Hard Frost (20 page)

   "Quite right," said Frost, wishing Cassidy wouldn't poke his nose in. Lemmy had been dead for months, so what was the point of dragging people out of bed to save a few minutes? "So what have you found out?"

   "The item purchased was a 28-inch Nicam Stereo Panasonic TV set. But after two weeks no-one at the Discount Warehouse had any recollection of the purchaser or what he looked like."

   "They wouldn't have known what he looked like after two flaming minutes," said Frost. "All they look at is your credit card. You could walk in those places with your dick hanging out and they wouldn't spot it."

   Jordan had asked the credit card company to fax a copy of the actual Visa docket and this was clipped to his report. Frost compared it with a genuine Lemmy signature. It was an all too obvious forgery. "You'd think the store would have queried the different signatures," he muttered. "I suppose there's no chance the set was delivered and we've got an address?" 

   "No, it was collected."

   Frost swung from side to side in his chair, sucking at his fourth cigarette of the day. Someone had used Lemmy's credit card to buy an expensive large screen TV. So was Lemmy killed for his credit card? Hardly likely. The card was only used once and that was months after his death. More likely that someone with a reason had done Lemmy in and the credit card was a bonus. Or perhaps the killer had thrown the card away and someone else had used it? He flapped the Visa docket to shake off cigarette ash. He couldn't work up much enthusiasm in finding Lemmy's killer. The sod deserved to die. A thought struck him. "Check with Panasonic. See if the guarantee's been registered."

   "He'd be a bloody fool to do that," said Jordan.

   "It's the sort of stupid thing I'd do," said Frost. "Check it."

   Burton stuck his head round the door. "Time for the briefing, inspector." ,

   A fair-sized crowd waited for him in the canteen, not quite so many as the day before when hopes were high that the boy would be found alive. Frost noticed that Liz Maud was there, alone at a corner table, snatching a hurried breakfast, even though she must have been up until the small hours with the tragedy in Cresswell Street. He bought himself a hot sausage sandwich, its melted butter making the bread soggy, and took it, with a mug of tea, to the raised section at the end. He yelled for silence. As the burble of conversation died down he let his eyes drift around the room, checking who was present. He couldn't see Detective Sergeant Hanlon.

   "He's in the toilet," someone told him. Almost on cue there was the rumble off of a cistern emptying and Arthur Hanlon, looking a mite bedraggled, stumbled into the canteen, doing a mock bow to the applause that greeted his entrance. "Sorry I'm late, inspector," he apologized.

   "Flaming hell, Arthur," said Frost. "You always come out of the toilet looking as if you've just gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Which reminds me . . . did you hear about the constipated mathematician? He had to work everything out with a pencil and a piece of paper." A roar of laughter, the loudest coming from Frost himself who then almost choked on a lump of sausage sandwich. Mullett, who had just come in and was standing at the back, frowned. This was not the time nor place for poor taste jokes.

   "OK.," said Frost as the laughter subsided. "That's probably the last laugh any of us will have today." He jabbed his sandwich at the enlarged photograph of Bobby Kirby on the wall. "We didn't find the poor little sod yesterday. My gut feeling is that he is either dead, or he's being held captive somewhere. As you all know, another boy, Dean Anderson, was found dead near where Bobby went missing. Dean's naked body was stuffed into a black plastic dustbin sack and we've got to consider that the same fate might have overtaken Bobby. This means that some of you are going to have to go down to the Council refuse depot and start examining the hundreds of filled rubbish sacks collected by the Council yesterday." He gave a nod to Burton. "DC Burton will tell you which of you lucky lads and lassies have drawn the short straw." He took another sip at his tea. "But let's hope Bobby is still alive . . . in which case we've got to find him "bloody quickly, so the sooner you get started the better."

   Mullett moved forward and indicated to Frost that he would like to say a few words.

   "Bit of hush for Mr. Mullett," called Frost. "You've seen him on the telly, now hear him in the flesh."

   The thinnest of smiles from Mullett. "Inspector Frost forgot to mention that we are also looking for this woman." He waited as Liz Maud rose from her table and pinned up a large photograph on the wall by the side of the boy. "A tragic case. Her three children dead and she has gone missing. You have other priorities, I know, but please keep an eye out for her." A brisk nod to Frost and he strode back to his office.

   Frost sat on the corner of a table, legs swinging, watching the main group file out. He wiped the front of his jacket where the melted butter from the sandwich had dripped, then wandered over to the table where Liz was doing her crossword puzzle. He leant over her and pretended to read a clue. "Four down - "Little Richard that ladies love big?" That must be Dick!" She found herself looking at four down before she realized it was another of his childish jokes. Too tired even to fake a laugh, she knuckled her eyes and took another sip from her mug of black coffee.

   "Did you get any sleep last night?" Frost asked.

   She shook her head. "I was questioning neighbours until six and the postmortems are at eight thirty." She took the offered cigarette. "Mr. Cassidy suggested I attended."

   Frost clicked his lighter. "The kids? I'll get someone else to go if you like."

   Her eyes blazed. "Do you think I'll faint? I've been to post-mortems before."

   "I've been to the dentist before," said Frost, 'but that don't make me anxious to go again. It's worse when it's children, love. Wild horses wouldn't drag me if I didn't have to."

   "Very kind of you to be so concerned for me, but I'm going," she said, firmly.

   He drained his tea then dumped the crust from his sandwich in the mug. "Any developments after I left last night?"

   "Nothing particularly helpful. The father is still in hospital, heavily sedated, so we haven't been able to question him. I've found two more neighbours who say they heard raised voices from the bungalow just before midnight. They thought it was the husband and wife having one of their frequent rows."

   Frost frowned. "The husband? Could it have been him?"

   She shook her head. "Mark Grover never left the department store until just before two."

   "Are we sure about that?"

   "I've spoken to the night security guard. He confirms that the two men were there until a little before two o'clock in the morning."

   "Could they have got out without his knowledge?"

   "No. All the main doors are security locked and he would have to operate the release switch."

   "Damn," said Frost. The wife rowing with another man around midnight was a complication he would have preferred to be without.

   "And I've spoken to the owner of Denton Shopfitters," continued Liz. "He phoned the store just before midnight to check on their progress and spoke to the husband."

   "You're very thorough," said Frost ruefully.

   "Mr. Cassidy is suggesting that the man the neighbours heard could have been Sidney Snell."

   Frost treated this with scorn. "You don't have a row with a man who breaks into your house . . . you scream and shout at the bastard. Did the neighbours think she sounded frightened?"

   "No. They said it was a heated row."

  "Well then . . . " He stood up. "Sidney Snell is not a killer. Don't waste your time going down that road." He glanced up at the clock, then flicked his scarf over his shoulder and stood up. "Frogman time . . . if anyone wants me I'll be paddling in the canal." At the door he paused, trying to remember what it was he intended asking Liz to do. Oh yes. He wanted her to check with the Council to find out who used to live in the derelict houses where Lemmy's body was found. But the poor cow looked ready to drop and she had a three-body postmortem to attend. He'd get someone else to do it.

PC John Collier pulled at the oars and winced as his blistered hands throbbed. He wished he hadn't volunteered for this. He'd thought it would be pleasant, scudding the boat across the water, watching the frogmen plunge in with a kick of their flippers. But it was hard, back-breaking work. There was a strong wind blowing the boat in the opposite direction to which he wanted it to go.

   "Steady as she goes, Number One." PC Ken Ridley, systematically prodding the murky bottom of the canal with a long pole, was doing his captain of the battleship act which got progressively less funny with constant repetition. Ahead of them a line of bubbles marked the progress of one of the police frogmen.

   Frost sat on the bank, moodily surveying the proceedings and sucking at a cigarette while tossing small stones into the water. It was cold and windy and he had the strong feeling this would be a waste of time. The canal at this point was crossed by the road bridge which made it the ideal point from which to hump junk out of a car boot and chuck it into the black soup of the stagnant water. Much of this had been retrieved by the frogmen and the towpath was cluttered with foul-smelling heaps. There were sodden mattresses, a couple of bundles of carpeting that looked almost new, but which would never lose the ripe canal smell, a black plastic bag which turned out to be full of offal from a butcher's shop and the bloated carcass of a long-dead goat. Particularly revolting was a soggy cardboard box crammed full with maggoty chickens' heads and feet. "All we want now is a few spuds and we've got ourselves our dinner," he commented bitterly, pulling a face as the wind changed and drove the smell of putrefaction straight at him. Many years ago, when he was a small child, he had sat on this same towpath, probably not far from this same spot, and had fished for tiddlers. But there was nothing living in the water now. Denton Union Canal, long since abandoned by the once thriving barge trade, was now a choked, evil-smelling backwater.

   A frogman's head broke the surface. He had been tying a rope to something enveloped in mud at the bottom and was signalling for Collier and Ridley to haul it up. A bulging, black plastic dustbin sack was dragged into the boat. Frost's heart sank. It was the right size and shape for a young boy's body.

   The boat bumped against the side of the towpath and the two policemen lifted out the sack which streamed water from holes, apparently punched in it to make it sink. They laid the sodden mass alongside Frost who regarded it gloomily, dreading to think what was inside. He stood up, chucked his cigarette into the canal, then gave the sack a tentative prod with his foot. Something soft and yielding, like flesh . . . He crouched down and sliced through the string tying the neck of the sack with his penknife. He peered inside. A sodden mass of water-blackened human hair. He looked up at Ridley and nodded grimly. "It's the boy." He pulled the neck of the sack open wider, then the cold sweat of relief flooded through him. He looked up again at Ridley. "I'm a prize twat!" he said. It wasn't human hair. He reached inside the sack and pulled out a heavy sodden fur coat. He had no idea what a mink coat looked like, but this, even dripping with filthy canal water, looked expensive. As did the silver fox cape which was under it. At the bottom of the sack was a grey plastic bag which was tied tightly with clumsily knotted string and held something heavy. His penknife sawed through the string, leaving the knot intact so Forensic could submit it to their scrupulous examination and come up with sod all. Inside was a brick, put there to ensure the sack sunk, and also a jumble of jewellery. The haul from Robert Stanfield's house.

   Frost stared at it. Why had it been stolen, then dumped? It suggested an insurance fiddle, although the furs and jewellery looked genuine enough. He put everything back inside the plastic sack. "Trot it down to the station. We'll get Old Mother Stanfield in to identify it."

   Ridley's pole had prodded something that belched up large, rancid-looking bubbles which burst to exude a stomach-churning smell. He signalled to the frogmen, but before they could respond, Frost's radio squawked. Control calling him urgently. "Can you get back here at once, inspector. We've received a ransom demand for the missing boy."

   "What's the betting it's a bleeding hoax?" muttered Frost, clicking the radio off.

   He took one last look at Collier and Ridley, who were hauling up something slimy and phosphorescent that broke in half as they tried to get it into the boat, then made for his car.

There was quite a crowd waiting for him in the incident room including Cassidy, Hanlon, Burton and Harding from Forensic, all looking grim. "So where's this ransom demand?" asked Frost.

   Cassidy pointed to a padded envelope lying on the desk. "It came in this morning's post." The typed label was addressed to The Missing Boy Officer, Denton Police Station." The postmark, date-stamped the previous evening, was that of the main Denton post office. "This was inside." He handed Frost a sheet of white A4 paper which had been slipped inside a transparent cover for protection.

   The message was printed out on a dot matrix printer in draft mode. Frost read it aloud.

   "To the officer in charge:

   "I have the missing boy - the enclosed should enable you to convince Sir Richard Cordwell, Managing Director of the Savalot supermarket chain, that this is genuine."

   Frost paused. "What was enclosed?"

   Cassidy shook out a matchbox from the padded envelope and, holding it carefully by the corners, passed it to Frost without a word. Frost pushed open the tray, and stared in horrified disbelief. "No!" On a bed of blood-flecked cotton wool lay a severed human finger. He looked away, then back again in the hope it wouldn't still be there. A tiny finger, the flesh waxen, grime under the nail, dried blood caking the severed end. It almost looked too small to be real, but Forensic confirmed it was from a child of seven or eight years old.