Hard Frost (41 page)

   Frost's eyebrows shot up. "How long?"

   "Two . . . three weeks."

   Frost chewed this over then pounded his fist into his palm. "I said he was a calculating bastard. I bet he got the dog as part of his plan. It's all been worked out to the smallest details." He chewed his knuckle, then waggled a finger at the team. "And that's why Dean Anderson had been stripped naked. Finch is not going to leave us with a single clue. I bet there were dog's hairs on the kid's clothes . . . so off come the clothes." He was now warming to his theme, getting more and more excited. "And the indentation the pathologist noticed on Dean's forehead. I bet that was the marks of an elasticated shower cap. He was covering up the kid's hair so it wouldn't pick up traces of anything that could lead us back to him."

   "I can't believe Finch is such a calculating bastard," said Liz. "He doesn't look it."

   "Don't go by appearances," said Frost. "Mullett doesn't look like a prat."

   Cassidy compressed his lips. This was not the way one should speak of senior officers to the lower ranks.

   "We know it's Finch," continued Frost. "So how do we play it?"

   "Slowly and carefully," urged Liz.

   "We can't go slowly," said Frost. "Time isn't on our side. He's killed one kid, so he's got nothing to lose by killing the other." The phone rang again. He paused as Cassidy answered it.

   It was the Casualty Officer from Denton hospital. Apart from a pregnant woman who had fallen down a flight of stairs, no-one came into Casualty between nine and ten thirty the previous night with anything serious enough to keep them away from a quarter of a million pound ransom. Cassidy relayed this to Frost, then stood up and flexed his leg which was stiffening up. He wanted to go home, but was determined not to leave before Frost.

   "What is this terrible smell?"

   Flaming hell! groaned Frost. Where had bloody Mullett sprung from? "I noticed it the minute you came in, sir - have you trod in something?" He signalled for Burton to open up the window, then took Mullett by the arm and led him outside. "I'd like a quick word."

   "And I want a word with you, Frost." He said nothing more until they reached his office. "I've had a phone call from the Chief Constable and he is very concerned about our lack of progress with this kidnapping. He understands the boy's mother has given an interview to one of the papers complaining the police are doing nothing."

   "We're not doing nothing, sir, we just haven't come up with anything . . . until now."

   "Until now?" Mullett's head came up and his eyes gleamed. "You've got a lead?" If this was true, he'd get straight back to the Chief Constable.

   "A good one." He quickly told Mullett about Finch.

   "Finch? The man who was attacked?"

   "Yes, sir."

   Mullett scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The boy could be at Finch's house? We could get him back to his mother tonight?" That would be a triumph. It would make the papers look absolute fools in the morning.

   "It's possible, super," said Frost. "I doubt if the boy is hidden in the house, but we should find something that would lead us to him."

   "So what do you suggest?" He consulted his watch. "It could take some time getting a search warrant."

   Frost gave him a knowing wink. "Just leave that to me, sir."

   Mullett stared at Frost. He had no wish to know about the underhand methods Frost intended to use. "Stick to the rules, Frost," he said, "and let me know how you get on." When Frost had left, he smiled a smug smile of satisfaction as he practised what he would say to the Chief Constable if Frost pulled it off. "I know it was bending the rules, sir, but the child came first . . . I realized my career would be on the line, but that wasn't a consideration . . ." He practised saying it silently, but with the right degree of modesty. Then his expression changed and his eyes narrowed as he rehearsed what he would say if things went wrong. "I specifically told Frost to play it by the book . . . there was a child's life at stake and no reason for taking chances . . ." He congratulated himself. This was the sort of situation he liked. Either way, he couldn't lose.

   In the incident room, Frost was briefing his team. His cigarette packet was empty, but he found a fair-sized stub in his top jacket pocket and poked it in his mouth. "Finch mustn't know we suspect him. If we don't find the kid in the house, then we'll put him under constant surveillance in the hope he leads us to him."

   "You don't want him to know we suspect him?" said Cassidy. "But the minute we turn up with a search warrant, of course he'll flaming well know."

   "We don't turn up with a search warrant," said Frost. He puffed a mouthful of smoke up to the ceiling and watched it get sucked out of the open window into the cold night air. "We use a bit of the tact and subtlety for which I am world famous."

The dog barked incessantly at the knocking at the door and wouldn't be hushed as Finch switched on the passage light and demanded, "Who's there?"

   "Police," replied Frost. "Can you spare us a moment?"

   Finch opened the door and there was that scruffy man with the mac and the trailing scarf. "Mr. Frost, isn't it?"

   "That's right, sir. Sorry to bother you, but we've had a bit of luck. We've caught the man who attacked you and stole the money."

   Finch's face lit up. "Good work, inspector." He led them into a living-room, all neat, tidy and polished, the room of a methodical man. He had his jacket on.  

   "Going out, sir?" asked Frost.

   "Just taking the dog for a run. I do it every night. So how can I help you?"

   "We need formal identification of the travel bag and we'd like you to identify the man."

   "Does he admit to kidnapping that poor boy?"

   "He's lying his head off, sir. He says he found the money by chance and you tried to take it away from him."

   "That is ridiculous. He put me in hospital. Of course I'll identify him. If you could hand me my overcoat."

   It was hanging neatly over the back of a chair. Frost passed it across. Seeing his master getting ready to go out, the dog began yapping its excitement and leaping up and down at the prospect of an outing.

   "Take him with you, sir," suggested Frost. He wanted the dog out of the way. "There is just one more thing, sir..." He smiled his most frank and open smile. "You're probably going to think it a bloody cheek, but do you think I could do a quick search of your premises?"

   Finch's eyebrows shot up. "Why?"

   "Once you've identified this man, he is going to deny all knowledge of the kidnapping and try and involve you in it. He'll claim you were there for the sole purpose of collecting the ransom."

   "But this is preposterous," spluttered Finch. "I found the bag simply by chance."

   Frost nodded sympathetically. "Of course you did, sir. But he's going to say you've got the boy hidden away. What I'd like to do with your permission of course - is do a token search of the premises, so we can refute his allegations right from the start."

   "Do you have a warrant?"

   "It hardly justifies a warrant, sir. I'm not really taking it seriously. I can get one if you like, but it won't take more than a couple of minutes." He opened a door and clicked on the light. "Is this the lounge?" He peeked inside. "Well, he's obviously not in here." He pulled the door shut. "I'd better see the kitchen in case you've got him hidden in the bread bin."

   A knock at the front door. The dog went ha ring up the passage, barking again. Jordan stood on the doorstep. "The station have radioed through. They've moved the time of the identity parade - they want us there now."

   "Damn!" said Frost. "I want to get this finished. Can it wait five minutes?"

   "Sorry, sir," said Jordan, 'but they say it's got to be now. They've got everyone lined up."

   Frost turned to Finch who was trying to calm the dog. "Do you think you could go with the officer, sir? I'll finish off here and follow on in a couple of minutes."

   Finch hesitated, then shrugged and hurried out to the car. "Don't forget to close the front door."

   "I won't, sir. Don't worry."

   He watched Finch, followed by the dog, climb into the back seat of the area car. As soon as it turned the corner he was whispering urgently into his radio. "He's gone. Let's have you!"

   Two cars that had been waiting round the corner disgorged eight men, mostly from Forensic, who quietly entered the house.

   He gave them a quick briefing. "Be bloody thorough, but put everything back where you found it, because Finch mustn't know. We are looking for anything that could prove the kid was here . . . hairs, fibers, blood. And look for a cassette recorder, a dot matrix printer, bottles that could have contained chloroform. If you find the kid, tied to a chair, watching the telly, I'd even settle for that."

   They went about their task with practised efficiency while he mooched about, opening and closing cupboard doors, trying not to get in anyone's way. Finch was a very methodical man with everything in its proper place and this made the search relatively simple.

   On the wall of the living-room was a framed photograph of a younger Finch and a fair-haired woman taken at a dance of some sort. Frost studied it. They both looked very happy.

   "Sir!" Burton was calling from the hall where he had found a door under the stairs. His torch revealed stone steps leading to a cellar which exuded a musty smell of long disuse. "There's nothing there," said Frost, 'but look anyway." He stayed at the top, watching half-heartedly as Burton slowly descended, his torch beam bouncing off heaps of stored junk. Jordan was called in to help and together they shifted as much as was necessary to ascertain there was no child, alive or dead, hidden there. Carefully, they moved everything back to where it was. Burton's foot kicked a blue fluted bottle which rolled across the stone floor. Burton pulled out the stopper and sniffed it hopefully. It was turpentine substitute.

   "Jack!" Arthur Hanlon calling him from a first-floor room. He thudded up the stairs.

   One of the bedrooms had been converted into a small office and Arthur Hanlon was excitedly indicating an Amstrad word processor on a wooden desk with a dot matrix printer alongside it. Hopes were quickly dashed by Harding who pointed out it was a nine pin machine and the ransom demand had been printed out by a twenty-four pin model.

   Frost mouthed a silent expletive and looked through some of the print-outs at the side of the machine. Stock records and account details. The wastepaper bin had been recently emptied and contained only a torn window envelope. He peeked through the curtains to the darkened street below. Just inside the front gate a rubbish sack awaited its morning collection by the refuse van. Frost pointed it out to Hanlon. "Get someone to pick it up and take it to the station." He pulled a desk drawer open. Neat clipped stacks of bills and statements. A quick riffle through, but nothing of interest.

   He was hindering Hanlon, so went downstairs to the kitchen where two men from Forensic, on their hands and knees, were painstakingly checking for prints and fibres. "Mainly dog hairs so far," they told him.

   "Probably from the dog," said Frost, ever anxious to help.

   The kitchen table bore further testimony to Finch's methodical habits. One cup, one saucer and one spoon laid out alongside a cereal bowl and a bread and butter plate, all ready for the next morning's breakfast. "I bet there's one senna pod and one sheet of toilet paper in the loo," grunted Frost, who was never impressed by neatness.

   He consulted his watch. Nearly ten minutes had passed since Finch had left. "I'd better get down to the station before he gets suspicious. Let me know the minute you find anything, but please, put everything back exactly where you found it."

Finch was becoming impatient. He knocked back the dregs of the cup of tea Liz had brought him and gave the custard cream to his dog. "I thought it was all ready."

   "Last-minute hitch," Liz told him, and was so relieved when Frost walked in.

   "Sorry I'm late," said Frost. "Got another call on the way back. Have you identified him yet?"

   "It still hasn't started," snapped Finch. "I'm not very impressed at police efficiency."

   "Go and see what the delay is," Frost said to Liz.

   "Did you find anything?" said Finch.

   "Eh?" said Frost vaguely, as if he didn't know what Finch was on about.

   "The search."

   "Oh, that?" He gave a short laugh. "I found six boys in the fridge, but none of them was the one we wanted." He was relieved when Finch grinned back. "I shut the front door as you asked."

   Liz returned. "Hudson has signed a statement admitting taking the money and assaulting Mr. Finch," she said. "So there's no need for an identity parade."

   "What about the kidnapping?" asked Frost.

   "He strongly denies that."

   "Let's see if he still denies it after I've finished with him," said Frost, grimly. "Get Mr. Finch to formally identify the travel bag. It's in the Exhibits Stores."

   "Won't take long, sir," said Liz, leading Finch out. As soon as he had gone, Frost was on the radio to Burton at the house.

   "We've found nothing that would tie him to the kidnapping and nothing that would suggest the boy was ever in the house," reported Burton.

   "The car . . . did you check his car?"

   "Forensic gave it a proper going over - nothing."

   "Right." It was a sod, but what the hell. He'd have to think out his next move. "Get out of there. He'll be back soon."

   Cassidy walked in on the tail end of the conversation, taking secret delight at Frost's downcast expression. "Doesn't look as if your theory was right then, inspector."

   "I'm not wrong on this one," said Frost stubbornly. He bent to pat the dog which was asleep under the table. "It's your bloody master, Fido, and I'm going to get the bastard." The dog opened one eye and licked his hand.

   Finch returned. "All right for me to go now?"