Winter Frost (21 page)

   
"Perhaps it broke down?"

   
"He's got a mobile phone. He'd phone for assistance and wait in the warm." He lifted his hand for silence. "Did you hear that?"

   
From behind some bushes, a groan then the sound of someone being violently sick.

   
"Just what I wanted to give me an appetite for my supper," moaned Jordan.

   
They waited by the BMW until a short, pasty-faced man in his early thirties, wearing a sheepskin-lined leather jacket, staggered from the bushes, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and dabbing sweat from his forehead. He started when he saw the two policemen, but managed to force a weak grin. "I've been sick," he explained.

   
"So we heard," said Simms, holding out a hand. "Driving licence, please, sir."

   
The licence confirmed that the man was Patrick Thomas Morris, the registered owner of the car. Hoping that was the end of it, Jordan edged back to the area car, but Simms hadn't finished. His nose twitched. "Have you been drinking, sir?"

   
The man looked even more unhappy. "Drinking? No—a beer . . . just one beer . . ."

   
"I'm sure you're right, sir," said Simms, "but I'm sure you want us to check." He fetched a breathalyser. Jordan watched anxiously while Morris blew into the mouthpiece. Let it be negative, he pleaded silently. I want my flaming supper. He suppressed a groan as the crystals changed colour.

   
Simms showed it to the man. "More than one beer, sir—you must have miscounted. I'm afraid you will have to accompany us back to the station."

   
"No—please." The man was clasping his hands together beseechingly. "I only had one beer while I was driving, I swear. But I then felt sick, so I stopped and took a sip of brandy to settle my stomach." He pulled a flask from his hip pocket to show them. "I wasn't going to drive any more. I was going to sleep it off in the car, I swear."

   
Simms shot a questioning glance to Jordan who shrugged, indicating, I'm hungry—let the poor sod go.

   
Simms chewed it over, then nodded. What the hell. If they drove him back to the station he'd probably be sick all over the back of the area car and by the look of his greenish face there was a lot more to come up before the night was out. "It's your lucky night, sir—" he began, but stopped in mid-sentence. Jordan, on his way back to the area car, was beckoning him over urgently. "What's up?"

   
Jordan pointed. The front nearside wing of the BMW was dented and the headlamp glass shattered. "Shit!" hissed Simms. They returned to the man, who was trying to appear unconcerned. "Spot of damage to the front of your motor, sir. Haven't been in an accident, have you?"

   
"What, that?" The man attempted a weak laugh. "Did that this morning—hit the gatepost when I drove out of the garage."

   
"And been driving around all night with only one headlamp?" tutted Simms. "That's a very serious offence." His voice hardened. "You didn't do it when you hit the boy, by any chance?"

   
"Boy? What boy?" Sweat was beading his forehead.

   
"The boy in intensive care. The boy you hit and sent flying . . . or are you too bloody drunk to remember?"

   
The man dabbed his face with his handkerchief again. "I don't know what you're talking about, officer. I haven't hit anyone."

   
"I think," said Simms, taking his arm and steering him into the area car, "we'd better take a little drive down to the station."

The interview room was warm, almost too warm, but a welcome change for PC Collier who had been out pounding the beat in the cold. The man was pacing nervously up and down, from time to time mopping sweat from his face with a none-too-clean handkerchief. "How much longer?" he demanded.

   
"The inspector should be here soon."

   
"You've been saying that for the past half-hour. This is all a mistake. Do you think I could hit someone and not know it? I want a solicitor."

   
"Ask the inspector when he comes in," said Collier.

   
The door crashed open as an untidy individual backed in carrying a mug of tea on which was balanced a greasy-looking sandwich. He plopped down in a chair and beckoned the man to sit opposite him. "Frost," he announced. "Detective Inspector Frost. Sorry to have kept you waiting." He looked at the arrest report and took a bite at the sandwich. "Mr. Patrick Morris, is it?"

   
"Yes . . . and I want to protest. This is all a terrible mistake."

   
"I'm sure it is," agreed Frost, "but don't worry. I've asked our Forensic boys to see if the blood on your car's headlamp is the same group as your gatepost."

   
The man stared at Frost, his face scarlet with rage. "You bastard!" he spat.

   
"Sticks and stones," reproved Frost gently.

   
Morris fluttered an apologetic hand. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." His head sank down. "I wasn't even going fast; just pootling along. The kid came straight at me. He didn't give me a chance."

   
"He was sober, you were drunk," said Frost.

   
Morris pushed himself up to shout at Frost. "I was not drunk!"

   "And I'm not bloody deaf," said Frost, wiping his mouth after a swig of tea. "Please sit down."

   
Morris sat. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry." He leant over to Frost. "I'm an oil company representative in line for promotion. One drink-driving offence and I lose my job. Do you think I'd risk that? I was not drunk. I was stone cold bloody sober. I had the brandy afterwards."

   
"Drunk or sober, you knocked an eleven-year-old kid down and you didn't stop."

   
"I couldn't afford to get involved; my job—"

   
"Sod your bloody job. The kid's in intensive care. You could have done something to help him."

   
"The man in the other car came running over. I left it to him."

   
Frost's head snapped up. "What other car?"

   
"An old banger—a blue Vauxhall Astra. It was parked up on the verge. When I hit the boy the Astra driver dashed over to him. There was nothing I could do to help so I phoned for an ambulance on my mobile."

   
"Yes," snapped Frost, "a great humanitarian gesture. Remind me to nominate you for the Nobel Prize." He dropped the crust from his sandwich into the mug of tea and pushed it away. "Describe the man."

   
"Middle-aged—forty-five to fifty. Darkish hair, going bald."

   
"Clean-shaven?"

   
"Yes, I think so. It all—"

   
"I know—it all happened so fast," said Frost, finishing the sentence for him. "Build?"

   
"Average."

   
"Clothes?"

   
"A suit. A dark suit, I think."

   
"A suit!" exclaimed Frost. "Well, that saves us looking for a man in a dress."

   
"If I could tell you more, I would," snarled Morris. "It's in my own interest that you find him. He'll confirm I wasn't speeding and the kid didn't give me a chance."

   
"Then you'd better hope we do find him," said Frost, "because at the moment I don't rate your chances at all." His cigarette end joined the sandwich crust in the mug of cold tea. He stood up and nodded at Collier. "The constable will take your statement."

   
Bill Wells was hovering outside the interview room, waiting for him. "Initial report from Forensic, Jack. Glass from the headlamp definitely matches up with the glass found at the scene."

   
"They always confirm what you know already," grunted Frost. "He's admitted knocking the kid down."

   
"And Traffic reckon the skid marks where he braked indicate he wasn't doing more than thirty mph at the most."

   
"Knickers!" said Frost. "I was hoping to throw the book at the bastard."

His phone was ringing when he got back to the office. WPC June Purdy from the hospital. "The boy died ten minutes ago, Inspector."

   
He threw his head back and swore at the ceiling. "Shit! Do the parents know?"

   
"They were with him when he died."

   
He felt ashamed that his relief that he would not have to break the news to the parents almost outweighed his sadness at an eleven-year-old boy's death. "Are they still there?"

   
"Yes."

   
"I know it's difficult, love, but ask them if they know anyone who drives a blue Vauxhall Astra; a man in his late forties, going bald—someone who might give their son a lift. Phone me back right away."

   
"Was he the hit and run driver?"

   
"No. He's a possible witness. We've got the hit and run man but it doesn't appear as if the kid gave him much of a chance. Baldy might be the bloke who drove the boy to the woods and I've got a nasty feeling about the bastard. You don't take an eleven-year-old to Denton Woods in the middle of the night to pick mushrooms."

   
She phoned back in five minutes. The parents knew no-one of that description.

   
"Too much to hope it would be that easy," sighed Frost. "Get back here, love, and bring the boy's clothes so Forensic can tell us sod all about them."

He sat at a desk in the murder incident room, moodily smoking as he replaced the boy's bloodstained clothing in the evidence bag. A smaller bag held items taken from the boy's pockets. He shook them out on the desk: a comb, eight pence in copper coins, a handkerchief and the torn half of a cinema ticket. Open in front of him was the file on the first missing girl, eight-year-old Vicky Stuart. Looking through its many pages of typescript he had spotted that a couple of witnesses reported seeing a blue car cruising past the school on the afternoon Vicky went missing, but the car hadn't been traced. He drummed his fingers on the desk top. There were millions of flaming blue cars and the fact that the Vauxhall Astra was blue probably didn't mean a damn thing, but he had one of his feelings . . .

   
He checked his watch. Ten minutes past midnight. Mullett had only authorized overtime for the search parties until midnight so they should be returning soon. The mist was pressing a greasy kiss against the window. He hoped it would clear by the morning when the search would be resumed.

   
A tramping of tired feet announced the return of the first of the search parties as they headed up the stairs to the canteen. He gave them a few moments to get settled, then followed them up. They all looked tired and dejected. No need to ask if they had found the girl. He made his way over to a table where Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon sat with five off-duty police officers, all cold and miserable, gratefully warming frozen hands round mugs of scalding tea. "Where's Taffy Morgan?" Frost asked, dragging a chair over to join them.

   
"He's where I'm soon going to be," replied Hanlon, "fast asleep in a nice warm bed."

   
Frost gave a knowing smile. "You do tell fibs, Arthur. You're not going to bed for hours yet. I've got another job for all of you." A mass groan. He grinned and pushed his cigarettes around. "I know—I'm a rotten bastard and I could be wasting everybody's time, but there's the slimmest of chances this might lead us to the girl." He turned his head as Jordan and Simms, finishing their meal break, walked past. "The boy died," he told them.

   
Jordan shook his head sadly. "Poor little sod." He buttoned up his greatcoat. Another cold six hours before their shift ended.

   
"Is that the hit and run?" asked Hanlon.

   
"Yes," nodded Frost. "Only the driver didn't run very far—we've got him. He reckons the kid came flying out of a parked blue Vauxhall Astra straight into his path. He's a nasty, slimy bastard, but I'm ashamed to say I believe him, which is why you've got to do a bit more work."

   
They looked at each other, wondering where this was leading. He expelled a mouthful of smoke and watched it whirl lazily up to the ceiling. "We've got a kid, in a blue Astra, with a strange man in the middle of the bloody woods at night. Why? And why did the kid come flying out of the car like a bat out of hell?"

   
"You're suggesting the bloke was a child molester?" asked Hanlon.

   
"This is how I see it, Arthur. The bloke offers to drive the kid home, but instead takes him to the woods. Just as he starts his stuff, the kid manages to scramble out, but runs straight into the other car."

   
"What has this got to do with the girl?" asked Howe, one of the off-duty PCs.

   
"Probably sod all," conceded Frost, "but the day Vicky Stuart went missing, two of the witnesses mentioned a blue car cruising past the school as the kids came out. The Astra was blue."

   
"And you think it's the same man?" exclaimed Hanlon. "Just because it's a blue car? It's a bloody long shot, Jack."

   
"Maybe, Arthur, but it's all we've got . . . before this we had sod all." He produced the cinema ticket. "This was in the kid's jacket pocket—a ticket for tonight's performance of the Disney. It's an adult's ticket. Does I that suggest anything?"

   
A sea of blank looks.

   
"The boy would have got in at the child's rate, so this isn't his ticket. Try this out for size. He's hanging about outside the cinema when some nice kind balding gentleman says, 'Going to see the film, sonny?' 'I haven't got any money, kind balding gent,' replies the boy, so the man offers to pay for him. In they go. The bloke buys one adult ticket and one child's ticket. Comes the interval. The kid hadn't been home for his tea, so he's hungry. 'Go and buy a hot dog,' says the nice man in the dirty mac. The hot dogs are in the foyer and you've got to have your ticket to get back in again, so the man gives him a ticket . . . the wrong one as it happens, but that doesn't matter."