Winter Frost (24 page)

   
Completely wrong-footed, Frost spluttered, "I'm sorry, sir . . . how bad is who?"

   
"My mother. The hospital said if her condition worsened . . . I'm not on the phone you see . . ." Then he saw the two police cars. "What has happened . . . It's serious, isn't it . . . Mother's dead?"

   
"We're not here about your mother," said Frost. "Perhaps we could come in. It's freezing out here."

   
"Yes, of course, of course." Shaking his head in puzzlement he ushered Frost, PCs Simms and Jordan following, into a small room furnished with two easy chairs, a table and a sideboard on which stood a small colour TV set. He clicked on the log effect electric fire, then turned to face Frost, showing him his trembling hands. "Look at me. I'm shaking. Every time there's a knock at the door I fear the worst." He dropped down in an armchair, unzipped the driving coat and checked his watch. "It must be something terrible if you've come here at this time of the morning. You want to break it gently, don't you? Then say it, she's dead, isn't she?" He was biting hard on his lower lip.

   
"Like I said, we're not here about your mother, sir," Frost told him, his eyes travelling round the room. "We're here on an entirely different matter." He nodded for Jordan to take up the questioning, leaving himself free to have a potter around.

   
Used to Frost's ways, Jordan stepped forward. "I'm PC Jordan, sir, and this is Detective Inspector Frost who is in charge of the investigation into the disappearance of two missing children, Vicky Stuart and Jenny Brewer."

   
The man's face showed concern. "Those poor children. What their mothers must be going through . . ."

   
"Could we know your name, sir?"

   
"Weaver—Charles Edward Weaver, but I don't see how this concerns me."

   
"We've had reports, Mr. Weaver," continued Jordan, "that one of the girls was seen entering your house on the afternoon she went missing." He showed the photograph of Jenny Brewer. "This little girl, sir."

   
Weaver took the photograph in a hand that shook. He studied it, then looked up at Jordan in dismay. "I didn't know it was her."

   
Frost, who was edging towards the sideboard for a surreptitious rummage through its drawers, stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean?"

   
Weaver wriggled in his chair to face Frost. "Your informant is partly correct, Inspector. That little girl came to my house. She knocked and said something about wanting me to take her photo."

   
"Why would she ask that, sir?" said Jordan.

   
The man transferred his attention to the constable. "She must have seen me out and about with my camera—photography's my hobby. I pretended my camera was broken and she went away. She never came in."

   
"Why did you tell her your camera was broken?"

   
Weaver gave a sad smile. "A single man alone in the house with a young child? You know how neighbours talk."

   
I hope they bloody talk when we chat them up, thought Frost, easing open one of the sideboard drawers. "And you are positive she didn't come inside the house? You didn't close the front door behind her even for a second?"

   
"Definitely not, officer. It was all over in seconds. She went skipping off . . . It was pouring with rain. There was a blue car outside. I got the impression she might have gone off in that." His face furrowed in sadness. "And she was the one who is missing? Poor little mite. A lovely girl."

   
Weaver sounded sincere and genuinely upset, but Frost was feeling that buzz, that almost sexual thrill of excitement that was whispering to him that this was their man. Weaver, with his tubby avuncular figure, was someone kids would trust implicitly. And what was this the sod had in his sideboard? Frost carefully moved his hand to the drawer and began tugging out the wad of photographs he could feel inside.

   
"As you will appreciate, sir," said Jordan, noticing what Frost was up to and desperately trying to hold Weaver's attention, "we have to follow up all leads. Our information is that the girl did go inside your house . . ." He held up a hand to stifle Weaver's protest. "I accept your assurance, sir, but we have to check. We'd like to do a thorough search."

   
Weaver couldn't be more co-operative. "Of course, Constable. Search where you like." He turned to Frost who quickly snatched his hand away before Weaver could see what he was up to. The photographs were of birds and animals and local views which bitterly disappointed Frost who hoped for pornographic poses of nude children. "We appreciate your co-operation, sir," he told Weaver, closing the drawer with a shove from his rump as he moved forward. "I knew it wouldn't be necessary to get a warrant." He poked a cigarette in his mouth, but before he could light up, Weaver fluttered a hand.

   
"I'd be obliged if you. didn't smoke." He patted his chest. "Asthma. It affects my breathing." He produced an inhaler from beside his chair and applied it to his nose.

   
Frost returned the cigarette to its packet. "We'll get on with the search, then."

   
The rest of the team were called in and ordered to tear the place apart. But as sure as he was that Weaver was their man, he was equally sure they wouldn't find anything in the house. The bastard was too flaming smug, too bloody helpful, running after them, showing them around, pointing out things they might have missed.

   
He went with Simms up the stairs, Weaver leading the way and flinging open the first door they came to. "My bedroom . . ." A single bed, a wardrobe and a dressing-table. Nowhere anything could be hidden. Frost opened the wardrobe door for something to do. Men's suits, shirts, shoes . . . "She's not here," he grunted.

   
"Or anywhere, Inspector. But feel free to search where you wish."

   
We're wasting our time, thought Frost. The sod's enjoying himself too much.

   
They passed the bathroom where Collier, kneeling on the floor, was carefully unscrewing the bath panels.

   
Weaver frowned. "I do hope he's going to replace those."

   
"Of course he will," Frost assured him. "You won't know we've ever taken them out." Some hopes—they had no time for such niceties. The panels would be rammed back if he was lucky and the screws left for Weaver to replace.

   
The second bedroom was tiny, a single bed squashed up against a wall and a small wardrobe. Weaver looked sad. "Mother's room," he told them. With a wicked grin he nodded towards a commode alongside the bed. "You can look in there if you like, but I don't remember when I last emptied it." Frost chanced it. It could have been full of pornographic photographs . . . but it was empty.

   
A dragging sound from below sent Weaver running downstairs to see what they were up to, leaving Frost and Simms alone in mother's room.

   
"What do you reckon, Inspector?" asked Simms.

   
"I reckon he enticed the kid into the house and he killed her," answered Frost. "I've got no proof, but I just know it."

   
A call from downstairs sent them both to the kitchen. "We've got a locked door, here," said Jordan.

   
Weaver came scurrying in. "That's my dark room. I'd be obliged if you took my word for the fact there is no-one in there."

   
"Your word is good enough for me, Mr. Weaver," lied Frost cheerfully, "but my superiors are mistrusting bastards and they'd have my guts for garters if I didn't take a peek." He held out his hand. "So if you've got the key . . ."

   
Weaver produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. "Please be careful—there's a lot of sensitive material in there." He pressed the switch and a red, low-wattage bulb glowed dimly. Frost squeezed in. It was a pantry converted to a dark room and there was hardly any space to move. A narrow bench on which stood an enlarger and numerous developing trays. In the corner a tiny sink had been fitted with a cold water tap. Just above Frost's head was a shelf carrying bottles and tins of photographic chemicals and stacks of boxes of photographic paper. He lifted the lid to a couple of the boxes, but that was all they contained, photographic paper. Too much to hope that the pornographic pictures would be in so obvious a hiding place.

   
He switched off the light, forced a smile and emerged. "As you say, Mr. Weaver, nothing there." He looked hopeful as the rest of the search team returned, but all shook their heads. They too had found nothing.

   
"Everything as it should be, Mr. Weaver. Sorry we've wasted your time."

   
Weaver gave an understanding smile. "You had your job to do, Inspector."

   
"How long has your mother been in hospital?"

   
"Nearly three months . . . she couldn't swallow, but they've operated." He obviously didn't want to go into any more details.

   
"I wish her well," said Frost.

Back in the car with the sleeping Morgan making bubbling snoring sounds from the back seat, Frost lit up the cigarette he had been denied in the house and chewed things over. The old lady had been in hospital for nearly three months. An empty house, mother out of the way, the ideal opportunity to get up to all sorts of tricks just at the time Vicky Stuart went missing. He looked back at the house. The lights were still on, then a curtain twitched from an upstairs window. The sod was checking up to make certain they were leaving. He revved the engine and drove off, followed by the other two cars. Once round the corner he stopped and flagged the others down while he radioed through to the station. "I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Weaver, starting from now."

   
"Twenty-four-hour surveillance?" echoed Wells. "That's going to make the overtime budget look sick. You've cleared it with Mr. Mullett?"

   
"Yes," lied Frost. He'd do it first thing in the morning. Mullett might not be in the agreeing mood if he was dragged out of bed yet again and he couldn't risk the sod saying no.

   
"All right," sighed Wells, "I'll get it organized. Tell Collier he's on the first four-hour shift."

He was tired but his brain was whirling, spinning out ideas and possibilities, making it impossible to sleep. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and switched on the television and found himself watching a black and white early western where a very youthful John Wayne was beating a baddie to a pulp with punches that missed by yards. He closed his eyes, just for a minute. The next thing he knew was being jolted awake by the phone in the hall screaming at him. John Wayne, his white cowboy hat still in place, was massaging his knuckles and looking down at his opponent. He could only have been asleep for seconds. He staggered out to the phone.

   
It was Collier. "I'm following Weaver," he reported. "He got into a car a couple of minutes ago. He was carrying something."

   
Frost was now fully awake. "What was he carrying?"

   
"I couldn't see. The fog's thickening and I had to park well down the street so he wouldn't see me."

   
"What make of car?"

   
"A green Metro . . . I couldn't get the registration number."

   
"Where are you now?"

   
"Bath Road. I'm going to need some back-up."

   
"I'll get back-up," Frost told him. "Whatever you do, don't lose him."

   
Grabbing his coat, he phoned the station. "We need back-up. Weaver's on the move."

   
"All I've got is Jordan and Simms in the area car," said Wells, "and they're at Tomlin Street flats . . . the pillow case bandit has struck again."

   
"Sod the pillow case bandit, he can wait. Get them over here . . . now!"

The fog was getting denser and the windscreen wipers on Collier's car were working overtime smearing the glass. Fog helped conceal him from Weaver, but made the Metro very difficult to follow. He could just make out the dirty red smears of the car's rear lights which would disappear abruptly as the Metro went through a patch of really thick fog. Suddenly the red flickered and vanished again and this time didn't come back. There was a junction ahead. Weaver had turned off on to the main road. Collier accelerated, looking left and right and seeing nothing. Which way had he gone? Damn. He'd lost him. He turned left, hoping against hope that this was correct. On and on through swirling mist, getting more and more anxious, and seeing nothing ahead. He should have turned right. He picked up the radio to tell Frost he had lost him when his heart quickened. Dimly, some way ahead, two red lights. The Metro. It had to be the Metro. The lights veered to the left. Collier spun the wheel to follow, feeling the tyres bump and judder over an unmade road. Where was he? He couldn't see a bloody thing. He had completely lost his bearings in the fog and was frantically trying to work out his location so he could report to Frost. He wound down the window to see better and suddenly heard the sound of water splashing down into water. The canal! Of course . . . he was on a little-used track which led to the canal. What was Weaver doing here?

   
Head outside the car, he could see a bit better. The splodges of red ahead were getting bigger—they weren't moving. Weaver had stopped. Collier swung his car over to the grass verge and switched off his lights. He radioed Frost and told him what was happening. "Get out and see what he's doing," ordered Frost.