Winter Frost (19 page)

   
"And you haven't seen her since?"

   
"If that was the last time I saw her, it's bloody obvious I haven't seen her since."

   
"Call me old-fashioned," said Frost, boiling over inside, "but I would have started panicking twenty-four hours ago, not now."

   
"Stuff your holier than thou sneers," she snarled. I'm a bloody caring mother. That kid wants for nothing. I didn't panic yesterday because I thought I knew where she was. She was supposed to be spending the night round her Nan's."

   
"Why?"

   
"My boyfriend was coming round. He doesn't like kids. It was only for one bloody night."

   
"Where does your mother live?"

   
"21 Old Street."

   
He scribbled the address down. "And Jenny never turned up at your mother's?"

   
"Would I be bloody here if she had?"

   
Frost took a couple of deep breaths to control his rising temper. "So why didn't her Nan get on to you when Jenny didn't turn up yesterday?"

   
"Because I hadn't told her the kid was coming . . . she's not on the phone. Jenny just calls there and her Nan looks after her."

   
"Old Street is right over the other side of town. Are you telling me you'd send a seven-year-old over there without any warning? Supposing your mother was out?"

   
"She never goes out . . . and if she did, Jenny would simply come straight back. She's always got coppers for the bus."

   
Frost nodded his thanks as Wells banged down two mugs of tea. He passed one across. "So how did you know Jenny never turned up at your mother's?"

   
"I bumped into her at the supermarket about half an hour ago. As soon as I knew Jenny hadn't been there, I didn't sod about, I came straight round here."

   
Frost stirred his tea with his pencil. "Has Jenny ever gone missing before?"

   
"A couple of times . . . she just wandered off, went to the pictures or something. But never overnight—she knows she'd get a bleeding good hiding if she did."

   
Frost took a sip at the lukewarm tea and shuddered. Bill Wells hadn't brought the Earl Grey out for this woman. He pushed the mug away. "We'll need a photograph."

   
She opened her handbag and handed over a tiny dog-eared colour print of a solemn-looking child.

   
"She looks bloody young for seven," he said.

   
"It's over a year old, but it's the most recent one I've got."

   
Frost regarded it doubtfully. Kids changed a hell of a lot in a year. "The school takes photographs every term. Haven't you got one of them?"

   
She shook her head, showering ash all over the table. "I didn't bother."

   
"I see," grunted Frost. "We'll have to get one from the school. What was she wearing?"

   
"Greeny-blue dress, black shoes and a blue anorak."

   
"Right." He scribbled this down. "I'll get things moving this end. You go back home and wait, I'll be round to see you later. If Jenny does turn up, let us know right away."

   
She buried her cigarette end under the pile of corpses in the ashtray and heaved up the carrier bag which was full of shopping. "Any chance of a lift home?"

   
"None at all," said Frost.

Joan Boscombe, headmistress of Denton Junior School, was slipping on her coat when Taffy Morgan arrived. He'd returned in triumph to Frost's office with the bloodstained clothes Lewis had dumped, and was sent straight out again to find out what he could from the school. The teacher wasn't pleased to see him. It had been a busy day and all she wanted to do now was go home and unwind. "If this could wait until the morning—" she began.

   
"Sorry, teacher, but it can't," said Taffy, showing her his warrant card and eyeing her up and down. She looked very young to be a headmistress . . . an air of authority combined with an air of vulnerability. Very sexy, he thought. "It's about Jenny Brewer."

   
"Jenny?" She dropped down in her chair. "She wasn't at school today. Nothing's happened to her, I hope?"

   
"We hope so too," said Taffy. "The thing is, she never returned home after school yesterday."

   
The headmistress went white. "Oh my God, not another girl." The memory of Vicky still pained.

   
"We don't know it's anything serious yet," said Taffy. "When was she last at school?"

   
The pages of a register were turned. "Yesterday afternoon . . . I remember seeing her leave." She unbuttoned her coat. It was hot in the office. Taffy's eyes bulged. A lovely figure for a teacher. You can smack my bottom any time you like, miss, he thought.

   
"We need an up-to-date photograph. The mother doesn't seem to have one."

   
Her lips tightened and she sniffed disapproval. "The mother!" She swung round to a filing cabinet and pulled out a file. "This was taken just before Christmas."

   
A postcard-sized colour print showing an older version of Jenny looking serious and pale, and there was what appeared to be a bruise on her right cheek. Taffy jabbed a finger. "What caused that?"

   
"She said she fell."

   
"But you didn't believe her?"

   
"Jenny seemed to fall a bit too often for my liking. There had been other bruises on her arms and legs but Jenny always insisted she had fallen. We alerted Social Services. They were supposed to be keeping an eye on the situation, but . . ." She shrugged hopelessly. "The mother is a fluent liar. They couldn't prove anything."

   
"Who's been hitting her . . . the mother?"

   
"I don't know . . . but she seems to go in for violent boyfriends. I've heard some of the other mothers talking."
     

   
"Do you think the mother cares for Jenny?"

   
"I think she tolerates her. Jenny needs love and affection and she certainly doesn't get it in that house. She's a very streetwise child for her age."

   
Streetwise! thought Taffy. It was often best for kids not to be streetwise and think they could handle danger instead of running away from it. "Did she have any close friends?"

   
"None that I know of. I'll ask around and let you know."

   
"Thank you. We'll need to keep the photograph." He slipped it in his pocket. Then he noticed her perfume. A heavy sexy unscholastic aroma. He wondered if she had a boyfriend. I bet she's a goer, he thought.

   
She stood up. "Should we warn the parents?"

   
He shook his head. "Not at this stage. There could be a simple explanation and we don't want to cause unnecessary panic." He opened the door for her. "Oh, one last thing—could you confirm she was wearing a greeny-blue dress and a blue anorak yesterday?"

   
She frowned. "No. She was in red—a red woollen dress."

   
Morgan's turn to frown. "Are you sure? We had a different description."

   
"Positive. She usually wears the same old tatty things, this was new. She was flaunting herself in it."

   
Taffy scribbled this down. He couldn't wait to get back to Frost to tell him. He hesitated. The perfume was working him up. "Could I—er—give you a lift back to your place, miss?"

   
She smiled and shook her head. "No, thank you. My partner will be meeting me."

   
So the partner was to be the beneficiary of that perfume. Lucky bastard, thought Morgan, making for his car.

The girl's mother had slapped make-up on and done something with her hair. Her eyes, half closed against the smoke from her cigarette, narrowed when she saw it was Frost at the door. "You found her yet?"

   
"Not yet," said Frost. "A couple more questions."

   
She led him through to the living-room where an older version of herself, a woman in her late sixties, sat at a table, sipping a cup of tea. "My mother," she explained. "Jenny's Nan."

   
Frost nodded a greeting and sat at the table. "Jenny never turned up round your place then, Mrs. Brewer?"

   
"I never knew she was supposed to be coming." She scowled up at her daughter. "Why didn't you let me know?"

   
Her daughter shrugged dismissively. "Why should I? I knew you wouldn't mind."

   
"Of course I wouldn't mind. I just want to be told. If you'd told me she was supposed to be coming I'd have been round to the police last night."

   
"So it's all my fault now, is it?"

   
"Yes, it flaming is. It certainly isn't mine."

   
"I don't give a sod whose fault it is," said Frost wearily. "We just want to find her. It's dark, it's bloody cold and she's been gone too long." He jabbed a finger at Mary Brewer. "A couple of questions."

   
She raised her eyes to the ceiling. "More bleeding questions!"

   
"Yes, more bleeding questions," snapped Frost. "You told me Jenny was wearing a greeny-blue dress when she went to school yesterday. The school tell us she was wearing a red woollen dress."

   
She tugged the cigarette from her mouth so she could cough better. "A red dress?" she spluttered. "The silly sods don't know what they're talking about. she hasn't got a red dress."

   
"The poor little mite has only got one dress," put in the Nan. "When did you last buy her anything new?"

   
"She don't go without, and if she had a red dress I'd be the first to know."

   
"Was she wearing the blue dress when she came home for her lunch yesterday?" asked Frost.

   
"I suppose so."

   
Frost stared up at her. "What do you mean, you suppose so?"

   
"I wasn't here when she came in for lunch. I was at Bingo."

   
"You told me the last time you saw her was yesterday lunchtime."

   
"I didn't actually see-her. I left her money for chips. When I came back the money was gone, so I knew she'd been home."

   
"But you are sure she was wearing the blue dress when she went off to school yesterday morning?"

   
"She must have done, it's the only dress she's got. I've been trying to save up for something new, but money's tight."

   
"Not tight when it comes to bloody Bingo," said the Nan.

   
Frost knuckled the weariness from his eyes. "Must have done?" he echoed. "You saw what she was wearing, surely?"

   
"I didn't actually see her. I was still in bed. She gets her own breakfast."

   
Frost stared in disbelief. "She gets her own breakfast? A seven-year-old kid gets her own breakfast while her mother pigs it in bed?"

   
She folded her arms defiantly. "You're here to find my kid, not give me a moral bleeding lecture."

   
"Just for the record," said Frost, "when did you last see your daughter?"

   
"Night before last. She watched telly, then went up to bed."

   
"As recently as that?" shrilled the Nan in mock disbelief. "It's a wonder you'd still recognize her. Why did you pack her off to my place yesterday? I suppose that lousy boyfriend was coming round again." She turned to Frost. "That bastard was always hitting that kid—the times she's come round to me, crying her eyes out."

   
Frost turned to the mother. "His name and address?"

   
"No," she shrieked. "He doesn't want to get involved."

   
"Well, he bloody well is involved," yelled Frost back. "Name and address, please."

   
"Dennis Hadleigh, Flat 2, Peabody Estate."

   
"And what does he do, apart from hitting seven-year-old kids?"

   
"He's a lorry driver."

   
Frost scribbled the details down on the back of his cigarette packet and stood up. "I want to search the house."

   
"Search the house?" Her voice went up an octave. "Do you think I've done her in?"

   
"She could have got herself locked in a cupboard, or something," explained Frost. "It has happened."

   
"Don't you think I'd know if she was in the house?"

   
"You don't know where she is half the time," sniffed the Nan. "You and that bastard could be having it away while Jenny was dying in the loft."

   
Hands on hips, the woman glared down at her mother. "I've just about had enough of your innuendoes, mother," she snarled. "Either you keep your mouth shut or you get out of my house."

   
Shutting his ears to the in-fighting, Frost went to the front door and called in the rest of the team who were waiting in cars outside and got them to search the house and the small back garden. Jerking his head for Morgan to follow, he returned to the two women. "Which is Jenny's room?"

   
It was at the top of the stairs. They squeezed past Jordan who was heaving Simms up through a trap door into the loft. A small room, still decorated with Little Bo-Peep nursery paper. There was a single bed, neatly made with folded pyjamas on the pillow, a pink-painted chest of drawers on which stood a twelve-inch black and white television set and, on the other side of the bed, a white Melamine wardrobe.