Hard Frost (47 page)

   "Why was it important you got it off?"

   "It was our own special colour. The shop mixed it for us to match the bathroom curtains." She saw Frost still looked mystified. "The shop keeps all the details of these special mixes in case you want a repeat order. If the body was found, we thought you could have traced the paint back to us."

   Frost gave a wry smile. "You wasted your time, love. I wouldn't have been that bleeding clever."

   "We scrubbed and scrubbed, but it wouldn't shift," said Millie. "Then Julie said we would have to . . ." She left it unsaid. "We waited until it was dark, then took the body to our old place. Every day from then was a nightmare. We kept expecting to read in the papers of someone who hadn't returned home. Nothing. So we thought he had no relatives . . . no-one who would miss him. We were lulled into a sense of false security. We even began to fantasize that it never really happened. And then you came . . ."

   "Yes," nodded Frost in sad agreement, 'and then I came." He pinched out the cigarette and dropped it in his pocket. "Grab your coats, ladies. Let's go to the station." He kneed shut the drawer with the photographs. Bloody hell, he thought. The press are going to have a field day with this one.

   In the car the older woman was sobbing bitterly, tenderly comforted by her companion. Frost said nothing. There were occasions when it gave him great satisfaction to bring a case to a conclusion, but plenty, like now, when he wished he hadn't been so bloody efficient or lucky.

   "What will happen?" Julie asked.

   "We'll take statements," he said. "You'll be charged and you'll more than likely be granted bail."

   "And then?"

   "A half-decent lawyer and you'll probably get a suspended sentence."

   "The trial," sobbed Millie. "It will all come out." "It doesn't matter," said Julie. "It doesn't matter." Poor cows, thought Frost. The photographs as exhibits and all the details of their relationship . . . he could see the tabloid headlines now . . . Of course it bloody mattered.

   They were on the main Denton road. The line of traffic seemed to be moving very slowly and they were just crawling along. The car in front of Frost showed its brake lights and stopped. There was a hold-up ahead. He wound down the window and stuck his head out, but all he could see over the long line of vehicles ahead was flashing blue lights. He wound the window down, resigned to a long wait. "Don't know how long this will take, ladies," he said. "Looks like an accident."

It took nearly three-quarters of an hour for the traffic to start moving again. The older woman had stopped sobbing and sat, head bowed and red-eyed, staring blankly through the car window, while the nurse, deep in her own thoughts, absently patted her hand. Vehicles slowed down again as they reached the cordoned-off scene of the accident. A large chemical-carrying tanker had slewed across the road and was lying on its side. There didn't appear to be any leakage of fuel, but firemen were standing by. An ambulance was parked on the hard shoulder to the rear. In front of it, another group of firemen with a mobile crane were trying to raise the tanker so they could get to the crushed car underneath. It was a Porsche. A black Porsche. Hovering alongside the firemen, a team of paramedics waited, ready to dash in.

   Frost braked abruptly and got out, ignoring the angry blast of car horns behind him.

   A traffic policeman hurried over. "Please get back in your car," he ordered. "There's nothing to see here."

   Frost flashed his warrant card. "What happened?"

   The traffic policeman shrugged. "We don't know yet, inspector. It looks as if the Porsche was going too fast and crashed over the central barrier smack in the path of the tanker coming the other way."

   "Couple of teenagers - a chap and a girl - in the Porsche?"

   "Yes." The traffic policeman was looking over Frost's shoulder where the firemen had managed to raise the tanker and were now using cutting gear on the Porsche.

   "Alive or dead?"

   A screaming of metal as the roof of the Porsche was torn off. Two of the paramedics pushed forward and looked inside, then moved back, shaking their heads and signalling for the firemen to carry on.

   "I think they are dead, sir," said the policeman.

Frost sat them in separate interview rooms and asked a WPC to bring them mugs of tea which they looked at with obvious distaste and pushed away after the first sip. "I'll be back soon," he said and went off to find Liz to tell her about the Porsche. He hoped she would be in his office, but it was Cassidy who was waiting for him, pacing up and down to work off his anger. Frost wasn't in the mood for Cassidy, but he masked his feelings and gave an enquiring smile.

   "The Lemmy Hoxton case is mine," hissed Cassidy. "You told me you wouldn't interfere and yet you've been off to see those women, without a damn word to me. You're deliberately keeping me out of it . . ."

   Frost thudded down into his chair and rested his chin on his palm. Cassidy was chuntering away with his moan, non-stop, just like Mullett. So Frost applied his anti-Mullett technique, switching off his ears until Cassidy ran out of breath.

   A pause, so he got in quick. "I'm sorry, son. I forgot."

   "Forgot?" echoed Cassidy incredulously. "How the hell could you forget?"

   "Because I'm stupid," said Frost. "I shouldn't have done it. The women are in the interview rooms and they're ready to make statements confessing to the killing." He told Cassidy the details. "So it's all yours."

   Not in the least mollified, Cassidy marched to the door, turning for one final snarl. "You haven't heard the last of this," he said.

   "I'm sure I haven't," murmured Frost wearily.

PC Collier yawned. He liked working for Frost and he welcomed the overtime money, but the inspector always kept everyone up late, then expected them to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with hardly any sleep, the next day. The succession of late nights were taking their toll and the warm interior of the car was whispering how great it would be to close his eyes, just for a few minutes, and drift off. He jerked his head up and wound down the window. They were parked at the end of Finch's turning, tucked away well out of sight, but from where they could just see the blue Austin Metro.

   At his side, Ken Jordan was slumped in the driving seat, eyes closed, breathing heavily in a deep sleep. It wasn't fair. There should be two of them watching. They'd nearly missed Finch before when he had slipped out of the house, but didn't take the car. Collier had followed him on foot to the supermarket where Finch bought some food and returned home. If he sneaked out again . . . Collier stiffened and nudged Jordan sharply. "He's coming out!" Immediately, Jordan was awake and alert. He snatched up the radio to report to Control, then slipped out of the car, his turn to follow on foot if Finch didn't use the Metro.

   The front door slammed as Finch and an excited yapping dog walked to the car. Finch was carrying a carrier bag which he slung on to the back seat. It looked like the food he had bought earlier at the Savalot supermarket. When it was clear Finch was taking the car, Jordan slid back into the driving seat and picked up the radio. "Subject in car driving south into Market Street. We are following . . ."

Frost located Liz in the main interview room. She had Tracey Neal with her, the travel bag with the money between them on the table. Tracey didn't look so cocky as when they had last seen her.

   Tracey's told us about the abduction," said Liz.

   "It was Carol's idea," insisted Tracey. "I just went along with her. I haven't had any of the money."

   Frost sat next to Liz. "Stealing from her own parents. Why?"

   "They're not both Carol's parents," said Tracey. "Her father divorced her real mother and married again. He spends all his money on her furs, expensive clothes, jewellery. Carol said she'd only married him for his money."

   "So Carol was jealous?"

   "The new wife would get his money when he died. Carol didn't think that was fair."

   "So you staged the fake abduction?"

   "Yes."

   "Why did you dump the jewellery and furs and stuff?"

   "We didn't know what to do with it. Ian thought we'd be bound to be found out if we tried to sell them."

   "So why take them in the first place?"

   "It was Carol's idea. To spite her new mother, I suppose."

   Frost intertwined his fingers behind his head and studied the ceiling. "All right, love, you can go," he said at last.

   Liz looked at him as if he had gone out of his mind? "Go?"

   "I don't think Carol's father will be pressing charges," he said. "If he does, we'll think again."

   Liz showed the girl out, then came back, clearly piqued and ready for a row. She wanted to tie this one up herself. Cassidy seemed to be getting all the successful cases and she was getting nothing. But when Frost told her about the accident she was stunned.

   "We'll have to break the news to her father," said Frost. "Double bad bloody news. It was his daughter who stole his money and now she's dead." He sighed. "I wish Cassidy had snaffled this flaming case as well."

   Burton chased after them in the corridor and called them into the incident room. "Finch is on the move. He's got a carrier bag of food with him. He could be on his way to the kid."

   "Let's hope he's not on his way to the park to feed the bloody ducks," said Frost, glad of the chance to put off calling on Stanfield.

   In the incident room he snatched up someone's mug of tea and settled down in a chair in front of the speaker.

   "Jordan to Simms. Subject heading north to Bath Road. Can you take over?"

   "Simms, receiving. Affirmative. We are at first turn-off in Bath Road." A pause, then, "We see him. Taking over now."

   "Right. We'll move ahead of him and wait at the Lexton turn-off."

Jordan pressed down the accelerator and the car shot forward, flashing past Finch's Metro. They resisted the temptation to turn their heads as they passed, not wanting there to be any hint they were interested in him. No side roads for the next ten miles or so and the first possible diversion was just past the Fina service station near the Lexton turn-off. When they reached the service station Jordan drove up on to the forecourt and waited.

"Am following," reported Simms. "Not much traffic about and road fairly straight, so I'm having to keep well back."

   "Be careful," urged Frost. "He mustn't know he's being followed."

   "He's putting on some speed," reported Simms. "He's roaring ahead."

   Frost frowned anxiously. "He hasn't spotted you?"

   "I don't think so."

   A quick glance at the road map. "He can't go anywhere but straight ahead. Drop well back and let Jordan take over when Finch reaches the service station."

   "Roger," said Simms.

   "Roger," said Jordan.

   The radio went quiet. Frost scrabbled at the cellophane on a fresh pack of cigarettes, cursing when the damn stuff refused to tear. At last he ripped it off in several pieces, stuffed a cigarette in his mouth and passed the pack around. Another check with the wall map. No way yet of knowing where Finch was heading, but it was clearly well outside Denton. Back to the speaker, which was making little crackling sounds. "Come on, come on," he muttered, "Finch ought to be with you by now." He clicked on the mike. "I haven't bloody offended you, have I, Jordan? Talk to me."

   "No sign of Finch yet," reported Jordan. "I . . ."A pause, then, "Oh shit!"

   "What is it?" roared Frost.

   "I can see Simms . . . but Finch hasn't reached us."

   "He must have flaming well reached you. Simms was behind him. He can't have bloody vanished!"

   "He was ahead of me," said Simms.

   "Well, he hasn't passed us," said Jordan.

   Frost killed his cigarette in the ashtray. "The bastard's got to be somewhere. Jordan - stay put. Simms - double back and see if you can spot him." Another cigarette. He dragged smoke deep into his lungs and waited. A burst of static.

   "Simms to Control. I see him!"

   "Where?" pleaded Frost. "Share it with us!"

   "He's parked up on the grass verge where the road bends."

   "Is he in the car?" Frost was concerned that Finch might have parked the car and gone on foot to where the boy was.

   "Yes . . . him and the dog. Just sitting, doing nothing. What do I do?"

   "Drive on," said Frost. "When you're out of his sight, do what he's done - get up on the verge and wait." He changed channels. "Jordan. Stay put. He's in between the two of you. Unless the sod's got a helicopter in his boot, he must go one way or the other."

   He stood up and stamped around the room. The tension was getting to him.

   "Finch has just passed me," called Simms. "He's done a U turn. He's heading back to town."

   Frost's shoulders slumped. He knew where Finch was heading. "Follow him."

   "What's he up to?" asked Burton.

   "I hope I'm wrong, son, but I reckon he spotted us."

   A few minutes later Simms reported, "He's gone back to his house. I'm parked at the end of the road. Finch is getting out . . . and the dog. He's picking up the carrier bag of food . . . now he's gone inside."

   "Bum-holes!" said Frost mildly. This confirmed what he suspected. "Tuck yourself somewhere at the end of the road and keep watch. A hundred to one he won't be coming out again today, but we can't take any chances."

   "What happened?" Liz asked.

   "Finch was testing us," said Frost. "He wanted to find out if he was being tailed and we screamed out to him that he was. Damn! I've blown it."

   "I don't see what else you could have done," said Burton.

   "I should have had more bloody cars. Sod Mullett and his economy drive. Finch notices a car behind him. He gets off the road and waits. The same car does a U turn and comes back again. You'd have to be as dim as flaming Mullett not to know you were being followed." He knuckled his eyes. "Come on, Liz. More job satisfaction. Let's break the news to Stanfield about his daughter."