wife wears . . . you can see her nipples."

  Frost cleared his throat. "If you could get to the point . . ."

  "Yes, of course," said the man. "This missing boy." He looked from side to side, as if checking on eavesdroppers, then leant over the table, lowering his voice. "They'd be the last people on earth I'd suspect of doing anything like this, but - "

  "Who are they" asked Frost.

  "Oh sorry. I'm talking about Mr. and Mrs. Younger . . . 20 Fullers Lane."

  "Mrs. Younger she's the one with the nipples?" asked Frost, wishing it was her who was sitting opposite him.

  "That's right. We live at number 18 they live next door," explained the woman. "They've got this shed . . ."

  "Let me tell it, dear," said her husband, glaring her to silence. Back to Frost. "It's a shed at the end of their garden. Nice little shed he keeps his lawn mower and stuff in it." He hesitated and looked at his wife. "No dear, we must be wrong . . . They're such a nice couple. They wouldn't hurt a fly."

  "All right," snapped Frost. "They're living bloody saints and she's got terrific nipples. Now, for Pete's sake tell me why you think they've got the boy."

  Mason exchanged hurt glances with his wife, but decided to overlook Frost's outburst.

  "This shed. Last week he ran an extension lead from the house so he can have electric light in it. And yesterday I noticed they'd put curtains up."

  "It was me that noticed it," corrected his wife. "I told you about it." She turned to Frost. "Curtains in their shed! And they're kept drawn so you can't see inside. So what I want to know is, what has he got to hide?"

  An enormous dick, thought Frost wearily, slumping down in his chair.

  "The light comes on at all hours of the day and night," added her husband.

  "So?" asked Frost, getting fidgety. This all seemed a waste of time.

  "I've seen him taking food down there," said the woman. "Hot food on a tray."

  "Food?" Now Frost was interested. He sat up straight and gave them his full attention. "Go on."

  "The last couple of days, just before he goes to work
and just after he comes home at night, he sticks his head out of the back door checking that no-one's watching, then he scurries off down the garden as fast as he can with a tray of food and he's inside that shed with the doors shut and the curtains drawn."

  "And you reckon he's taking food there for the boy?" asked Frost.

  "Well, he's not feeding his bloody rusty lawn mower," said the man. "And apart from the food, he's taken bedding down there . . . a big heap of bedding, I saw him,"

  Gleefully, Frost rubbed his hands. This was getting more and more promising. "And what does Mr. Younger do for a living?"

  "He's a paramedic . . . drives around in an ambulance treating people for strokes and helping girls who have babies on buses."

  "If you swallow your false teeth, he's the man to call on," added his wife. "There was that woman round the corner - the one who had her womb scraped . . ."

  Frost winced and held up a hand in protest. It was too early in the morning for scraped wombs. "You've actually seen him taking food down to the shed?"

  "Come down to our house now and you can see for yourself," said the man. "He does it half-past eight on the dot."

  Frost checked the time. Quarter past eight. He drummed his fingers on the table with excitement. Bedding, food, drawn curtains, and, as an ambulance driver, Younger would have access to chloroform or ether. Knock out the kid and bung him in the back. Who would suspect an ambulance?

  Frost smiled at the couple. The dislike he had felt when he first met them had almost gone. "Hold on a moment - be right back."

  He raced off to the incident room. "Got a strong lead on the kid. A couple of nosy neighbours reckon he's hidden in a shed in the garden of 20 Fullers Lane." He gave them the details.

  "So it looks as if you were wrong about Finch?" said Liz.

  "Infallibility is not my strong point," answered Frost. "I've been wrong before and I'll be wrong again." He moved over to the wall map. "Where the hell is Fullers Lane?"

  Burton showed him.

  "Right." He studied the location. "One car round the front and one round the back ought to do it. Burton - you take the back-up car. Liz, Collier you come with me."

  They were in the Masons' bedroom with its cute pictures of puppies on the wall and zip-up pussy cat pyjama cases on both pillows of the bed. Two large windows overlooked the rear gardens and a comfortable chair was already in position at each. Hanging from the back of each chair was a pair of field glasses in a case. Between the chairs was a coffee table holding fruit, snacks and a thermos flask. "The complete nosy bastard's outfit," commented Frost, picturing the Masons, side by side each night, spying on the neighbours through the Terylene curtains, chomping away at their snacks and nudging each other when something tasty clicked into focus. Frost sat in one of the chairs and picked up the field glasses. Liz sat in the other.

  A creaking of stairs and the chinking of crockery as Mr. Mason came in with mugs of tea on a tray and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. "Thought you might like this." He peered through the curtains and pointed. "That's the shed, there!"

  At the end of the next garden, a shed about eight feet by six, in creosoted wood with a green felt roof. The drawn, thick red curtains looked incongruous. Frost swung the glasses to the door. It was fitted with a heavy padlock which looked new and far too hefty for a garden shed.

  "How long has that padlock been there?"

  "We saw him putting it up last week," said Mason. "Probably frightened someone will steal his lousy lawn mower that's too good to lend people."

  Frost slowly panned across the window, but nothing at all could be seen through the curtaining.

  "Look out! He'll see you." Mason jerked Frost back, letting the lace curtain drop into place. "He's coming out."

  By pressing his face close to the window pane Frost was able to see the back door of the adjoining house open and a man's head emerge to look furtively around. The man stared up suspiciously at the window of the Masons' bedroom and Frost jerked back. Younger must know what a pair of nosy bastards he had as neighbours. He hesitated, then came out carrying a tray covered with a cloth. He hurried to the shed, unlocked it and was inside in a couple of seconds. The light came on, but the curtains remained drawn.

  "Good enough for me," grunted Frost. He clicked on his radio and told Burton to hold his position at the rear of the property. He jerked his head to Liz. "Come on. We're going in."

  The woman who opened the door was in her mid-thirties, a hard-faced blonde in an electric blue dress. "Yes?" Her expression changed to anger as Frost and Liz barged past her, Collier following behind. "What the bloody - "

  "Police!" snapped Frost, flashing his warrant card. "We're going to search your premises."

  "You are bloody not." She parked herself in front of Frost, blocking his way, but was yanked off by Liz.

  "Calm down or I'm putting the cuffs on you," she threatened.

  "Cuffs? In my own flaming house? Where's your search warrant?"

  "We don't need a warrant if we believe there's a life in danger," Liz told her.

  "Danger? What bloody danger?"

  "Look after the lady," Frost told Collier. "We're going to take a look in their shed."

  As he and Liz went out to the garden, the blonde yelled after them. "Arrest the, bastard Lock him up. It's nothing to do with me."

  They charged up the garden and burst into the shed. A man was sitting inside eating beans on toast from a tray. A portable radio was playing. As they burst in, he leapt up, sending the tray on his lap clattering to the floor.

  "Police!"yelled Frost.

  "Oh, shit!" said the man.

  Along one wall was a camp bed. Stacked at the rear was a pile of hospital sheets, blankets and medical supplies. There was no-one else.

  "Where's the boy?" demanded Frost.

  "What boy?"

  Frost radioed Burton who scrambled over the rear fence. "Bring him into the house."

  The blonde was at the back door, trying to get past Collier. "Keep that bastard out of my house," she yelled. "I'm having nothing to do with him."

  "Isn't this your husband?" asked Frost.

  "Until I divorce the sod, yes. Until then, he cooks his own meals and has them in the shed and he sleeps in the shed. I am not having him in the house."

  "Why?" Frost added.

  "The bugger's only been having it away with a tart in the back of his ambulance."

  "Once - it happened once," moaned the man.

  "You were only found out bloody once," she snapped back. She turned to Frost. "Do me a favour. Arrest him. Lock him up. Throw away the flaming key."

  "On what charge?"

  "You've seen that stuff in the shed. All the gear he's nicked from the hospital. It's no bloody use to anyone, but he nicks it."

  Frost's shoulders slumped. Another false lead. "You can have this one," he told Liz. "I'm sure the hospital will want to press charges."

  Liz radioed for a van to collect the loot, then marched Younger out to the car. "I suppose it was those two nosy bastards next door who shopped me?" he said, glaring up at their bedroom window where the curtains suddenly twitched and sunlight flashed on the lenses of two pairs of field glasses. "I'll get you, you sods," he yelled. "I'll bloody get you."

  "Another false lead, Frost?" said Mullett, striding into Frost's office and pulling a face to show his disapproval of its untidiness. He had the local paper in his hand.

  "Yes, another false lead," agreed Frost, swinging his legs off the desk. Why did the bloody man always have to state the obvious?

  "You probably haven't heard," continued Mullett with a sadistic smirk, "but Cassidy has obtained a confession from the husband in the child-killing case."

  "Yes, I had heard," muttered Frost.

  "The wife killed the children and the husband murdered the wife."

  "Something like that."

  He's jealous, thought Mullett, jealous of Cassidy's success in the face of his own failures. Well, let's twist the knife a little m
ore. "And this clears Snell - the man you refused to arrest?"

  Frost nodded and started patting the layer of papers on his desk to locate his cigarette packet.

  "Cassidy got you off the hook with this one, Frost. You should be eternally grateful."

  "I am," said Frost, lighting up. "Anything else?"

  Mullett frowned. He produced the local paper and dropped it on Frost's desk. He tapped the front page item - "Police Dragging Heels In Search For Little Bobby'. "Have you seen this?"

  Frost picked up the paper. '"Flasher At Pensioners' Tea Party"," he read. He frowned in pretended puzzlement. "Is he a friend of yours, sir?"

  Mullett banged his finger on the correct news item. He knew Frost was just trying to be aggravating. "That is what I mean, Frost. Police dragging their heels. Not the sort of thing I want to read about my division. So what is the position on the kidnapping?"

  Frost rubbed his face wearily. "After Cordwell's magnanimous offer, we're being flooded out with more sightings and leads from the public who hadn't said a word before the reward was offered. We're following them all through, but I don't expect they will lead anywhere."

  "We can't waste time or money or manpower on false leads," said Mullett, 'but if it transpires we ignored one that would have led us to the boy . . ." A typical Mullett instruction making sure he was covered whatever happened.

  "And I'm going to have Finch followed," said Frost.