Winter Frost (22 page)

   
They looked at each other and grudgingly nodded. "It fits, Jack," said Hanlon, "but you're making a lot of assumptions."

   
Frost pulled a wad of photographs of the dead boy from his pocket and handed them around. "Then see if we can get some hard evidence. One of you go to the cinema—they're doing an all-night horror programme, so they'll still be open. Does anyone remember this kid coming in with a man in his forties, balding dark hair, dark suit. The programme finished at 8.25, but they didn't get to the woods until around ten. My guess is that the nice man took the kid out for a meal. So some of you surf the fast food joints. I want another couple of you to sift through computer; records of middle-aged child molesters, baldies preferred, but many of them might not have started going bald when we arrested them. Drag them out of bed, find out where they were tonight and see what car they own. Lastly, I want someone to go through the computer for blue Astras, at least five years old, owned by people in the Denton area."

   
"How do we know he's local?" protested Evans.

   
"He's got to be," said Frost. "He hangs about the local school, he goes to the local cinema and he knows where to park in Denton Woods. When you get the list of Astra owners, check it against our child molesters. If you can say 'Snap' we throw the book at the sod whether he's guilty or not."

   
"And this is all on official overtime?" asked Evans, remembering Mullett's strictures that he didn't object to people doing overtime so long as they didn't always expect to be paid for it.

   
"Money's your bloody God!" said Frost. "Yes . . . all on official overtime, but don't drag it out."

   
He left them to get themselves organized, then went down to the lobby to tell Bill Wells what he had arranged. "Book them all in for extended overtime, Bill."

   
"You know Mullett's got to authorize it," Wells reminded him. "He went berserk last time you sent our overtime expenses sky high."

   
"He'll be in bed," said Frost, doubtfully. "He might even be having it away." He dialled the number. "Still, if it's with his wife he'll be glad of the interruption."

   
Mullett wasn't glad of the interruption. The phone had woken him from a deep sleep. "Authorize overtime? On the flimsiest of evidence? You don't even know for certain that the boy was ever in the blue car, just that there was one in the vicinity."

   
"Which didn't wait for the ambulance," Frost reminded him.

   
"There could be all sorts of reasons for that," replied Mullett, who couldn't think of any. "I'm sorry, Frost, I'm not authorizing overtime."

   
"Fair enough, Super," said Frost. "But if it is the same blue car, this bastard could be holding the missing girl. I know the budget has to take precedence over a human life—"

   
"Ten hours," cut in Mullett hastily, "and not a second over."

   
"Per man?" asked Frost hopefully.

   
"In total, Frost, in total, and you'd better come up with something to justify it."

   
"Well?" asked Bill Wells as Frost put the phone down.

   
"He said we could have all the men we wanted for as long as we liked," Frost replied.

He sat in his office, fighting tiredness, answering the phone as the negative reports came in. "Sorry, Inspector,"reported Evans, the last on the list. "No-one remembers anything."

   
"Call it a day," yawned Frost.

   
He took a stroll to the computer room, where Howe and Collier were wading their way through armfuls of computer print-outs. "No joy yet, Inspector."

   
"Keep trying," he grunted. Flaming heck, Mullett would have kittens when he saw the overtime bill especially for a nil result.

   
Back to his office with the nagging feeling that even if they found the man he would have nothing to do with the missing girl. A quick flip through his in-tray. More news to add to the gloom. The beaten-up torn had decided not to press charges. She'd been paid off and Mickey Harris would walk scot-free. This was not going to be a night to remember.

   
A quick squint through grime-encrusted windows out to the car-park. The swirling mist was thickening. Cars were murky outlines and the sodium lamps reduced to dirty orange smears. It looked cold and miserable which was just how he felt . . .

   Another yawn. Sod it, he was so tired he could hardly think straight. Nothing more he could do here. He dragged his scarf from the peg and wound it round his neck. At the doorway he paused, waiting, hoping the phone might ring and he'd be told they had found the driver and the girl. Silence. He clicked off the light, shut the door behind him, and made for his car.

   
The car heater was playing its usual tricks and kept blasting cold air.
 
He was frozen by the time he reached his house where the central heating had switched itself off at midnight so the place was as icy and unwelcoming as the morgue. Shivering, he scooped up the post from the door mat; two bills and three circulars, one marked in red
 
 "This is not a circular".
 
He chucked them on the hall table and dumped his
 
mac
 
on
 
top.
  
He
 
could go a cup of something hot, but was too dead beat to make it.

   
He thudded up the stairs and clicked on the electric blanket. The phone rang the second his head touched the pillow.

   
The phone was downstairs, in the hall. He'd wanted one by the bed but when his wife was alive she wouldn't hear of it; said the ringing would wake her up and she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep again. He kept promising himself he'd get an extension, but hadn't got round to it. What was it this time? Another bloody killing? Another dead tom? He threw aside the bedclothes, gritted his teeth against the shock of the cold lino to his bare feet and went down to the phone. He didn't recognize the voice and at first couldn't make out what the man was saying. "Who is this?"

   
"PC Bearsley of Traffic. Sorry to phone you at home, Inspector, but we have a problem."

   
"Traffic? Why the hell are you calling me for a traffic problem?" His teeth began to chatter. It was freezing in the hall.

   
"I can't talk about it over the phone, Inspector. Please get here quickly—corner of Saxby Street and Avon Drive."

   
"It had better be bloody urgent."

   "It is, Inspector," Bearsley assured him, "it is."

   
Frost was still shivering as he drove but kept the window down so the cold air would stop him falling asleep at the wheel. Why was he doing this? Dragged out of bed at five past four in the morning just because some damn traffic cop thinks it's urgent.

   
As he turned the car into Saxby Street he passed a metallic green Nissan, its paint scraped and a wing crumpled. A yellow and red striped traffic car was waiting, its lights out. Two worried-looking traffic policemen came over to meet him. Bearsley introduced himself. "Glad you got here so quickly, Inspector." And then Frost saw the crashed Ford Sierra which had driven straight into a wall at the end of the cul-de-sac. "The driver must have put his foot down, not realizing it was a blind alley," said Bearsley, headlight glass scrunching underfoot as they approached the vehicle. "It's a miracle he wasn't killed."

   
"Have you called an ambulance?" asked Frost, wondering why he was being involved.

   
"If we did, it would make it official and you might want to avoid that." Bearsley shone his torch through the driver's window so Frost could see inside.

   
Frost bent and squinted. "Flaming bloody hell!"

   
Lolling in the driving seat, a bleary-eyed Taffy Morgan, blood trickling from his forehead, gave Frost a shamefaced smile as the inspector yanked open the door. The interior of the car stank of whisky and vomit which was all over the DC's jacket. "Bit of a prang with the car, guv," slurred Morgan.

   
"You stupid bastard!" hissed Frost.

   
Morgan looked ready to burst into tears. His face crumpled. "One whisky, guv, that's all I had, one little whisky."

   
"One? You've spewed up five doubles down your flaming jacket." He checked that the two traffic officers were out of earshot. "I don't know how I'm going to get you out of this, Taffy." He jerked a thumb back to the rear window. "Have you seen what you've done to that poor sod's brand new Nissan?"

   
Morgan creaked his head painfully round, focusing with difficulty. "How did that happen?"

   
Frost examined the wound on the DC's forehead. Lots of blood but not too deep. "Do you need to go to hospital?"

   
Morgan touched his forehead and seemed surprised to see red on his fingers. "Bit of sticking plaster, that's all." He wiped his fingers on a clean part of his jacket. "What's going to happen, guv?"

   
"If there was any justice, Taffy, you'd be charged, imprisoned, castrated and kicked out of the force. Lucky for you there's no bleeding justice." He thought for a moment. "I'll see what I can do."

   
He went back to the two traffic policemen. "How did you find him?"

   
"He was weaving all over the road. When we slammed on the siren he put his foot down and swung the car into Saxby Street. The next thing we heard was the scraping of metal and then this bloody crash."

   
"Did any member of the public see what happened?"

   
"I doubt it. If it had been reported, the station would have contacted us, and they haven't."

   
"And you haven't radioed details to the station?"

   
"No. We thought we'd let you know first."

   
Frost grunted his thanks. "Good. Now forget all about it. Drive off and continue your patrol."

   
They looked at each other doubtfully. "I don't think we would get away with it, Inspector. Someone could have seen him; someone could be looking out of their window at us now."

   
Frost did a quick scan of the nearby houses. All were in darkness. "You didn't drag me out of bed just so I could watch you arrest the poor sod, did you? Do what I say—forget it. Any comeback and I'll take the full blame. You'll be in the clear."

   
They looked questioningly at each other then gave a reluctant nod, knowing that if Frost said he would take the blame, then that's what would happen. "All right, Inspector."

   
Frost grinned happily. "Thanks, lads. And if ever you murder your mother-in-law give me a bell—I owe you one."

   
"But what about his wrecked car?" asked Bearsley. "And there's a couple of thousand quid's worth of damage to that Nissan. How do we explain that away?"

   
"You know what I think happened here?" said Frost. "I reckon a flaming joy-rider nicked Morgan's motor and caused all this damage. I'll report it the minute I get home."

"A joy-rider?" exclaimed Wells incredulously, answering Frost's phone call. "At this time of the morning?"

   
"His watch must have stopped," said Frost. "Morgan was round my place. We heard a car starting up and when we looked out of the window, this bloke was driving it off. We nipped down and tried to follow him, but he lost us in the fog."

   
"Bloody convenient," sniffed Wells. "And what was Morgan doing round your place at four o'clock in the morning?"

   
"We were discussing ways to bring down the outstanding crime figures."

   
"Now I know you're lying," said Wells. "All right, I'll report it as stolen. Any idea where we should start looking for it?"

   
"Just a shot in the dark, but try Saxby Street," said Frost. "And whoever finds it, tell them not to sit in the driving seat . . . the bloke I saw nicking the motor looked as if he was going to be sick all over it."

   
"Charming," muttered Wells. He lowered his voice. "That Welsh bastard isn't worth it, Jack. Why are you sticking your neck out?"

   
"Because if I got into that sort of trouble I'd hope my mates would lie their flaming heads off for me, it's one of the few perks of the job."

   
He hung up and yawned, rubbing sore and gritty eyes. Morgan had been left, snoring noisily in the back of his car outside. Let him sleep it off until morning. Morning! He was due to brief the search parties at eight, so with luck he might snatch three hours' sleep. One last look at the phone, daring it to ring. Half-way up the stairs it defied his dare, and rang and rang and rang . . .

   
He fumbled the receiver to his ear and stifled a yawn. "Frost." He braced himself for the worst. You didn't get good news phoned through in the wee small bleeding hours. But he was wrong.

   
"Inspector!" An excited PC Collier. "We might have something on that car. Guess who owns a dark blue ten-year-old Astra?"

   
"Say it's Mr. Mullett and you've made my night," said Frost.

   
"Better than that," crowed Collier. "Bernie Green."

   
"Not the Bernie Green?" said Frost, flipping through the record cards of his memory. "Never heard of him."

   
"Not in your league, Inspector. A small-time flasher. He's done time for assaulting kids—nothing serious, touching them up in the cinema, things like that . . . and he's going bald!"