Hard Frost (12 page)

   "Probably fathers taking their sons home. What about the dead kid? Did anyone see him?"

   "There's a snag," Burton told him. "Both kids left home wearing similar clothes. People are reporting seeing kids in zip-up jackets and it could be either of them."

   "Or neither," said Frost. "The cinema?"

   "Three kids playing truant from school are pretty certain they saw Dean in the Curzon yesterday afternoon. He was sitting on his own. They didn't pay much attention to him and didn't see him leave."

   Liz stuck her head round the door. "That missing girl. I've circulated details, but it looks as if she's just run away from home. I spoke to one of her friends who reckoned there had been some friction between Judy and her parents, but the mother denies it."

   Frost waved a hand in acknowledgement. Kids running away from home were all too common these days.

   Liz went back to Allen's office to check the in-tray and was irritated to find someone had been in and removed all her stuff from Allen's desk and dumped it back on the small desk in the corner. Probably whingeing Bill Wells up to his bloody tricks again. Seething with annoyance she moved it all back and was just reaching for the phone to ask Wells what the hell he was playing at when the door crashed open and a thickset sandy-haired man in his early forties barged in.

   "Do you mind knocking before coming into my office," snapped Liz.

   The man glowered at her. "And do you mind getting out of my bloody desk," he roared.

Cassidy had dumped his suitcase at his digs and had then taken a drive round Denton to see how much the place had changed since he was here last. He drove past his old house, the house he had had to make over to his wife as part of the divorce settlement. The downstairs blazed with light and the front lawn looked immaculate. Very different from when he lived there and there was never any time for gardening. He stopped the car and stared up at the small bedroom window, his daughter's room. Today would have been Becky's eighteenth birthday, not that anyone else would have remembered.

   He passed a florist's that was just closing and, on impulse, stopped and bought a small bunch of flowers. She loved flowers.

   It was getting dark, but he managed to find the grave without much difficulty. A small white headstone. "Rebecca Cassidy aged 14 years." To his annoyance there was already a large, ostentatious bouquet of pink carnations lying by the headstone. The attached card read: "On your birthday, darling, from Mummy and Geoff." Geoff! The new bloody husband! He was shaking with rage. How dare that swine give my daughter flowers. He never even bloody knew her! Cassidy snatched up the bouquet and tore the card to shreds, then gently laid his own small offering in its place. Fourteen! Fourteen years old, all her life in front of her, and some bastard, probably drunk, had mowed her down and didn't bother to stop to see if she was alive or dead. And then Frost had sodded up the investigation.

   He walked away, clutching the carnations, looking for a bin where he could dump them. He passed another grave, overgrown and neglected. He stopped. Talk of the devil! It was the grave of Frost's wife, the grass overgrown, long-dead stalks of flowers in a vase. The callous bastard hadn't been back to tend it since the day she was buried. As he tore up some of the long grass to make room for the carnations, he winced. The cold night air was getting to his wound, triggering off the hurt. He hurried back to the warmth of the car.

Mullett marched into the incident room and headed straight for Frost. "Another missing child?" he barked, making it sound as if it was all Frost's fault.

   "Yes, sorry about that, super. I'll try and see it doesn't happen again." He scooped up some papers and headed for the door, but was called back.

   "Traffic are talking about extra overtime. I haven't authorized it. Do you know anything about it?"

   "Ah yes," said Frost, who had forgotten all about it. "I was going to come in and see you about that." But he was saved by the bell. Liz Maud came in, not looking at all happy, and behind was Flaming hell! Jim bloody Cassidy. Where did he spring from?

   "Ah," said Mullett. "In case you don't know, our old colleague Mr. Cassidy is taking over as acting detective inspector only until Mr. Allen gets back. I'm sure we're all delighted to have such a worthy addition to our team."

   The news was greeted with stunned silence, broken by Liz. "If I could have a word, sir," she said, her eyes smouldering with resentment. Mullett had as good as offered the promotion to her and she wanted to know why he had gone back on his word.

   "Later, later," said Mullett, backing hurriedly to the door. "Make an appointment with my secretary. I'm a bit tied up just now." He scuttled back to his office and switched on the red "Engaged Do Not Enter' light. Cassidy might be trouble, but there was no way he was having a woman detective inspector in his division, even if the promotion was only temporary.

"Good to see you, Jim," said Frost. He didn't hold out his hand as he knew Cassidy wouldn't take it. He introduced him around. One or two people knew Cassidy from his previous time in Denton, but did their best to hide their dismay. "And, of course, you've met Detective Sergeant Maud?"

   Cassidy flicked her a brisk nod. "I'd like an office on my own. Perhaps she could move in with you."

   "Of course," agreed Frost. This wasn't the time or place to start a row.

   "And I'd like someone assigned to me to do my filing and odd jobs and things." He pointed to Burton. "He looks a likely chap."

   "We all do our own filing and odd jobs and things," said Frost. "I can't spare anyone we've got too much on."

   Cassidy's expression did not change. "I see. Well, perhaps you had better brief me on just what you do have on."

   He sat at a desk and listened, without comment, making neat, copious notes, as Frost gave him the details of the two boys, the dubious abduction, the weirdo who was stabbing sleeping kids and the body in the bunker. When Frost had finished, Cassidy capped his fountain pen and gave a sour smile. "You don't seem to have made much progress with any of them."

   Before Frost could answer, the phone rang. Arthur Hanlon calling from the mortuary where the postmortem on the body in the bunker was taking place. "You'd better get down here right away, Jack. There's something odd about the body."

   "Two dicks?" asked Frost. "I'll send Liz."

   "The tops of three of his fingers have been chopped off. After death, the pathologist says."

Frost backed into the parking space outside the mortuary, squeezing in between Drysdale's Rolls-Royce and a hearse. The mortuary attendant, busy writing up records in his cubby-hole, waved him through. Frost was a frequent visitor.

   At the far end of the darkened autopsy room, under the splash of overhead lights, a cluster of men stood at a discreet distance from the post-mortem table where a green-gowned Drysdale was bent over, cutting carefully with a scalpel. The atmosphere was oppressive and worsened rapidly when the pathologist opened up the stomach. Overhead the extractor fans whirred, but were fighting a losing battle. Drysdale's gloved hands removed something from the corpse.

   "Got any pieces for the cat, doc?"

   Drysdale stiffened. That damn Frost again, making his tasteless jokes. He affected not to hear and carried on with his task.

   Frost's scruffy figure emerged from the gloom. "Bloody hell. He doesn't improve with keeping, does he?" The rasp of a match as he lit a cigarette.

   "Please don't smoke," snapped Drysdale. "There are things I need to smell."

   "Whatever turns you on, doc," said Frost, shaking out the match, but keeping the cigarette in his mouth. "So what's the verdict?"

   "I have already given my preliminary findings to the sergeant," said Drysdale. "I am not in the habit of repeating myself."

   A white-faced Arthur Hanlon came round the table to Frost. The post-mortem was making him decidedly queasy. "Dead for some time, Jack, two, even three months. Died as the result of a heavy blow to the back of the head which fractured the skull. Killed elsewhere and the body dumped in the bunker shortly after death."

   "He died about an hour after consuming his last meal," added Drysdale, transferring something horrible to a jar and handing it to his secretary for labelling. "A substantial meal dinner or lunch." He stepped back and peeled off his rubber gloves. "I've finished with him. Sew him up, please."

   Frost waved the mortuary technician back with a hand holding a match, ready to light his cigarette. "Give us a minute, please." He turned to Hanlon. "What's this about fingers cut off, Arthur?"

   Hanlon indicated. He wasn't going to touch the puffed, squashy flesh. "His right hand, Jack."

   Frost stared, then bent over to study the hand closer.

   The thumb and little finger were intact, but the tops of the three middle fingers had been hacked off at the upper joint. "This couldn't have been an accident, doc shut his hand in a door, or something?"

   "No," said Drysdale, bridling as always at being called doc. "No. This occurred after death and was deliberate. A knife, or something sharp, laid across the joints, then struck with a hammer or something heavy. Whoever did it had to have a couple of tries just below the joint there's the marks of an attempt that failed." He pointed to a bloodied indentation running parallel to the severed ends.

   Frost straightened up. "I suppose the missing bits of finger weren't dumped in the coal bunker? You have looked, Arthur?"

   Hanlon hadn't, but he fished out his radio and gave instructions for this to be done.

   The body was of a man in his mid-forties, a little over six feet tall, overweight, with long, lank, water-blackened hair. "Biggish bastard, isn't he?" mused Frost aloud as he studied the bloated face with its purple lips, the eyes little more than wet swimming slits in the puffed and mould-stained flesh. A buzzer sounded at the back of his brain and tried to stir his memory. He stared at the face, trying to imagine how it might have looked in life. "I know this sod from somewhere. Any identification on him?"

   "Nothing, Jack. He was wearing a jacket over a boiler suit, but the pockets were empty. I'll get Forensic to give it the once-over."

   Frost signalled to Evans who was keeping as far from the body as possible and answered Frost's summons reluctantly. "I'm afraid you're going to have to touch it. Fingerprint the fingers that are left and check with records to see if we've got him on our books." He stubbed out his cigarette. The smoke was tasting of the body. "Let's get out of here, Arthur."

   As they moved away, the mortuary technician, whistling tunelessly to himself, began sewing up the incisions made during the post-mortem, leaning to one side in mid-stitch so Evans could gingerly take fingerprints.

   Outside the night air had a clean, fresh smell. But it was cold. Bitterly cold. And they still hadn't found the boy. "We're not going to break our necks on this one, Arthur," said Frost, pausing as Drysdale, followed by his secretary lugging a metal specimens case that seemed far too heavy for her, strode past to the Rolls with only a curt nod to the two detectives. "He's been dead for weeks," continued Frost, 'so another couple of days won't make any difference. We'll keep it ticking over and look busy if ever Mullett comes sniffing around, but we'll concentrate our efforts on trying to find Bobby Kirby and the bastard who killed the other boy." He shivered. The cold was beginning to get to him. "Let's hope that poor little sod isn't out in this."

All they had for him in the incident room were more negative reports. The few sightings they had been able to check had all turned out to be false leads.

   "What about the dead kid's mother, the blackjack dealer? Have we checked her out?"

   "I saw Harry Baskin, this afternoon began Burton.

   "Harry Baskin?" said Cassidy, who had been sitting at a corner desk, listening and scribbling notes. "Is he still running the Coconut Grove?"

   Burton nodded. "Baskin says she started work at the club at eight, worked through her meal break and finished around three in the morning. She left with one of their clients."

   "By eight o'clock her son was dead," said Frost. "She could have killed him before she went to work. I want to interview her client to see if he noticed anything in the flat when he went back with her, like the smell of chloroform or a severed finger on the bread board."

"Baskin refuses to give the bloke's name. Says he respects people's rights to privacy."

   Frost stood up and grabbed his scarf. "This is a murder case. He'll give me the punter's name or I'll run him in for living on immoral earnings."

   "Hold it!" called Cassidy, rising to join him. "I'm coming with you."

   "Sure," nodded Frost. "Glad to have your help." But he wasn't happy. This could open old wounds. It was just outside the Coconut Grove where Cassidy's daughter had been run down and killed.

   They travelled in Cassidy's car and it was a silent, uncomfortable ride with Cassidy making it tacitly clear he was only tolerating Frost's company. The Coconut Grove was busy, with the car-park three-quarters full. They brushed past the bouncer who wanted to know if they were members and ignored the leggy blonde who tried to take their hats and coats, making straight for Baskin's office. A sign on the door said "Private Do Not Enter'. They went straight in without knocking.

   Harry Baskin, dark and swarthy and in his late thirties, looked up from his desk with a frown. "Can't you bloody well read?" Then he saw who it was and he gave a deep sigh. "What the hell do you want?"

   Frost dragged out a chair and sat down. He pointed a thumb to his companion. "You remember Mr. Cassidy?"

   For a moment Baskin looked startled, but quickly composed himself. "Mr. Cassidy! I heard you were back in Denton." He waved a hand. "Sit down."

   But Cassidy had moved to the window behind Baskin, a window that overlooked the road running past the club. He stared out at the cars that sped past, on to the straight section of the road before it curved towards Denton. He spoke, almost to himself. "That's where it happened."