Authors: R. D. Wingfield
Frost borrowed the Silver Ghost lighter for his own cigarette. He smiled sweetly at the woman, whose eyes were spitting bullets. "I don't give a sod who actually paid it in," he said. "All I'm concerned with is that over £1000 of it was counterfeit."
This stopped the woman in her tracks. She stared wide-eyed at her husband, whose jaw had sagged, showing his gold fillings. "Counterfeit?"
Frost nodded.
The man smashed his cigarette out in a round glass ashtray which. was enclosed in a miniature rubber car tire. "The bastard. The lousy rotten bastard. I'll break every bone in his body."
"What particular bastard are we talking about?" asked Frost.
"The bastard I sold the car to."
Frost frowned. "What car?"
"The Honda Accord. He paid six and a half grand in cash and drove it away this morning."
"You sold him a car?"
"Hoo-bloody-ray," said the man, giving a mock clap. "A brilliant deduction. Yes, I sold him a car. That's what I do. I sell used cars - didn't you damn well know?"
Frost didn't damn well know. Mayhew pushed a copy of the local free paper over to him. There was a block of cars for sale ringed round in the classified section. One of them was a Honda Accord priced at £6750.
The clatter of footsteps down the stairs and Burton looked in. His face told Frost they had found nothing, neither the ransom money nor any trace of the boy. "You'd better do this room," he told Burton. "The other two can do the garden and the shed."
He ushered Mayhew and his wife into the kitchen, a beautifully fitted room with expensive units, but empty bottles and unwashed crockery sprawled all over the place.
"It might speed things up if you told us what you were looking for," said Mayhew. "We might even be able to tell you where it is."
"We're looking for the rest of the money."
"What money? That's all he gave me. I paid it all into the bank."
Frost leant against the dishwasher. "Let's get this straight. You sell second-hand cars. So why did you try and attack us with a baseball bat?"
"Some people are dissatisfied with their purchase. Some come back very stroppy. We have to defend ourselves."
"So this has happened before?"
He shrugged. "Now and again. Some niggling little thing goes wrong and they want their money back."
"Niggling little things? Like the wheels falling off or sawdust leaking from the gearbox?"
"The condition of the cars we sell is reflected in the price. You can't expect an ex-showroom Mercedes for three hundred quid."
"Tell me about the Honda Accord," said Frost.
"This bloke phoned me."
"When?"
"This morning. Said he'd seen my ad in the local rag for the Honda. If it wasn't sold, he wanted to come round and have a look at it. I told him it hadn't been sold, but it was such a snip, he'd better get round quick before someone else snapped it up. He said he'd be round in half an hour."
"And was he?"
"Half an hour - forty-five minutes . . . not long, anyway."
"And how did he come on foot?"
"No, in a grey Ford Escort. There was a girl with him. She drove."
"Did she come in with him?"
"No, she waited outside."
"Then what?"
"I showed him the motor - it was parked where the Rover is now - and I gave him a test drive round the block. He had a look at the engine and gave the tires a kick. He asked how much I'd knock off for cash - as if I'd take a bleeding cheque! He told me he'd had a win on the horses. I said, Then it's your double lucky day because I'll let it go for six-five. He said, "Done". We shook hands and he fetched a plastic carrier bag from the Ford. I brought him in the house to give him the logbook and his receipt, while the wife tipped the money out and counted it. There was a fiver short, but I wasn't going to quibble over a lousy fiver. He took the log-book and his receipt, then drove off, followed by the tart in the Ford. End of story."
The two uniformed men came in from the garden. "Nothing," they reported.
"You come back in a couple of days' time," Mayhew told them. "If I lay my hands on the bastard you'll find his body buried there."
Burton also reported he had found nothing in the lounge, but Frost didn't seem too worried. "If you gave him a receipt, you'll have his name and address?"
They followed Mayhew back to the lounge where he tugged open a sideboard drawer overflowing with papers. He gave Frost the carbon copy. "Jack Roberts, 187 Kitchener Street, Denton."
Frost passed it to Burton. "See if we know him."
Burton moved to the back of the room and whispered into his radio while Frost stubbed out his cigarette in the motor tire ashtray. "Describe him," he said.
Mayhew thought for a moment. "Twenty-five, twenty-six. Hair in a pony tail. Not much meat on him . . . slim build, about five feet eleven. He was wearing jeans . . . frayed cuffs, dirty trainers."
"A bloody Beau Brummell," said Frost. "You weren't surprised he had six and a half grand on him?"
"Nothing surprises me in this game."
"When we pick him up, I'll want you to identify him."
"If I get to him first, he'll be the man with his dick ripped off."
Frost grinned. Things were going right for a change. With luck they could make their arrest and have the kid back within the hour. He looked up expectantly as Burton clicked off the radio. But the expression on the constable's face sent his hopes nose diving to the ground.
"House numbers in Kitchener Street only go up to ninety-two," reported Burton. "That name and address are as phoney as his money."
Chapter 14
Frost sat on the corner of the desk in the briefing room, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He filled everyone in on the latest position with the kidnapping. "I'm getting worried," he told them. "He's got the ransom money, he's spending it, but he hasn't returned the boy. This could mean that Bobby is dead." There were nods of agreement. Most of the team were beginning to share this view.
He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. "We've got one bit of luck on our side. The kidnapper has no idea that some of the money is dodgy, so he's got no qualms about spending it. He's bought himself a red Honda Accord and we've got its registration number. He's local, and he's going to be driving it around, so everyone keeps their bloody eyes open." He nodded at Arthur Hanlon who had his hand up to ask a question. "Yes, Arthur?"
"How do we know he's local?"
"He spotted the ad for the Honda in the
Denton Free Advertiser
, which is only distributed locally. It only took him half an hour to reach the bloke who was selling it. We know a bit more about him. He's got a girlfriend who drives a grey Ford Escort, in which she is not averse to having it away, although, sadly, that probably applies to half the female population of Denton. Unless he's got a garage, the Honda could be parked out in the street, so go over every bloody street and back alley. Find the bastard. But remember, as much as we want him, more importantly we want to find the kid. If we spot him, don't pick him up . . . follow and keep me informed. Off you go . . ."
He watched them file out, then winced as Mullett came bowling in. "Another lead fizzled out, then, inspector?"
"Yes," grunted Frost. Go and gloat somewhere else, you vindictive sod.
"Pity you don't have the success Mr. Cassidy seems to be enjoying. It might not be a bad idea if you let him take over this case."
Frost tightened his lips, but said nothing. He stood up and squeezed past Mullett. "I think that's my phone ringing," he said.
He barged past Mullett who strained his ears, but couldn't hear a phone.
Bill Wells grabbed him just as he was going out for a drive around. Anything to get away from Mullett. "Sidney Snell wants to talk to you, Jack."
"Not my case," grunted Frost.
"He says it's very important."
"Where's Cassidy?"
"Out somewhere."
Frost shrugged. What the hell it wouldn't hurt to find out what Snell had to say. He followed Wells down to the cells and waited while the door was unlocked. Snell, sitting on the bunk bed, hugging his knees, looked up plaintively.
"I didn't do it, Mr. Frost."
"You haven't dragged me down here just to hear that same old cracked record, I hope, Sidney. I know it off by heart.
'I didn't do it, Mr. Frost, honest, on my mother's grave.' "
"Well, this time it happens to be true."
"Even if it is, so what? You're a scumbag, Sidney . . . for that alone you deserve to be banged up."
"But not for something I didn't do. I don't kill kids and I don't kill women."
"But you do sign bleeding confessions," said Frost.
"He made me, Mr. Frost. Mr. Cassidy kept on and on telling me I did it, and that I'd feel better if I got it off my chest. In the end I just signed the confession to get a bit of peace."
"I reckon you'll get twenty-five years' worth of peace, Sidney - perhaps a couple of days less for good behaviour."
"I confessed, but I didn't do it," Snell insisted.
"The Guildford Four, the Birmingham Six and now the Denton One. Face up to the facts, Sidney. One of the dead kids was stabbed, the way you stab little kiddies, your blood and chunks of flesh are over the plywood on the back door panel. You were seen running away afterwards. And if that wasn't enough, you're a slimy little bastard, and I hate the sight of you."
"I was there that night, Mr. Frost, I don't deny that. I followed her about when she took the kids out to the park, and I used to stare at her through the windows . . . but I never killed her or the kids."
"So why did you break in at one o'clock in the morning? To apologize?"
"All I intended to do was look through the window. As God is my witness, Mr. Frost, that's all I intended doing, but sometimes I can't control myself . . . The devil talks to me."
"And what did the devil say - 'Kill them all, just to spite that silly sod Mr. Frost who should have had you arrested, but was too bleeding lazy'?"
"He drew my attention to that loose sheet of plywood. He said I should push my hand through and unbolt the door." Snell rubbed his bandaged hand. "I just meant to look at them . . . I like looking at kiddies asleep in their cots."
"I like looking at naked nymphomaniacs, but I couldn't promise I'd just look at them. You had your stabbing knife with you, and you bloody used it."
Snell buried his face in his hands. "Just enough to break the skin, Mr. Frost. I can't help myself. I don't know why, but I like it when I see the blood . . . tiny drops of red on their little arms."
"Look out, Sidney, you're dribbling," said Frost.
Snell wiped his mouth. "I get a sexual kick out of it, but I don't kill - I couldn't."
Frost sat down on the bunk beside him and lit up a cigarette. "According to your statement, the kids woke up and started screaming ... all three of them. You had to silence them, so you used the pillow . . . and then their mother came running in and you had to kill her as well."
"No!" Snell was almost shouting now. "Mr. Cassidy put the words in my mouth. I couldn't kill anyone. I'm terrified of death and dead bodies." He waved away the cigarette Frost was offering. "They made me look at my mother's dead body in the hospital. She was all shrivelled up. She looked horrible."
"She looked pretty bleeding horrible when she was alive," said Frost.
"I thought they were showing me the wrong body . . . but it was her. I ran out and never went back. Do you think I'd want to see any more dead bodies after that, Mr. Frost?" He shook his head firmly. "No way . . . no way!"
"If you want to withdraw your confession," said Frost, 'then tell Mr. Cassidy. This isn't my case."
Snell ignored him, eyes glazed in recollection. He was back in the house that cold, frosty night. "I tiptoed over to the kids' room. I pushed open the door and held my breath. It was so quiet - that should have warned me something was wrong. You can usually hear kids . . . they make a hell of a row when they're asleep, snorting and snuffling. But I was too excited to worry. There was this little boy. He had little podgy arms lying on top of the eiderdown. I pulled back the sleeve of his pyjamas and pricked him, very quickly. It doesn't hurt them, Mr. Frost. They get frightened when they wake, but it doesn't hurt them. I broke the skin, but he didn't murmur or wake up. I let go of his arm and it just dropped down. And when I touched his face, he didn't move, and I couldn't hear him breathing. None of them were breathing. Then I realized he was dead . . . they were all dead. I was in a room with three dead kids. I panicked. I charged straight out through the front door and into the street."
"Was there anyone about in the street at the time?"
"An old boy with a dog. I nearly sent him flying."
"We know about him. Anyone else?"
"I didn't see anyone. I just raced for the car and got the hell out of there. You've got to help me, Mr. Frost. I'm innocent."
Frost dropped his cigarette end and stamped it to death on the cell floor. "You're not innocent, Sidney. You're a perverted little bastard who interferes with kids. We might have got you for the wrong crime, but so what - the end result's the same. You get put away and everyone's happy."
"But if I'm banged up for this, Mr. Frost, it means the real killer gets away with it."
Frost sighed. "All right, Sidney, I'll have a sniff around and see what I come up with - but don't hold your breath." He yelled for Bill Wells to let him out. "Gross miscarriage of justice," he told the sergeant.
"The only miscarriage of justice would be if they ever let the sod out," said Wells.
The tottering heap in his in-tray looked ready to fall over at any minute. He skimmed through it to see what he could throw away. A thick wad turned out to be the Crime Rate Detection Statistical Analysis that Liz had prepared with the request that he should check through it and sign it as correct. He signed it unread and hurled it into his out-tray. Then all the papers on his desk fluttered as Cassidy, his face distorted in anger, burst in and jabbed an accusing finger. "You've been talking to Snell?"