Hard Frost (43 page)

   A quick peek through the spy-hole and a deep sigh as she opened the door. A scruffy, apologetic-looking individual stood on the doorstep, shuffling his feet and grinning hopefully.

   "Jack flaming Frost!"

   "Hello, Shirl. Sorry I'm so late."

   "Late? Only thirty-six flaming hours late. You were supposed to be taking me out for dinner."

   He clapped a hand to his forehead. "So I bloody was! Sorry, Shirl this missing kid . . ."

   "You could have phoned. I was all dressed up, sitting, waiting, stomach rumbling . . ."

   He hung his head in contrition. "I'm truly sorry, Shirl. I've been on the go non-stop ever since that kid went missing. I had no sleep at all last night."

   She shook her head in mock sympathy. "You poor old git. You'd better come in then."

   He shuffled in after her into the lounge and took off his coat. She switched on the electric fire with its flickering flame log effect. He felt warmer, happier, and perhaps a little less tired as he dropped down on the settee. "Better late than never," he murmured. "I just had to come and see you."

   Her expression softened. She sat down on the settee beside him and snuggled in closer. "Perhaps you're not such a rotten old sod after all."

   He silently counted up to ten, then nuzzled her soft, warm cheek. "You wouldn't have a packet of fags on you by any chance?"

   She jerked upright. "You bastard!" she said.

The bed was hard and uncomfortable and as he lay there a thousand thoughts hurtled around his brain making sleep impossible. Wearily, he clicked on the bedside lamp and lit up one of the cigarettes from the packet Shirley had hurled at him and lay back, watching the smoke curl to the ceiling.

   His mind was replaying the abortive visit to the caravan. There was something there, something that tried to jog his memory, but his thoughts just kept going endlessly round and round, getting him nowhere. He tried to switch to something else, but again his mind insisted on replaying the search . . . the stripped bunk beds with the thin mattresses, about as uncomfortable as the one he was lying on . . . the cupboards full of bedding . . . the kitchen . . . the rusty water belting out and soaking the carpet . . . 

   At last tiredness began to envelop him and the bed suddenly became warm and comfortable and the outside cold and unfriendly. He stubbed out his cigarette and sank back, sinking down, down, down into a deep sleep, his brain fading on the picture of the caravan . . . the tap . . . the sodden carpet . . . 

   He sat up with a start. The carpet! The bloody carpet . . . That's what his mind was scratching and nagging away at, trying to nudge him into action. The right clue for the wrong bloody case . . . 

   Out of bed, and he was in the car within minutes and back at the station in a quarter of an hour. As he pushed open the door into the lobby the siren smell of frying bacon lured him up to the canteen where he was pleased to see Bill Wells and Burton sitting together, polishing off the standard fry-up breakfast before they finished their shift. He joined them, dumping his loaded tray on the empty chair.

   Wells looked at his watch. Half-past five. "What's the matter, Jack? Did she kick you out of bed?"

   "She kicked me out before I got in," said Frost, dipping his piece of bread into Wells's fried egg. He turned to Burton. "I've got a job for you, son."

   "I'm just going home," said Burton.

   "No, you're not," said Frost. "You're on extended overtime." A clatter of trays made him spin round. Jordan and Collier from the night shift, stoking up with food before going back to the Police House. He called them over. "Job for you . . . overtime."

   "Mr. Mullett's got to authorize overtime, Jack," protested Wells.

   "Sod Mr. Mullett. It can't wait." He dragged his chair back so he could include Jordan and Collier at the adjoining table in the conversation. "Remember when you were dragging the canal for the kid all that junk we found and chucked back? I want some of it out again."

   "Not the dead goat?" said Jordan.

   "No - that roll of carpeting."

   "It'll never fit your lounge, Jack," said Wells. "And it will be stinking to high heaven by now."

   "Especially if that bag of offal has leaked over it," added Jordan.

   Frost ignored the wisecracks. "Go and hire a rowing boat."

   "We need Mullett's authorization for that as well," objected Wells.

   "Or that of the senior officer, which is me," replied Frost, 'so let's get cracking before he comes in and says no."

It was still dark. Lights from the road bridge reflected off the oily black velvet of the canal and broke up into tiny shimmering dots as the oar blades cut through.

   "I think we've got it," called Burton to Frost who was standing on the towpath, watching. Collier stuck his pole down alongside Burton's and they heaved up a dripping bundle.

   Frost's heart started to hammer. Not another bleeding body, he pleaded. If so, they can chuck the bugger back. The smell of decay seemed to confirm his worst fears but they had dredged up the bag of butcher's offal. "Dump it," yelled Frost. "I've had breakfast." They let it slither back into the depths where it belched evil-smelling bubbles.

   "It was more to your left," said Frost.

   They followed his pointing finger and tried again. Half an hour later they found it, nowhere near where Frost had said. They had to remove the putrefying goat carcass to get to it, but managed to drag up into the boat a sodden bundle of folded carpeting, about four feet square, tied with string and stained with stinking black mud.

   "Now what?" called Burton.

   "Let's have a look at it."

   They rowed to the bank and heaved the squelchy bundle on to the towpath. It had been too near the goat and stunk to high heaven. Holding his breath, Frost bent over and teased out a corner of the carpet material so he could see the pattern. At first he was disappointed. It was far too dark, almost black, and the sodium lights from the bridge distorted the colour. He illuminated it with his torch and this time, he knew he was right. He straightened up and beckoned to Burton who was climbing from the rowing boat. "Recognize it, son?"

   Filthy, sodden red and blue carpeting. What was he on about? Then Burton frowned. A frown of puzzled recognition. Yes, he did recognize it. "This is the carpet they laid at Bonley's?"

   "Top of the class, my son. The special, exclusive pattern obtainable nowhere else." His penknife slashed at the string. The bundle fell open and disgorged a flood of stinking water all over his shoes. "Knickers!" The expletive would have been stronger, but his attention was snatched by a couple of large chunks of coloured paving slabs used to weigh the bundle down.

   "They wanted it to sink. Brand spanking new carpeting worth about twenty quid a square metre." He looked across at Jordan and Collier who were manhandling the rowing boat up to the towpath. "Your luck's in, lads . . . another lovely job for you." He prodded the bundle with his foot. "Get this over to Forensic. If there's no-one on duty get someone in . . . sod the overtime bill. I want them to go over this with a tooth comb . . . stains, marks, dribble, jam, wee-wee or even bloodstains . . . Tell them it's urgent."

   Jordan regarded the waterlogged bale with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "It's wringing wet, sir, and it will stink the car out . . . couldn't we get a van or something?"

   "No," said Frost. "And when you've done that, another job for you. Go to the house where the kiddies were killed . . . take the bits of slab with you. Check if it's the same as their new patio and see if you can spot where in the garden it came from." He yawned. A quick check on his watch. Quarter to seven. No point in trying to get any sleep now. "I'm off to the station," he announced.

   "Shall we drop you off?" asked Jordan.

   Frost backed away from the smelly carpet. "No thanks. I'll go in Burton's car."

Chapter 16

He sat in the incident room smoking the cigarettes Shirley had flung at him and waiting for Forensic to come back to him with their report on the carpeting. They were taking their flaming time. He reached for the phone, but hesitated. They had given him a right mouthful the last time he rang them - "We're going as fast as we can and we'd go a damn sight faster if we didn't have to keep answering these stupid phone calls every five minutes. Don't call us - we'll call you."

   A rattle of buckets from outside. The cleaners had arrived. Through the grimy windows dawn was giving the sky an orange glow to start off another cold day. He extended his arms and yawned, a long drawn out yawn, almost hurting his mouth as it stretched open. He felt sticky and grubby. His eyelids were scratching his eyes. He was so damn tired. If he hadn't asked Shirley for those fags he would be tucked up alongside her, warm and happy, not sitting all on his own in this cheerless incident room. He raised his wrist and tried to focus on his watch. Just gone seven. Mullett would be here in a couple of hours, all clean shaven and gleaming, ready to start the day off with a moan about the boat being used and the overtime agreed without his authority. And he'd moan even more if there were nothing to show for it. He shook his head and looked pleadingly at the phone. Come on, Forensic. Do your bloody stuff.

   As he poked another one of Shirley's cigarettes into his mouth, his nose wrinkled. He couldn't get rid of the smell of that flaming goat which was almost as bad as one of Drysdale's choicest autopsies. Even the cigarettes tasted of it, but he persevered.

   Bill Wells brought in the local paper. "Thought you'd like to see this, Jack." A large photograph of Bobby Kirby's tear-stained mother took up most of the front page, with an insert of Bobby. Above it, the caption read "Police Dragging Heels In Search For Little Bobby Claims Weeping Mother'. Further down a sub-heading read "Millionaire Supermarket Chief Offers Reward For Boy's Return'. A publicity photograph of a grinning Sir Richard Cordwell headed the story that he was offering a reward of £10,000 for information leading to the return of the boy. "Thanks," grunted Frost, consigning it to the rubbish bin. "I needed cheering up." He turned his attention back to the phone. "Ring, you sod, ring . . . I haven't got all day." As if answering his plea, the phone gave a throat-clearing cough. He snatched it up even before it rang properly, but it wasn't Forensic. Jordan reporting that he and Collier had searched the Grovers' garden and had found a heap of broken patio slabs, a couple of which matched those used to weigh down the carpet. "You did say we were on official overtime?" asked Jordan, sounding worried. "Yes, yes," Frost assured him. He thanked them and told them to go to bed. Again he yawned and wished someone would tell him to go to bed.

   He banged the phone down, almost jumping from his seat as the sudden, immediate ringing caught him off guard. This time it was Forensic.

   "Bloodstains," reported Harding cheerfully. "Quite a lot of blood."

   Suddenly the cigarette tasted fine. "I'm all ears."

   "Blood group A."

   He exhaled a stream of smoke in a long sigh of relief. "The same as the dead mother! Don't let anyone call you a load of useless twats again."

   "The overtime has been authorized on this?" queried Harding. "Only I've had to get a couple of men in."

   "Of course it is," he said, wondering how the hell he was going to get Mullett to agree. He picked up a pencil and practised writing Mullett's signature on a scrap of paper. A little judicious forgery might be required. Then he hurled the pencil up in the air with a whoop of delight. He didn't give a damn if Mullett moaned about the overtime, or not. It had paid off. Blood, the same group as Nancy Grover, on the carpet retrieved from the canal. He looked again through the window at the lightening sky. It wasn't going to be such a lousy day after all, although Mark Grover wasn't going to enjoy it.

   He no longer felt tired, but wished there was someone with whom he could share his triumph. He grinned delightedly as Burton came in with two steaming mugs of tea. "You're early, my son. I'm afraid your lady love isn't in yet."

   Burton smiled and placed one of the mugs on Frost's desk.

   "Did you see the way she kneed that bloke in the goo lies yesterday?" asked Frost, stirring his tea with a pencil. "You'd better watch it if you take her out - that could have been you squirming on the floor."

   "If my luck's in," said Burton.

   Frost laughed and took a sip at the tea. "Talking of luck, we've had a break with the Grover case." He told Burton about Forensic's examination of the carpet.

   "So Grover's involved?"

   "Right up to his bloody neck, son. Let's start the day off by arresting him."

   He phoned the hospital, but was told by the staff nurse that Mark Grover had discharged himself last night and was staying with his sister. Yes, she did have the address . . . He sent Burton to the Forensic Lab to bring back the carpet, then sauntered out into the car-park.

   A plump little woman answered the door to his knock. Mark Grover's sister was some ten years older than her brother and her face was full of concern when Frost announced himself. "I don't think he's up to answering any questions. The poor boy is absolutely shattered." She took him through to the kitchen. "He loved those children . . . just idolized them."

   Frost nodded in sympathy. "I know, love . . . I know . . . If it wasn't important I wouldn't bother him."

   Mark Grover didn't look well, the pallor of his face emphasizing the dark, bruise-like rings round his eyes. He recognized Frost and greeted him without enthusiasm. "Any news?"

   "Couple of promising leads," said Frost. "I know you don't feel up to it, but it would help if you could come down to the station and look at some of the things we've found and tell me if they came from your house."

   Glover hesitated. "I don't know . . ."

   "Go with the man," urged his sister. "The fresh air will do you good." When he went off to fetch his coat, she whispered to Frost, "Mark could do with cheering up."