Hard Frost (18 page)

   "His name was Dennis," said Hanlon in a soft voice, 'aged three."

   "Was he found like this - on top of the bedclothes?"

   "No, Jack. When we arrived the father was cradling the dead kid in his arms. We had a job getting the boy away from him. We put him back here."

   Frost nodded. The room had a lingering smell of Johnson's baby powder which reminded him of the little Chinese nurse. God, was that only last night?

   They moved across to the other bed, by the window. Another boy, fair-haired and slightly chubbier than his brother. His eyes were wide open and there were small dots of blood in his ears and nose. The bedclothes were drawn up to his chin.

   "Jimmy, aged two," murmured Hanlon.

   Frost shuddered and shook his head. "Poor little bleeder!"

   A crumpled pillow lay on top of the bedclothes at the foot of the bed. There was a slight discoloration in the centre. It had been used to smother the three children.

   The sound of a car pulling up outside. Frost looked through the window to see if it was the pathologist, but it was a black Vauxhall which he didn't instantly recognize. He turned back and went over to the cot.

Sandy Lane, stamping his frozen feet on the pavement, looked up as a black Vauxhall pulled in behind Frost's car. The man who got out and scowled at the press looked familiar. Cassidy! Detective Sergeant Cassidy who had been transferred from Denton some four years back after his young daughter was killed in a hit and run accident. So what was he doing back here? Sandy made a mental note to ask around.

The baby in the cot, so still and small, looked like a child's doll. Her arms, covered by the sleeves of a pink nightdress, lay on top of the bedclothes.

   "Linda, aged eleven months," said Hanlon.

   Very gently, Frost touched the pale cheeks. They were ice cold. He felt he couldn't take much more and found something interesting to study out in the street, his eyes misting. Why the hell did he become a copper? "Poor little bastards!" he muttered. It was all he could think of to say.

   Angry voices from the hall. He frowned and went to look. Cassidy was snarling away at young PC Packer.

   "He was supposed to be guarding the front door," called Cassidy. "Any Tom, Dick or Harry could have walked in."

   "Then we'd tell the bastards to walk out again," replied Frost. "I asked him to get statements from the neighbours."

   "Well, I've told him to come back on the door."

Frost exchanged a sympathetic glance with Packer, but said nothing. He wasn't going to row over trivialities with three dead children in the house. He could have done without flaming laughing boy tonight. If he had known Cassidy would want to come he would cheerfully have let him handle the case.

   Cassidy was out of sorts, annoyed that Frost had managed to get here before him. He went with Hanlon into the children's room, then emerged, tight-lipped, and they all went into the parents' bedroom with its large double bed and scarlet duvet. The bed, neatly made, its matching scarlet pillows plumped with nightdress and pyjamas folded on top, hadn't been slept in.

   Frost wandered across to the window and parted the velour curtains to look out on to the rear garden which was lit up from the lights streaming from the bungalow. Beyond it there seemed to be fields and woodlands stretching to the horizon. At first he couldn't orientate himself as to where they were, then he realized he was looking at the golf course and on the far side was the bungalow of Mullett's golfing friend where the little girl was stabbed. "Get someone to search the golf course. The mother might have wandered out there."

   "Doing it now," said Hanlon, pointing to little pinpricks of bobbing lights from distant torches.

   They went back through the hall to the dining-room where the father was sitting by the table, staring straight ahead. He was quieter now that the sedative had started to work, but from time to time he shook convulsively and seemed to have no control over his hand which was drumming a tattoo on the table top. His zip-up suede jacket was grease marked and scruffy. There was the tiniest smear of blood across the front.

   "From when he carried the body of his son out to the street," whispered Hanlon.

   "Someone make some tea," said Frost, drawing up a chair to sit opposite the man. "Mr. Grover. My name is Frost. I'm a police officer."

   Grover stared straight through him, his lips moving, but saying nothing.

   "Mr. Grover . . ."

   Grover's head came up slowly, his face wet with tears. "My kids. She killed them."

   Someone must have given him whisky. Frost could smell it on his breath. "Who killed them, Mr. Grover?"

   "That bitch . . . that lousy bitch . . ." His fingers flexed and clawed as if squeezing someone's throat.

   "Do you mean your wife?"

   Grover suddenly stared at Frost as if seeing him for the first time. "Who are you?" He slumped forward, buried his head in his hands and started to sob.

   Frost wriggled uncomfortably and fished out a cigarette stub. Grover wasn't going to be of any use to anyone. Where was that flaming ambulance?

   More commotion from outside then a tap at the door. PC Packer looked in and said, "Ambulance is here, inspector. And there's a bloke outside who says he's able to help us. His name is Phil Collard. He was working with Mr. Grover tonight. He drove him back here this morning."

   Frost took an instant dislike to Collard the minute the man waddled in. Balding and in his late thirties, Collard was running to fat, had a beer gut and an air of oily concern. "Mark! It's not bloody true, is it? God - tell me it's not true!"

   Grover looked up at him and gave a chilling, mirthless smile. "They're dead," he said simply. "They're all dead." Then he saw the ambulance man and stood up. "I've got to go to the hospital." Without another glance at any of them, he walked out of the room with the ambulance man. The passage crackled with blue flashes as the waiting pressmen took their photographs of the bereaved.

   Frost waved Collard into the chair vacated by Grover. "How do you fit into this, Mr. Collard?"

   "Mark's my best mate. We went to school together and now we work together."

   "Carpet fitting?"

   "Yes."

   "So what can you tell us about tonight?"

   "Not much. We usually go to the pub, but just after seven we had this phone call from Denton Shopfitters asking if we could help out with a rush job."

   "What rush job?"

   "Fitting a new carpet in the restaurant at Bonley's department store. It's been completely refurbished. Tomorrow is the grand opening - David Jason cutting the ribbon - but the special carpeting got held up by Customs at the docks. It wouldn't reach the store until well after ten. They wanted us to work all night and lay it. Two hundred quid each, no tax - so we jumped at it."

   A tap at the door and a rattle of cups. Packer with the tea. He handed it out in the mugs he had found in the kitchen and put a bag of sugar on the table. "Thanks," grunted Frost, nodding for Collard to continue.

   "I called round with the van just after eight to pick him up. Nancy had the hump. Sat there sulking, not saying a word . . . the kids screaming and shouting."

   "Why did she have the hump?"

   "She said she was frightened - she didn't like being left on her own all night. She was always moaning about being left on her own, even if we only went to the pub for a couple of hours. Anyway, we got to Bonley's about a quarter past eight and fitted all the grippers and underlay. At five past ten the delivery van turns up with the special new carpeting. We worked like the clappers to get the job done and finished about ten to two. I drove Mark back, dropped him off outside here, then went off home. Later I hear all the police sirens so I goes out to take a look and someone tells me Nancy's done the kids in. I couldn't believe it."

   "Did she ever threaten anything like this?"

   "She threatened to do herself in - we had all the bleeding dramatics - but never the kids."

   Frost showed him the red coat from the hall. "Is this the coat she usually wore?"

   Collard nodded. "Mark bought it for her last Christmas."

   "Any idea where we might find her?"

   He pursed his lips and shook his head. "I heard she'd legged it, but she's got nowhere to go."

   "Friends . . . relatives . . .?"

   "She didn't make friends. She was a funny cow, very moody. Relatives?" He shrugged. "Not as far as I know. When she was fourteen her mother's boyfriend started getting fruity so she ran away from home and never went back."

   Frost took a sip at his tea. "Just for the record, Mr. Collard, is there anyone at Bonley's who can confirm you were there all night?"

   "The night security guard - he's on duty until six." Then he realized the implication. "You're not suggesting . . .?"

   "Just for the record, Mr. Collard," smiled Frost. "We have to check everything and everybody, innocent or guilty." He thanked him and let him go, then lit another cigarette. "I'm beginning to feel a lot of sympathy for the poor cow," he told Hanlon. "Three kids, no friends, a husband who's either round the pub or out all night."

   "I can't feel sorry for her," said Hanlon. "They had all their lives in front of them, and she killed them." 

   "Something must have snapped, Arthur." He lifted the mug of tea to his lips when he saw it was a child's mug. It bore the name Dennis. He put it down and pushed it away. He didn't feel like tea any more.

   Frost got PC Collier to phone Bonley's and listened to PC Jordan who had been knocking on doors and talking to the neighbours. "The mother didn't mix with anyone, inspector. She and her husband were always rowing - someone heard them quarrelling tonight just after seven. Another witness thought she heard raised voices just before midnight this morning, but couldn't be sure if it was coming from this bungalow or not. Oh - the woman at number 22 said she was getting undressed a couple of nights ago when she saw a man staring in at her through the window."

   "Did she report it to the police?" asked Cassidy.

   "No - she didn't think we'd do anything about it."

   "How well she knows us," grunted Frost. "Any description?"

   "No. She screamed and he legged it."

   Frost nodded. "Thank you, constable. You've been sod all help." He looked up as Collier returned to report he had tried to phone Bonley's but could only get the answer phone

   "Send a car round," ordered Frost. "I want to know what time Collard and the husband arrived and what time they left - and check that they were there all the time."

   "You're surely not suggesting they've got anything to do with this?" asked Hanlon.

   "Just being thorough," replied Frost. "Mr. Mullett suggested I gave it a try in case the novelty appealed to me."

   Cassidy finished his tea in silence, staying aloof from the others, then went back into the children's bedroom. He wanted to take a thorough look around. He was bending over the body of the three-year-old Dennis when he spotted something that Frost, in his usual slapdash manner, had missed. On the upper arm of the pyjama jacket, a small stain. A bloodstain. His eyes glinted. Very gently, he lifted the arm and tugged back the sleeve until he could see a small blob of blood from a recent wound on the upper arm. It looked as if Dennis Grover had been jabbed with something sharp, exactly the same as the little girl in the other bungalow.

   He pulled the pyjama sleeve down and lowered the tiny arm. What to do about it? He smiled grimly and decided he would keep this titbit to himself for the time being. He began feeling happy for the first time since he arrived in Denton.

   Cassidy walked back to the dining-room where Frost was staring moodily up at the ceiling. "I'll take over now," he said.

   "Thanks," said Frost, trying not to sound too grateful. This was the sort of case he was only too happy to give up. Not much satisfaction in arresting a poor bitch of a mother who just couldn't take any more and getting her locked away in a mental institution.

   He bumped into Liz Maud in the hall. "Sorry I'm late getting here," she told him. "I lost my way. I couldn't find Cresswell Street on my map."

   "Apologize to the bloke who kicked you out of your office," said Frost. "He's in charge now."

   He walked back to his car, deaf to the questions of the waiting reporters. Then everyone's attention was diverted by the arrival of a gleaming black Rolls-Royce. Flash guns fired as Drysdale and his secretary walked into the bungalow. They flashed again when the bodies were brought out, bodies so tiny the undertaker was able to accommodate all three in a single coffin shell.

Frost drove back past the golf course, all silver and black in the moonlight. The flag on the club house was whipped out stiff and straight by the wind. No longer any sign of police with torches looking for the mother. The search had proved fruitless.

   He detoured to skirt Denton Woods, a place where the mother might make for. His headlights picked out the odd small animal furtively crossing the road, but no sign of the woman. He shivered and turned up the heater. Something white caught his eye, something moving behind one of the bushes. He braked sharply, but it was only a plastic carrier bag blown by the wind.

   As he turned into Bath Street he caught sight of the blue lamp outside the police station. He reversed and drove into the car-park. It would be warmer there than in his cold, empty house. He found the station a relaxing place to be in the wee, small hours when the phones were quiet, the office empty, and he could prowl around and read the contents of other people's in-trays to see what was going on. And best of all there was no Mullett to keep finding fault with everything he did.

   "Nasty business with those kids," said Wells, taking the offered cigarette.

   "Yes," grunted Frost. "Any tea on the go?" He was munching away at the tuna fish sandwich Wells had brought in for his own consumption. The canteen wouldn't open until five so the night shift had to fend for themselves.