Hard Frost (32 page)

   "Will do," acknowledged Control. "Don't switch off - Mr. Mullett wants a word."

   "Over and out," said Frost, dropping the radio back in his pocket.

   Cassidy nudged him. "Someone's getting out the car."

   The driver's door had swung open and a man in a dark blue raincoat, shortish and plump, got out, snapping open an umbrella before stepping gingerly over a puddle. For a while he stood still, head turning from side to side, like an animal checking for signs of danger. It was difficult to make out his features as rain streamed off the umbrella and curtained down to the ground. Frost guessed he would be somewhere in his late fifties.

   There seemed to be no-one else in the car. Frost nodded his satisfaction. "Not a courting couple and this is definitely not the weather for a peeping tom . . . This could be our bloke!" Then he frowned. "Bloody hell .. . what's he doing now?" The man had turned and was leaning back inside the car and seemed to be taking something from the glove compartment and stuffing it into his pocket.

   "Did you see what it was?" asked Cassidy. "Could it have been a gun?"

   "I flaming hope not," said Frost. "It looked too small for a gun." He had the glasses firmly fixed on the man, who was now opening the rear passenger door and seemed to be talking to someone inside. His mouth was moving but the wind tore the words to shreds before they reached them.

   "There's someone else in there!" said Cassidy.

   "They must be bleeding small, then," said Frost, 'because I can't see anyone."

   The man, huddling under the umbrella, took a few steps, then turned and called out something. A small, white and brown Jack Russell terrier, its tail docked far too short, jumped from the back seat, yapping excitedly. The man closed the car door, then took the object from his mac pocket - a well-chewed tennis ball, which he hurled across the waste ground, urging the dog to fetch it. Undeterred by the rain, the dog raced after it while the man stood by the car and watched.

   Cassidy snorted his disappointment. "He's exercising his dog. He's not our bloke after all."

   "Worse than that," said Frost, glumly. "Him and bloody Rin Tin Tin could drive the real kidnapper away."

   The radio in his pocket called him. Control reporting. As ordered they had rung Finch's number. No reply. An area car had been despatched and was at the house now. The house was in darkness and no-one answered their knocking. A neighbour said she had seen Mr. Finch drive off with his dog about half an hour ago.

   Frost grunted resignedly. It was just telling them what they already knew. This flaming clown had stumbled on the very spot the ransom money was to be collected from and was going to play ball with Fido all flaming night.

   The cigarette he tugged from the packet was sodden before he could get his lighter to it and flopped limply in his hand. He shoved it into his top pocket to dry out for later. That damn man, seemingly oblivious to the belting rain, was huddled under the umbrella, calmly hurling the ball; no sooner had the dog retrieved it, than he would take it and fling it again. Bite the bastard, Frost silently urged the animal. He shrunk his neck down deeper into his mac in response to the cold trickle of rain running down the inside of his upturned collar. He was wet, and uncomfortable, and was getting that all too familiar feeling that, bad as things were, they were going to get a bloody sight worse. He could sense the smirk of satisfaction at his discomfiture on Cassidy's face.

   Then, in a flash, his despair evaporated. The dog had returned with the ball which it dumped proudly at the man's feet, its stump of a tail wagging wildly. Scooping up the ball, the man suddenly turned at right angles and hurled it straight into the midst of the clump of bushes where the money was hidden, apparently unobserved by the dog which was still sniffing around in the grass. They could hear the man saying "Fetch, fetch," pointing to the bushes, but the dog just yapped its puzzlement and jumped up at him for the ball to be thrown again.

   Finch bent down and picked up the dog, then carried it back to the car. With the waggle of a finger, telling the dog to "Be good!" he turned and walked back towards the bushes, disappearing from view behind them.

   "It was him all the time!" breathed Frost. "He's putting on a bloody good act, but it's him!" He radioed through to Burton. "Get ready to tail him, son. He's collecting the money now." There was no denying the simple brilliance of Finch's ploy. If the police pounced, he could feign innocence - he was simply looking for his dog's ball and if he had already collected the money he could claim he found it by accident. And there'd be no way we could prove otherwise, thought Frost . . . unless the bastard has got the kid in the boot of his car. He swung the binoculars over to the Austin. All he could see was the brown and white head of the Jack Russell, paws up at the window, waiting for its master.

   Control radioed through. A further report from the area car at Finch's house. They had nosed around as much as they could without actually breaking in. Nothing obviously suspicious could be seen from the outside.

   "Tell them to stay put," said Frost. If Finch was arrested they could help search the premises. He clicked off and returned to his surveillance of the thicket. "Hasn't he come out yet?"

   Cassidy shook his head.

   Frost wiped the rain from his eyes and raised the night glasses again. He stared at the thicket until his eyes hurt. No movement. Nothing. "He's taking his damn time." Worry started gnawing. "Could he have come out and we didn't see him?"

   "We'd see him going for his car," said Cassidy. Then a thought struck him. "Unless he's letting us watch the Austin and he's got another car parked further up the road for his getaway."

   "Shit!" Frost hadn't thought of this. He turned and looked again at the Austin. The dog was still staring out of the window and seemed to be whimpering. "I can't see him abandoning his dog," said Frost. "The bastard might kill a kid, but he'd never leave his dog." He hoped and prayed he was right and that the dog wasn't some poor stray Finch had collected from the gutter on the way over.

   Cassidy came up with another depressing theory.

   "We're not even certain this man is Finch. He could have pinched Finch's car and his dog and left Finch tied up somewhere."

   Frost checked his watch. "How long has he been behind there?" It seemed like hours, but it was only six minutes. Finch might have grabbed the money: they might be sitting here like a couple of wallies, looking at a lousy bush. On the other hand, if they charged across now, they might find Finch doing a long pee and the real kidnapper could spot them and jag it in. He sighed. Whatever he did could be wrong. But he always believed that doing something was much better than doing nothing. He jerked his head at Cassidy and stood up. "Come on - let's take a look."

   "I think we should wait," said Cassidy, just to get it on record that he had his doubts. But Frost was already lumbering over the uneven ground. Cassidy pushed himself up, hissing in agony at the damp-aggravated pain from his scar. He hobbled along behind Frost, moving as quickly as he could while stamping his foot and muttering about "Damn cramp'.

   They split and went around each side of the thicket, Cassidy praying that Finch wouldn't break away in a run. There was no way he could run after him.

   Their torches slashed through the darkness, the beams steaming in the rain. There was no-one there. A noise. "What was that?" They listened. Just the drumming of the rain then . . . There it was again. A groan. Frost directed his torch downwards. Someone sprawled on the ground. It was Finch.

   He was lying face down in the long grass. As they turned him over, the dog's ball rolled from the pocket of his raincoat. His eyes were closed and the blood trickling from a swelling lump on his forehead was diluted to a watery pink and spread over his face by the rain. He felt cold. As Cassidy radioed for an ambulance Frost looked everywhere, beating the grass flat, kicking aside the thick carpet of fallen leaves, looking for the travel bag. It had gone.

   "The Ford Escort!" exclaimed Frost. "The bloody Ford Escort!" He turned the glasses towards the trees. No sign of the damn thing. He fumbled for the radio and called up Control. "Message for all mobiles. I'm anxious to interview the occupants of a Ford Escort, lightish colour, last seen on the outskirts of Denton Woods by Forest Row. Believe man and woman inside. Any vehicles answering this description to be stopped and held."

   "Do you have details of the registration number?" asked Control.

   "If I had, I would have bloody well told you," shouted Frost.

   "It's not much to go on," said Control.

   "It had four wheels and two red lights at the back," snarled Frost. "Does that help?"

   "Thank you," said Lambert, his mildness tacitly rebuking Frost's outburst. "Mr. Mullett wants a word."

   "How did it go?" asked Mullett eagerly.

   Frost stared at the radio, trying to think of a pithy reply that would shut Mullett up for all time. The bugger never asked how things had gone when they had gone off brilliantly. "Couple of minor snags, super," he said. "I'll fill you in when I get back."

   "Snags?" roared Mullett. "What snags?"

   But Frost had switched off.

The junior house doctor, looking dead tired, came into the waiting-room. "Inspector Frost?"

   Frost stood up, pinching out the cigarette and dropping it into his mac pocket. "How is he?"

   "He's had a nasty knock. Mild concussion, nothing serious. We'll keep an eye on him tonight, but he can go home tomorrow."

   "Is he conscious?"

   "Yes, but I'd prefer it if you didn't question him tonight."

   "Your preference noted, doc, but I've got a missing seven-year-old kid . . ."

   The doctor shrugged and pointed to the end bed where a young nurse was twitching back the curtains. He yawned again. He was too tired to argue.

   Frost shuffled over to the bed. He too was tired. It had been a long day and the adrenaline that had kept him hyped up while they were waiting for the money to be collected was now drained by failure and he felt ready to drop. The little nurse smiled. She recognized him. The number of visits he had made at night to the hospital. The times they had called him in because they hadn't thought his wife would last out until the morning, but she had hung on. There was an empty bed in the centre of the row, its clean white sheets folded back. He wished he could just climb in and go straight off to sleep. But Mullett was waiting for him back at the station. There was a bollocking to be got through before he could enjoy the luxury of sleep.

   The clipboard at the foot of the bed read: "Henry Alan Finch, aged 66." There were figures for temperature and blood pressure and a scribbled prescription for pain killers.

   Finch looked older than when he had climbed out of the car. His face was grey, his eyes were closed and his breathing heavy, almost a snore. A rectangle of plaster covered the wound on his forehead. Plumpish, with thinning, gingerish hair and a cupped, ginger moustache, he had the appearance of a retired army officer.

   Frost dragged a chair up to the bed and dropped down into it. He loosened his scarf and unbuttoned his mac. The ward was hot and he had to fight off the urge to close his own eyes and drift off to sleep. "Mr. Finch?"

   The eyes fluttered open and he winced as he swivelled his head to look at Frost. "Who are you?"

   Frost held up his warrant card. Fincn blinked at it. "Where's my dog?"

   "At the station. He's being looked after. How do you feel?"

   "I'm all right. I want to go home." He squinted down the darkened ward. "Where's the nurse?"

   "A couple of questions first. What were you doing on the common at that time of night?"

   "Taking the dog for a run."

   "In the peeing rain?"

   "I do it every night. There's no law against it, is there?"

   "Do you always go to the common?"

   "Yes." His eyes were still focused down the ward. "Nurse!"

   "What happened tonight?"

   "Some bastard attacked me - knocked me out."

   "Let's take it step by step. We saw you pull up in your car."

   Finch's eyes narrowed. "What were you doing there?"

   "Never mind why we were there. You're lucky we were. You could have been lying unconscious all night and ended up with pneumonia. You pulled up in the car. You took your time getting out - why?"

   "The rain suddenly came down heavily. I was wondering whether to give it a miss."

   "But you didn't?"

   "The dog was all excited. I didn't want to disappoint him."

   "Did you see anyone else about?"

   "No."

   "There was another car parked under the trees. Did you see that?"

   "No." He gritted his teeth as he wriggled his back and tried to make himself comfortable. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

   "Please."

   "I was throwing the ball for the dog when it went into those bushes. I tried to get him to fetch it, but he wasn't interested, so I put him in the car and went off to look for it."

   "In all that rain? A lot of trouble for a ball." Frost fished the well-chewed, almost bald tennis ball from his pocket and placed it on the bedside locker.

   "Have you got a dog?"

   "No," admitted Frost.

   "Then you don't bloody know! It was his favourite ball. If you had a dog you'd understand."

   "OK. You went behind the clump of bushes . . ."

   "I looked for the ball when I saw this travel bag. It looked new and felt heavy. It was still fairly dry so I guessed it hadn't been there long. I decided to lug it back to the car and hand it in to the police station in the morning."

   "Very commendable," said Frost. "You weren't at all curious as to what might have been inside?"

   Finch sighed. "All right. I was going to take it home and force the lock. If it was full of drugs, I'd take it to the police, but if it was money . . ." He twitched his shoulders. "Well, I don't know. But I never had the chance to find out how honest I was. Suddenly this lout is there. He says, "Ah, you've found my bag . . . thanks very much," and tried to get it off me."