Hard Frost (11 page)

   "No," said Frost, wriggling down into the passenger seat. "Arthur's a lovely bloke, but, like me, he hasn't got the making of an inspector and Mullett knows it."

   "Oh," said Liz. She smiled to herself. Then it would definitely be her.

Bill Wells sipped his mug of tea and took a sly drag at his cigarette. His first chance to relax all afternoon. Mullett had been flapping in and out, wanting to know if anyone had been asking for him, but not explaining who he was expecting. A blast of wind as the main doors opened. With practised skill, he pinched out the cigarette and slid his mug of tea under the counter top. "Can I help you, sir?"

   The man, carrying a suitcase, walked across to the desk. Fair-haired, thickset and in his early forties, he gave a curt nod.

   A cry of recognition from Wells, 'Jim Cassidy! What are you doing back in Denton?"

   Cassidy put down the suitcase and twitched a wan smile. His manner was far less enthusiastic than the sergeant's. "Hello, Bill."

   "I've heard you've been in the wars - some bastard stabbed you?"

   Cassidy nodded, his expression making it clear this was something he didn't want to talk about. "I'm here to see Mr. Mullett."

   So this was why Mullett had been flapping. And not a word to a flaming soul! "May I ask what about?" said Wells, picking up the internal phone and dialling Mullett's number.

   Cassidy frowned. Surely the news should have been out by now? "I'm back in the division for a while. I'm going to be your acting detective inspector."

   Well's jaw dropped. Cassidy! Acting detective inspector? Cassidy who was a trainee constable while Wells was already a sergeant. Some people, if their faces fitted, would always rise in the ranks. While others who flogged their guts out, worked all the hours God sent, were bunged on the rota every bloody Christmas . . . He realized Mullett had answered and was barking angrily in his ear. "Detective Sergeant Cassidy to see you, sir . . . Yes, sir." He put the phone down. "Go straight through, Jim. You know the way."

   Cassidy nodded and slid his suitcase across the counter top for safekeeping. At the swing doors he paused. "Important point, sergeant. While I'm acting inspector, I want to be treated as such. Call me inspector, or sir - not Jim."

   Forcing a smile, Wells seethed inwardly. You bastard! Pulling rank on me! "Very good . . . sir," he said, through clenched teeth. "By the way . . . sir. I saw your wife - sorry your ex-wife in town the other day."

   Cassidy stiffened. He wouldn't turn round. He had no intention of letting the sod know how deeply that shaft had hit home. "Did you, sergeant? How was she?"

   "She looked great. Her new husband was with her. They both looked very happy."

   The swing doors closed shut behind him and Wells chortled with wicked delight. "Game, set and match," he beamed, retrieving his mug of tea.

   "What was that all about, Sarge?"

   Wells turned his head. PC Collier on his way up to his meal break had seen the little drama enacted.

Normally Wells would have told him to mind his own business, but basking in the warm glow of his little victory he was only too pleased to explain. "That big-headed git you just saw go through is Jim Cassidy. He was a detective constable here some four years ago - before your time. Career mad . . . nothing was going to stop him getting on and he didn't give a toss who he stepped on to get there. Grabbed all the credit, even when it wasn't his, and worked all the hours going without claiming overtime, which made him Mullett's blue-eyed boy. Anyway, one night he'd promised to take his teenage daughter out to see a film she'd been dying to see, but a job came up so he cried off. She went out on her own and got knocked down and killed by a hit and run driver. He went to pieces and his marriage broke up. He started criticizing everyone here because we couldn't trace the hit and run driver and became impossible to work with. So he was transferred to Lexford, at which point we stopped hating him and they started."

   "And now we've got him back as acting detective inspector?"

   Wells nodded grimly. "And that will put the cat amongst the pigeons, I promise you." There was a bit more to the story, but Wells was keeping it to himself. He couldn't wait to see Jack Frost's face when he told him Cassidy was back. The internal phone rang. Mullett. Demanding two coffees.

   Wells looked round, but Collier had gone. "Sorry, sir, I've got no one to send."

   "And some biscuits," said Mullett, putting down the phone.

"Come in, Jim, come in," said Mullett warmly, hand outstretched. "Good to have you back in the division."

   Cassidy shook the offered hand and noted with relief that there was a hard-seated chair in front of the polished mahogany desk. But to his dismay, Mullett waved him towards one of the two deep-cushioned armchairs reserved for important visitors. Damn! He could lower himself in it all right, but the effort of hauling himself from its depths would trigger off the pain again. He gritted his teeth and sat down. No-one must know he was still suffering from the after effects of the stabbing, not if his promotion to Inspector was to go through this time. He turned a grimace into a smile of thanks as a ripple of pain sizzled across his stomach. The seat was lower than he thought and there was no support and it was pulling on his wound.

   Mullett took the other armchair, concerned to see Cassidy looking so drawn. "Sorry to hear about the stabbing. Are you all right now?"

   "I'm fine," lied Cassidy. He was learning to mask the pain. He had fooled the police doctor and should have little difficulty in fooling Mullett and his pack of dummies. "I'm anxious to get started, sir. I understand Inspector Allen was handling a murdered boy enquiry. When can I take over?"

   "One dead boy, one missing boy," corrected Mullett. He paused as a sullen-looking Sergeant Wells came in with the coffees and banged them down on the desk, spilling some into the saucers. He waited until Wells had left before continuing. "You'll be working with Mr. Frost on this one."

   Cassidy's head snapped up. "Frost! Jack Frost?"

   Mullett saw something very interesting to look at through the window the blank wall on the other side of the road. "Er . . . quite so."

   "My understanding was - '

   "Circumstances have changed," interrupted Mullett. "I had intended you would be taking complete charge of Mr. Allen's cases and working on your own - '

   "That was the only reason I agreed to come back here," cut in Cassidy. "You will appreciate that Denton has many unhappy memories for me."

   "I understand that, but nevertheless you will be working under Mr. Frost."

   "Under? I'm an acting detective inspector. I didn't come all the way back here just to stay a sergeant."

   "The Chief Constable is a little concerned as to your fitness . . ."

   "I'm perfectly fit."

   ". . . and he has a much higher opinion of Frost than, perhaps, those who have to work with him have. He wants you to work under Frost's authority as he considers this is a case requiring the leadership of an experienced officer."

   With difficulty Cassidy pushed himself out of the chair, his anger overcoming the pain. "I am sorry, sir. I would find it impossible to work with Frost. The way he mismanaged the investigation into the death of my daughter . . ."

   Mullett gave a deep sigh. "I know you weren't happy at the way he handled the case. I agree he's unorthodox - "

   "Unorthodox," exploded Cassidy. "He's more than unorthodox. He's sloppy, lazy, inefficient, devious - '

   "That will do!" An angry Mullett pounded his fist on the desk. It was not that he disagreed with the views expressed - he, himself, might have gone further but he wasn't having this sort of talk from a sergeant, especially one from another division who could well carry a report of the conversation back. He was concerned that Frost's deficiencies should not be too widely known, otherwise his chances of dumping the man on another, unsuspecting division would be minimal. "Whatever your feelings, Cassidy, you will put them to one side. The Chief Constable has decreed that you will work with Mr. Frost and that he will be the senior officer."

   "I am not happy with this, sir."

   "I take note of your unhappiness," said Mullett, 'but would advise you to take full advantage of this opportunity." He gave his crocodile smile. "Any successes that you achieve will be duly noted and, should the time come for Inspector Frost to be replaced . . ." He spread his palms significantly and let the option hang. "However, if you decide you cannot work with him, I am sure County can find some other sergeant who would be only too pleased to improve his promotional chances by acting as inspector."

   Cassidy grunted. "I'll work with him."

   "Good man," beamed Mullett. "Well, I expect you will want to get started. You'll be in Mr. Allen's office. You know where it is." He stood up to indicate the interview was over. "I'm glad we've had this little chat."

   A stab of pain caught Cassidy by surprise as he pushed himself up. He winced and gritted his teeth.

   "You all right?" Mullett asked.

   "Leg a bit stiff after the journey," explained Cassidy, forcing himself not to limp as he crossed to the door.

   "Oh - one other thing," said Mullett, making his carefully rehearsed speech sound like an afterthought. "That business with your daughter . . ."

   Cassidy turned slowly to face the Divisional Commander. "Yes?"

   "Over and done with - all in the past." Mullett gave Cassidy's arm a 'man to man' squeeze.

   "Yes," said Cassidy, tersely. "All in the past." There was no one in the passage outside so he was able to allow himself the luxury of a limp back to Allen's office.

Thomas Arnold, assistant branch manager at Benning-ton's Bank, blinked nervously at Frost through thick-lensed glasses. By his side stood the cashier who had attended to Stanfield when he withdrew the £25,000 that morning. He waited for his secretary to give Frost and Liz a cup of lukewarm instant coffee, then nodded for the cashier to proceed.

   "Mr. Stanfield was waiting outside the bank when we opened at nine-thirty," the cashier told them. "He handed me his withdrawal request. I raised my eyebrows and said, "Rather a large sum!" And he said, "Just get it!" I obviously didn't have that amount of money in my till and it was more than I like to count out over the counter, so I took him round to Mr. Arnold's office to wait while we fetched the money from the vault."

   "That's correct," said Arnold. "I offered him coffee, but he refused."

   Frost pushed his half-empty cup away from him. "I'm not surprised."

   "How did he seem?" asked Liz.

   "In what way?"

   "She means," said Frost, 'did he look as if his daughter was going to be raped if he didn't cough up the cash, or did he behave normally?"

   "He seemed very impatient - but then he usually is," replied the assistant manager. "It only took eight minutes to provide the cash."

   "I brought it in, but before I could hand it over he snatched it from me," said the cashier. "He didn't bother to count it, just stuffed it in his suitcase and left."

   "You didn't think it strange he should withdraw such a large sum in cash?"

   "To be quite honest," said Arnold, "I thought he was going to do a runner . . . leave the country. I believe Customs and Excise and the Inland Revenue are breathing very hard down his neck . . . but that is strictly off the record, of course."

   They nodded their thanks and left.

   "Well," smirked Liz when they got back in the car. "He was agitated, and impatient - it's starting to sound genuine."

   "Of course he looked agitated. You'd hardly expect him to be whistling "Happy Days are Here Again". He knew we'd check."

   "Then what about my witness who saw the van?"

   "I don't care if he saw a hundred bloody vans. I still reckon this is a tax and insurance fiddle."

   "We'll see," she smiled, determined to prove him wrong.

   He dropped her off at her digs. "Get a few hours sleep. I'll see you back at the station later."

   He drove to his house for a quick cup of tea and flopped wearily in an armchair to drink it. He was dead tired. He leant his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes for a second. He woke with a start. His untouched tea was stone cold. Outside it was already dark. The phone was ringing.

   "Frost," he said, shaking the sleep from his eyes.

   It was Johnnie Johnson, who had taken over from Bill Wells as Station Sergeant. "You'd better get over here, Jack. Another child's gone missing."

   "On my way," said Frost.

Chapter 5

He slouched into the incident room rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What's all this about another missing kid?" he yawned.

   "Judy Gleeson, fourteen years old," said Burton.

   Frost collapsed into a chair, relieved that it wasn't another eight-year-old boy. "Tell me about it."

   "Mother goes to work. She came home at five. No sign of her daughter and no table laid, which the daughter usually did. She assumed the kid was with her mate. Half-past six, still no Judy, so the mother gets worried, phones around and learns that Judy hadn't been at school all day."

   Frost chewed this over. "I can't see it tying in with our missing boy. Sounds like your average girl doing a runner to me."

   "Probably, but we can't take chances. Detective Sergeant Maud has gone round to the house to get details. Should be back soon."

   "Right," said Frost. "And how are things going with the search for Bobby Kirby?"

   Burton told him the position. The search parties had plodded on until it was too dark to see properly. All the more likely areas had been covered and they were now moving on to the less likely ones.

   "I've laid on the frogmen team for tomorrow morning."

   Frost nodded his approval. "What about our appeals to the Great British Public?"

   Lambert came forward. "Thirty-five more positive sightings. Eight of them were kids with men."