He was definitely not at his best when Sergeant Wells ushered in the lip-reader, a bird-like woman with a sharp nose and greying hair screwed back untidily into a bun. She sat uneasily in the offered chair, clutching a large handbag protectively to her chest, looking nervously at the liverish Frost, whose headache was giving him gyp. He palmed a couple of aspirins from a container and washed them down with the dregs of his tea. She declined the offer of a cup for herself, anxious to avoid anything that would delay her getting out of this dreadful place.
Frost forced a smile. ‘We’ve got a pretty rotten job for you, I’m afraid, love.’
He received a sour smile in return. ‘Miss Pelham if you don’t mind,’ she corrected. ‘I was told you wanted me to lip-read someone on a video tape without sound.’
‘It’s a pretty harrowing video,’ Frost warned her.
‘I’m not easily shocked, Inspector.’
Then I won’t show you my dick, thought Frost. Aloud he said, ‘Neither am I, but this shook me bloody rigid.’ He briefly explained what was involved.
She went white and shook her head firmly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m the right person for this, Inspector. There must be other people who can lip-read. I don’t think I could bear to watch it.’
‘Please,’ wheedled Frost. ‘Time is of the essence. We’ve got to catch the bastards who did this to a twelve-year-old kid. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely vital… Please…’
A reluctant nod. She stood up, still clutching her handbag, and followed him to the Incident Room.
Frost signalled to PC Collier, who switched the video player on and started the tape.
Miss Pelham gave a gasp of horror, turned her head away from the screen and stood up to go, inching towards the door. ‘I’m sorry I can’t watch this… I can’t…’
‘Then we’ll never catch the bastard,’ said Frost. ‘He’ll get away with it. He’ll be free to do this again to some other poor kid.’
She hesitated then sat down again, bit her lip tightly and nodded. ‘All right.’ She was shaking violently.
Collier restarted the tape. The woman’s face went chalk-white as she stared at the screen, her lips moving in sync with the girl’s. Frost, leaning over her shoulder, also watched, but even he had to turn his head away as the girl slumped to the floor.
The tape ended. Miss Pelham looked up at him. ‘Would you run it through again, please?’
When it finished again, she fished a tiny handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed her eyes, then turned to the inspector. ‘Most of the time she is crying and saying nothing, but just before she is.. .’ She hesitated and forced her self to continue, ‘… strangled, she looks at whoever is filming and says, “Please… something.. . stop him.” ’
‘Something?’ snapped Frost. ‘That’s no bloody good.’
‘Her head jerks away… it’s difficult… Something like “Millie” or “Molly”. It isn’t clear.’
‘Could it be Maggie or Minnie or Maisie?’ asked Frost.
‘No – I am almost certain it isn’t any of them.’
‘ “Please, Millie… stop him,” ’ muttered Frost to himself. ‘ “Please, Molly… stop him.” You’re sure about that?’
‘Of course I’m not sure I can only say it’s something like that, Inspector. I can’t be definite. She moves her head away.’
‘Millie, Molly,’ mused Frost. ‘Mandy? What about Mandy?’
She thought this over. ‘It could be, but I don’t think so. There’s an “L” sound there. There’s lots of strange names for girls now that I don’t know, it could be any of them… but I still think it’s Millie or Molly or something similar.’
A woman operating the camera, thought Frost. Probably the same woman who made the phone call to Sandy Lane. He thanked her. ‘Send in your bill, love. I’ll see it’s paid quickly.’
She paused at the door and shook her head.
‘Just find the killer and lock him up for life, Inspector. That’s all the payment I want.’
Frost paced up and down the Incident Room in front of his assembled team, voicing his thoughts out loud. ‘Millie… Molly.. . first names. Someone she knew… someone she was on first-name terms with. Someone she bloody trusted and who was so flaming trustworthy she filmed Debbie being strangled.’
‘Could it be one of the girls at school?’ suggested DC Morgan.
‘The voice on the tape last night wasn’t that of a schoolgirl,’ said Hanlon.
‘Taffy might have a point,’ said Frost. ‘The caller might not be the only woman involved. And as far as the phone call is concerned, Forensic reckon the woman is disguising her voice and is not the low-life bitch she sounds like, so all of Taffy’s girlfriends are out of the frame.’ He sat on the corner of the desk and wished his head would stop aching. ‘This is what we do. I want someone to get a book listing girls’ names – they’re usually books for mothers with babies. See if there are any more names that would fit. Then I want someone to go on the computer and print out a list of all the people called Millie and Molly or something similar who are on record. Then I want all of those women visited and questioned about where they were and what they were doing the night Debbie Clark went missing. Any cocky cows who don’t answer, arrest them on any charge you can think of and bring them into the station. Sod civil bloody liberties. And someone go through the list of people who used to work at that office block and see if any of them have a name that matches.’ He nodded at DS Hanlon. ‘You organise that, Arthur. I’m going to get something to eat, then I’m off to Debbie’s school to see if any of the girls there are called Molly or Millie.’
He made it to the canteen, but the smell of greasy fried food made his stomach churn so he decided to skip breakfast – lunch as well, probably.
‘I’m off to the school,’ he called out to Bill Wells.
Wells held up the telephone, waving it urgently. ‘Mr Beazley’s on the blower. Wants to talk to you urgently – ’
He was talking to a swinging lobby door.
Miss Robins, the headteacher, a mannish, middle-aged woman in a tailored suit and sensible shoes, surveyed the dishevelled figure hunched up in the chair opposite her with frowning disapproval. ‘What you are asking is impossible, Inspector. The Data Protection Act – ’
Frost cut her short. ‘All right. When we find another kid raped and strangled like Debbie Clark you can say, “Too bad – but at least I didn’t violate the Data Protection Act.”
She flushed. ‘That’s moral blackmail, Inspector.’
‘Yes,’ snapped Frost. ‘I’ll use any means not to see another kid’s body on a slab in the morgue. I’m even prepared to break into your lousy school tonight and steal the bleeding records.’ He fumbled in his inside pocket. ‘Would you like to see a photograph of how Debbie looked when we found her?’ He didn’t have the photograph on him, but the bluff worked.
She held up her hands in protest. ‘No please. If you could tell me exactly why you want a computer printout of all our pupils.’
‘We have good reason to believe that Debbie was going to meet someone called Millie, or Molly, or something similar the night she was killed. We want to trace that person and eliminate them from our inquiries. It could be a schoolfriend of Debbie’s, we don’t know, but we’ve got to check everyone, even if it means contravening the Data Protection Act.’
The headteacher pressed a key on her intercom. ‘Janet, sorry to interrupt your free period, but do you think you could let me have a computer printout of the school roll?’
Frost tapped her arm. ‘Let’s have the rolls for the past five years as well. It could be someone who has already left school.’
‘And rolls for the past five years,’ added Miss Robins. ‘And it is rather urgent.’ She flipped the key up. ‘A terrible business, Inspector.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Frost. Another thought struck him. ‘Have any of your teachers got a name like Millie or Molly?’
She wrinkled her brow in thought, then shook her head. ‘No – none of them.’
‘What about other workers here – dinner ladies, cleaners and so on?’
Again she shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but I’m afraid I don’t know all their names – some of them come and go so quickly.’
‘Then let’s have a list of staff as well as teachers,’ said Frost. The number of possibilities was beginning to mount and he wasn’t even sure if the mysterious Millie or Molly was someone from the school. The school was clearly a no-smoking area, a factor which made the craving for a fag greater than ever. Hurry up with these flaming lists, he silently urged.
A tap at the door. At last. A mousy-looking, buck-toothed woman in a brown cardigan with a goofy, jolly-hockey-sticks expression entered with a sheaf of computer printouts.
‘Thank you, Janet,’ said Miss Robins, passing the lists over to Frost. ‘Janet Leigh is our computer expert – she was Debbie’s form mistress.’
Frost nodded a brief greeting as he stuffed the printouts in his pocket. ‘We’re hoping to trace someone called Millie, or Molly, or something very similar who was friendly with Debbie. It’s a slim chance, but it could lead somewhere. Any of your girls with names like that?’
‘Millie… Molly?’ The teacher shook her head. ‘None in my form. Offhand, I can’t think of any girls in the school with those names.’
‘Dinner ladies, cleaners, anyone?’
Again she shook her head, then she waggled a triumphant finger at him. ‘Bridget Malone. The cleaner.’
‘Bridget?’ frowned Frost. ‘Perhaps I’m dim…’
‘The children all called her Molly – Molly Malone. You know, “Cockles and Mussels, alive alive-oh.” ’
This sounded promising. ‘I’d like to talk to her,’ said Frost.
‘She’s not in today,’ said the headteacher. ‘She’s got a stomach bug.’
‘Give me her address,’ said Frost. ‘I might pop round and take her some grapes.’
‘Guv,’ called Morgan excitedly, ‘we’ve struck gold. I’ve run Bridget Malone through the computer. She’s got form!’
Frost grabbed the computer printout, skimmed through it and tossed it to one side. ‘You got me going for a minute there, Taff. Pinching knickers from Marks and Sparks – hardly premium-league stuff.’
‘There’s something else, Guv, that should make your day.’
Frost’s face brightened. ‘You’re going to resign, Taff? That’s terrific news. Put me down for 3p towards your leaving present.’
Morgan grinned. ‘This might be even better news for you, Guv.’ He waved another computer printout. ‘She’s living with Patsy Kelly.’
Frost snatched the printout from him.
‘Flaming hell, Taff. Don’t resign until tomorrow. Patsy Kelly’s a nasty, slimy bastard if ever there was one – he’d make Mullett look like a saint.’ He flipped through the pages. ‘I’ve put that bastard away a few times… GBH… Robbery with Violence… porno videos… obtaining money by menace, drug-dealing. That was his last one – drug-dealing – selling to school kids, by all accounts. I bet that’s what little Bridget was doing when she was supposed to be Ajaxing out the lavatory pans. He’s just the sort of bastard who’d kill a kid for money.’ He was getting excited now.
‘Shall we bring her in, Guv?’
Frost played a drum roll on the desktop with his fingers. ‘We haven’t got enough on her, Taff – just that the kids call her Molly, and Debbie might or might not have said Molly.’ Another brief drum roll. ‘Didn’t you have to go to the school a few weeks back – stuff being pinched from the kids’ lockers?’
Morgan nodded. ‘Yes. Couldn’t pin it on anyone, though.’
‘If you couldn’t crack the case, then no one could,’ said Frost. ‘She’s got form. Wasn’t she one of your suspects?’
‘It could have been anyone in the school, Guv – most likely one of the kids. I didn’t run them through the computer.’
‘The kids call her Molly, and she’s living with scumbag Patsy Kelly. Suspicion, but not a shred of proof. We need to turn their place over, but Kelly would never let us in without a search warrant. Who’s the duty magistrate this week?’ Morgan consulted the list on the pinboard.
‘Alison Miller, Guv.’
Frost’s face fell. ‘Shit!’ he said.
Frost rubbed his hands together to get his circulation going. It was freezing cold in the back room where old mother Miller had parked him while she finished her meal. He took out his pack of cigarettes, but the clinically clean room hissed its frowning disapproval, so he hastily dropped them back in his pocket and fidgeted in the uncomfortable armchair, watching the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece crawl round. At last the door clicked open and Alison Miller, a heavily built, thick-eyebrowed, grim-looking woman in her late fifties came in to glare down at him.
‘You do pick the most inconvenient times, Inspector Frost. I was in the middle of my meal.’
‘Sorry mum,’ mumbled Frost. ‘Murderers have no consideration for others.’
‘Don’t be flippant and don’t call me “mum” – it’s “ma’am’ if you don’t mind. And please sit in the other armchair – that one has just been re-upholstered after someone’s cigarette burnt a hole in it.’
‘Ah – yes. Sorry about that, I couldn’t find an ashtray.’
‘The reason you couldn’t find an ashtray, Inspector Frost, was because I do not permit the filthy habit of smoking in this house. You may inform Superintendent Mullett that the bill for the re-upholstery will be forwarded to him for payment as soon as I receive it. So why are you here?’
Frost pulled the papers from his pocket. ‘If you could just sign this, then you can get back to your nosh.’
She found her glasses in her pocket and studied the papers carefully. ‘A search warrant, Inspector? Another one of your famous search warrants?’
‘Yes,’ said Frost anxiously. ‘If you could just sign where I’ve marked it.’
‘I know perfectly well where to sign search warrants, Inspector. Let me remind you that I do not sign these orders automatically. If I am to give the police powers to do a ham-fisted search of someone’s house, probably dumping lighted cigarettes willy-nilly, then I want justification.’
‘But of course – ’ began Frost.
A bony hand waved him to silence. ‘The last two warrants you prevailed upon me to sign – at two o’clock in the morning, as I recall – were a red-hot, cast-iron tip-off from a 100 percent reliable source and two houses jam-packed to the rafters with stolen goods, if I remember your words correctly. And what did you find?’
‘Ah…’ began Frost before the hand again cut him short.
‘You found nothing, Inspector. Nothing at all. You promised faithfully that you would report back to me with the results of the searches, but you were obviously too ashamed to do so.’
‘We were so busy…’
‘A promise is a promise, Inspector. It was on that condition, and that condition only, that I signed the warrants in spite of my misgivings. And then there was that Warrington Road episode.’
Frost groaned. He knew the old cow would bring that up. Flaming Taffy Morgan getting the address wrong.
‘A warrant, signed by me and made out for the wrong address. A perfectly respectable lady, a lay preacher, a member of the Church Council. And you broke into her house in the early hours looking for evidence that she was running a brothel. And you got me to sign the warrant.’
‘That’s all in the past – ’ began Frost.
‘The very recent past, Inspector. It is no wonder I treat all your requests for search warrants with the greatest suspicion. Just because this woman is called Molly, you want to search her house in the hope that you can find something that will connect her with the murdered girl?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Frost.
‘Just a name that the girl might or might not have said.’ She folded up the warrant and handed it back to him. ‘You might just as put the names of every woman called Molly into a hat, pull one out and then expect me to sign a search warrant. No, Inspector Frost. You give me some solid evidence first.’
‘They could have this other missing girl, Jan O’Brien. I want to get to them first.’
‘Then come up with some proof. I’d like you to leave now, Inspector.’
Seething inwardly, Frost stomped out to the car, slamming the front door loudly behind him. He flopped into the front passenger seat. ‘Back to the nick,’ he barked to Morgan.
‘Did she sign it, Guv?’
‘Just shut your bleeding mouth and drive,’ snarled Frost.
‘I’ll take that as a no,’ grinned Morgan.
The Incident Room was hazy with cigarette smoke as Frost paced up and down, waiting for the call from PC Jordan, who was in an unmarked car keeping Kelly’s house under observation.
Bill Wells came in with two mugs of tea. He looked around the room. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘It’s best you don’t know,’ said Frost, taking one of the mugs.
Wells sat himself down. ‘So she wouldn’t sign the search warrant?’
‘That fat, lousy, four-eyed cow…’ began Frost.
‘To be fair…’ soothed Wells.
‘I don’t want to be bleeding fair,’ snapped Frost. ‘I’m trying to save the life of a missing schoolgirl, assuming the bastards haven’t already done to her what they did to Debbie Clark – but she says there’s not enough flaming evidence. Do we let a kid die just because there’s not enough bleeding evidence?’
‘There’s nothing you can do about it, Jack,’ said Wells.
‘Oh yes there flaming is.’
‘What?’
‘You don’t want to know – trust me, you don’t want to know.’ Frost plucked the cigarette from his mouth and ground it to death on the floor. ‘If that cow won’t sign a search warrant, I’ll search the place without one.’
‘Kelly would never agree to that.’
‘I don’t intend doing it while Kelly is there.’
Wells stared at him. ‘You’re not going to break into his house, Jack? You’re not that bloody stupid?’
Frost sipped his tea and said nothing.
‘Jack – Skinner’s back. He phoned from his digs. He could well be coming into the station tonight. If he finds out – never mind kicking you out of Denton, he’d have you booted off the force.’
‘Sod Skinner.’
‘Jack,’ pleaded Wells, now getting desperate. ‘If you’re caught in that house, any evidence you find will be slung out of court. They’ll say you planted it.’
‘I won’t get caught,’ said Frost stubbornly.
‘You said you wouldn’t get caught with your fiddled car expenses countered Wells.
‘That’s right,’ snorted Frost. ‘Hit me with bleeding common sense. It’s stupid, it’s daft, it’s suicidal, but I’m going to do it. I’ve turned Kelly’s house over enough times. I know my way around it blindfolded, and I know how to get in without leaving a trace.’
‘But Jack – ’
Frost waved him to silence. His radio, which was on the desk in front of him, was squawking. It was PC Jordan.
‘Inspector, Kelly and the woman have just left 23 Dunn Street in a light-blue Citroen heading for the town centre.’
Frost glanced up at the wall clock. Ten thirty-four. ‘They’re going to the Blue Parrot. They go there every Friday night. Keep on their tail. Once they’re inside, radio back and I’ll send someone else to take over the surveillance for when they come out.’
‘Roger.’ The radio clicked off.
‘What’s this about, Jack?’ demanded Wells. ‘Jordan and Simms are supposed to be checking a suspected flasher at Flint Street.’
‘This is more important than a flaming dick-dangler. Kelly and the tart go to the Blue Parrot every Friday night and stay until two o’clock in the morning. That gives me over three clear hours to turn their pad over.’
‘You’re mad, Jack. Stark, staring mad. You joined the force to uphold the law, not break it.’
‘I didn’t join the force to stand idly by when a kid’s life could be in danger just because some fat cow of a magistrate won’t sign a search warrant.’ Frost unhooked his scarf and yelled down the corridor for Taffy Morgan.
‘Yes, Guv?’
‘Get your jemmy and a sack marked “Swag”. We’re going to do a spot of house-breaking.’
‘You’re taking Morgan with you?’ asked Wells incredulously.
Frost nodded.
‘Then it’s doomed, Jack. It’s flaming doomed.’
No lights were showing from the front of the house as the car cruised past. Frost tapped Morgan’s arm. ‘There’s a road round the rear – next turning on the left. Let’s make sure there’s no sign of life round the back.’
Morgan drove round to the back street, where a high brick wall with wooden doors fastened on the inside provided a back entrance to the houses. Only one of the houses showed a light. Frost did a quick count: it wasn’t Kelly’s house. He double-checked. He’d be a real right prat if he broke into the wrong house. ‘One last check, Taff,’ he muttered, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket and dialling Kelly’s number. He let it ring and ring before clicking off. ‘No one at home,’ he reported. ‘Park here, Taff, and switch off the lights.’ He looked up at a starless sky. ‘A burglar’s moon. Just what we want.’
Morgan didn’t share the inspector’s enthusiasm. ‘I don’t like this, Guv.’
Before Frost could reply, PC Jordan radioed in. ‘I’m at the Blue Parrot, Inspector. Kelly’s parked the car. They’re entering the club now.’
‘Keep the car under continuous observation. They shouldn’t be out until gone two, but if they emerge any bleeding earlier, don’t keep it to yourself. Let me know right away. I’ll send someone to relieve you in a couple of hours.’
Frost lit up a cigarette and noticed that his hand was shaking. His sprained wrist was aching like mad – it was not in an ideal condition for climbing over brick walls, but it was now or never. He rubbed it to ease the pain. An icy blast of chilling premonition that things were going to go badly wrong rippled through his body. ‘Right, Taff, it’s over-the-top time.’
‘Do you want me to come with you, Guv?’ asked Morgan, praying for a ‘no’.
‘No, Taff. For two reasons. If it all goes pear-shaped it’s better that one silly sod is caught instead of two, and secondly, if you come with me you’re bound to sod things up. Stay in the car with the engine running, and if I come charging out with people screaming behind me, don’t say “What’s going on, Guv?” – just put your foot down and drive the flaming heck out of here – making sure I’m in the bleeding car first.’
‘Right, Guv,’ nodded Morgan.
Frost pinched out his cigarette and dropped it back in the packet. ‘Come on, Taff. Give me a leg up so I can get over the wall, then I’ll unbolt the back door ready for a speedy withdrawal, or coitus interruptus as we call it in the trade.’
Morgan, too nervous even to grin, heaved the inspector up to the top of the wall. Frost pulled himself to the top, wincing at the pain from his wrist, when -
‘Shit!’
A security light flashed on, flooding the back garden with light. Frost hugged the top of the wall, trying to bury himself into the bricks. Then he gave a sigh of relief as something scuttled along the ground below him. The security light was in the garden of the house next door and had been set off by a cat. Heart hammering, he pressed harder against the top of the wall, waiting for the neighbours to come out to see what had triggered the security light. He waited. Nothing happened. The cat had probably caught them out many times before.
Sliding over, he dropped down into Kelly’s garden, narrowly missing the cucumber frame that Taffy Morgan would have hit spot on, then he quietly unbolted the back gate and opened it. ‘Back in the car, Taff,’ he said to Morgan. ‘Engine running and ready to get the hell out of here.’
Morgan nodded and returned to the security of the car.
Leaving the back gate slightly ajar, Frost made his way up the path towards the rear of the house. It was dark. There were tall wooden fences on each side which meant the chances of him being seen were limited. Crouching down, he hurried to the back door and, ever the optimist, tried the handle. It was locked.
The old Victorian house had sash windows, which were usually a sod to open quietly. He hoped the catch inside wasn’t on. He managed to get his fingernails under the frame, then his fingers. For a change, his luck was in. The window slid upwards, but in the silence of the night the creaking sound screamed out. Someone must surely hear that. He paused, listening, ready to run – but nothing.
The beam of his torch travelled around an expensive fitted kitchen in charcoal grey with solid teak worktops. A knee up on the sill and he was inside.
Again he paused, ears strained. The silence was broken only by the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room and the thudding of his heart.
He headed to the large, double-doored, American-style fridge-freezer, which was crammed with all sorts of expensive foods and bottles of wine. He helped himself to a strawberry then went straight for the chiller compartment. Nestling next to the tomatoes and salad stuff was a roll of greasy banknotes, just where he expected to find them. Kelly was nothing if not consistent. He riffled through the wad – about six thousand quid. Crime was definitely paying for Kelly. He replaced the notes where he found them and pushed through a door into the dining room, walking across deep-piled, expensive fitted carpet to a massive oak sideboard.
Frost pulled open a couple of drawers and made a half-hearted search, but his gut feeling was that whatever Kelly had to hide, he wouldn’t keep it in such an obvious place. His gut feeling also told him the missing girl wasn’t in the house. That would be too much to hope for.
He gave the lounge a quick going-over – a massive forty-two-inch plasma screen dominated the room and there were surround-sound speakers all over the place. A flashy figured walnut cocktail cabinet bulged with wines and spirits.
He followed his torchbeam up the stairs. First stop the bathroom, where he lifted the ceramic top of the lavatory cistern and took out a water proof bag. Five thousand pounds or more in used banknotes and about twenty small polythene packets of white powder – drugs of some kind. Not what he was looking for. He put them back in the cistern and replaced the lid.
A car horn sounded. He stiffened. God, was it Taffy? Was Kelly back early? But no, Morgan wasn’t that subtle. He’d jam his thumb on the horn and wake up the whole bleeding street. He held his breath and listened. The sound wasn’t repeated. He expelled his held breath and fished out a screwdriver from his mac pocket, then turned his attention to the panels on the side of the bath, another favourite hiding place of Kelly’s. Tunelessly humming to himself, he began to turn the screws holding the panel in place.
Back at the Blue Parrot, Jordan yawned and looked again at his watch. He hated surveillance duty especially when you were on your own. Nothing to do but stare out of the windscreen. You daren’t pick up a paper or a magazine for a quick read – something always happened the minute you took your eyes away. Friday was a busy night – cars kept driving in and out; shrieking, shouting passengers alighted or embarked. Everyone but him seemed to be having a great time. He yawned again and shivered. It was cold in the car, but he couldn’t put the heat on in case it sent him to sleep. He took a swig from his flask of coffee. He had smoked too much. His fingers were oily with nicotine and his mouth tasted foul. The last thing in the world he wanted was another cigarette, but there was nothing else to do. He lit one up and stared out again at the light-blue Citroen parked on the other side of the car park.
Frost had to resist the temptation to smoke. Kelly was a non-smoker and the absence of ashtrays suggested the woman was also. They would detect the smell of cigarette smoke the minute they entered the house.
The screws were proving obstinate, but at last he got the panel off and poked his torch inside. Nothing. Absolutely sod all! Not like the last time he did the place over, when it was jam packed with expensive fax machines and DVD recorders, and Kelly had expressed utter hammy astonishment as to how they had come to be there. ‘God’s truth, Inspector, someone’s trying to frame me.’
He tried to replace the panel, but the damn thing wouldn’t go back in the space it had come out of so easily. He banged it with his fist and the hollow sound echoed round the empty house. Shit. He froze, hoping no one had heard. He tried again. Still the stupid bleeding thing wouldn’t cooperate, in spite of being helped with his knee. Double shit. If he couldn’t get the flaming thing back it would be a dead give away. He had a sudden thought and turned the panel upside-down and tried again. This time it purred into place. Hands sweating, he replaced the screws, noting that he had managed to chew the heads of a couple of them. He rubbed in some grime from the soles of his shoes to disguise the shiny scratches and hoped they wouldn’t be noticed. A cigarette. He’d give his bloody right arm for a cigarette. Wiping his sweaty palms down the sides of his trousers, he made his way into the main bedroom.
Nothing in the bedroom. Not a bloody thing! Doubts began chewing away at his inside wasn’t going to find anything. Everything would go wrong. He’d be caught red-handed in the flaming house and Mullett would think Christmas had come early. What had he got? Sod all, really. Just a name the poor kid may or may not have called out and someone with a nick name that matched. He went to the window and peered out at the back alley just to make sure Taffy hadn’t decided to nip off and get some fish and chips. The car was still there a Taffy was in the driving seat, looking more or less awake. Why had he come here? Bill Wells was right. He was stark, staring, flaming mad.
He left the bedroom and stood on the landing looking up at the ceiling. There was a trapdoor leading to the loft. There wouldn’t be anything in the loft. He knew it. There never was and Kelly was a creature of habit, but he had to look. It was his last hope. A quick flash of his torch on his wristwatch. Flaming hell. He’d been here over an hour and still hadn’t finished. He hoped Kelly and Molly Malone were enjoying themselves.
Jordan shook his head and reached out again for the flask of coffee. It was supposed to help keep you awake, but all it did was make him want to pee. He was bursting. He nipped out for a quick slash behind the car, then climbed back into the uncomfortable driving seat. He looked at his watch. Only an hour had passed. It seemed like flaming years. Where was the relief Frost was supposed to be sending?
There was a gentle tapping on the side window. Good old Frost, for once he hadn’t forgotten. Jordan opened the car door so that WPC Kate Holby could slide into the seat beside him. He filled her in, pointing out the location of the Citroen. She was about to leave for her own car when – ‘Jordan! What the hell are you doing here?’
Shit! Detective Chief Inspector Skinner was all tarted up in a smart suit, stinking of beer and with a nasty ‘I’m looking for trouble’ glint in his eye.
Jordan’s mouth opened and closed. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.
‘I asked you what the hell you were doing here, both of you?’
‘Surveillance, sir,’ Jordan choked out at last.
‘Surveillance?’ Skinner checked his watch. ‘At this time of the bloody night. Who authorised it?’
‘Inspector Frost, sir.’
‘And where is Inspector Frost?’
‘Back at the station, I think, sir.’
‘And what, Constable, are you supposed to be surveillancing?’
‘Suspect is a chap called Kelly, sir. Receiver of stolen goods.’
‘And he’s inside the club?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘With his arms full of stolen goods?’
Jordan thought quickly. ‘He sometimes seeks orders for stolen goods from contacts in the club, sir. We want to follow him to find out where he’s got them stashed.’
Skinner gave Jordan a cold, hard stare, then turned his attention to Kate Holby.
‘And what do you think you’re doing here?’
The girl flushed. ‘I’m relieving PC Jordan.’
‘You’re doing surveillance as well? Who the hell gave you permission to do surveillance? Have you finished compiling those lists that I gave you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Didn’t I say you were to do no other duties until you’d finished everything I’d allocated you?’
‘Yes, but Inspector Frost – ’
‘You don’t take orders from Inspector Frost, you take them from me. This is a bloody waste of time. I’m the only one who authorises surveillance overtime and this is unauthorised. Clear out of here right now, the pair of you, and tell Inspector Frost I want to see him first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Yes, Chief Inspector,’ mumbled Jordan.
‘Now!’ yelled Skinner. ‘Clear out of here now!’ He waited for Kate Holby to return to her car and for Jordan to reverse and leave the car park. As Jordan did so, he noticed a flashily dressed woman in Skinner’s car, obviously waiting to be taken into the club. He doubted she was Skinner’s wife. No wonder he wanted the surveillance discontinued.
Jordan was backing out when, to his horror, he saw Kelly and Malone leaving the club and making for the Citroen. Kelly had his arm round the woman, who didn’t seem very well. This was confirmed when she turned her head and vomited all over the tarmac.
‘Shit! They’re leaving early.’ He snatched up his mobile to warn Frost.
The loft was tightly crammed with junk and looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for years. The floorboards were crumbling with dry rot and Frost nearly put his foot through to the ceiling below. A quick flash around with his torch revealed nothing. He climbed down and brushed dust and cobwebs from his coat. He checked his watch. One thirty. Plenty of time. Kelly never left the club until two at the earliest.
Jordan had lost Kelly’s car. He was so sure Kelly was heading for home that he had overtaken him in case he saw he was being followed. He tucked into a lay-by and waited. And waited. Shit! They must have turned off down one of the side roads, but where the hell would they be going at half one in the flaming morning? Hoping and praying Skinner wasn’t listening in, he radioed all area cars asking them to keep a look-out for Kelly and to report back as soon as they saw him.
He had tried to ring Inspector Frost on his mobile phone to warn him, but all he got was a recorded message that the person called was not available and would he like to leave a message. Typical! Frost had switched the damn thing off. He tried Frost’s radio. ‘Inspector Frost, come in please… Please… come in…’
Why Frost suddenly decided to look in the airing cupboard was a complete mystery to him. His experience of his own airing cupboard was that when you opened the door the contents cascaded out all over the floor and had to be rammed back with much swearing; He tentatively opened the door, his torchbeam crawling over neatly folded towels and sheets. On the bottom shelf lay a pile of assorted items in a card board box. He pulled it out and examined the contents. Creditcards, chequebooks, cheque-guarantee cards, all in different names – clearly the spoils of theft.
As he was pushing the box back, he another one at the back of the shelf. He pulled it out half-heartedly and lifted the lid. Wrist watches, cheap jewellery, assorted credit cards and… His heart stopped. At the bottom of the box was a phone. A Nokia mobile phone. The same make, model and colour as Debbie, Clark’s missing mobile.
Taffy Morgan had just finished off a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and was chucking the screwed-up bag out of the window when he suddenly heard a muffled voice.
‘Inspector Frost, come in please…’
Where the hell was it coming from? The glove compartment. He opened it and there was the pocket radio Frost should have taken with him. Morgan pulled it out and answered the call.
‘For Pete’s sake, get hold of Inspector Frost!’ yelled Jordan. ‘Kelly’s left the club. We think he’s on his way home.’
Hands trembling, Frost carefully wrapped a handkerchief around the mobile, took it out and examined it more closely under the light of his torch. It was switched off, so he clicked it on. What next? There was no indication of the phone’s number. On his own mobile there was a way to bring the owner’s number up on the screen, but he couldn’t remember how it was done and didn’t want to press keys randomly in case it messed things up. He brought up the menu. The battery level was very low – it looked ready to die at any minute. He switched it off quickly. If the phone was dead there was no way he could find out if it was Debbie’s.
Think, think, think! How could he check? There was a way. There had to be. Right. He had Debbie’s mobile number on him somewhere. If he phoned the number and the mobile rang, that would prove it was her phone and he had the bastards. He rummaged through his pockets to find the scrap of paper with the number scribbled down, then scuttled back to the bedroom to use the bedside phone. As his hand went to pick it up, it rang.
Jordan’s radio spluttered. ‘Charlie Baker calling. We’ve just spotted Kelly and the woman driving away from the twenty-four-hour chemist in Market Square. Do we follow?’
‘Don’t follow,’ said Jordan. ‘See if you can get to the house before them. Park round the back behind Taffy Morgan. I’ll let you know if I want any more help.’
He drove as quickly as he could to Kelly’s house, still trying to work out how to warn Frost, who hadn’t got his radio or mobile. He braked sharply at a public telephone box with a couple of yellowing, tattered phone directories dangling from a chain. He dashed in. The kiosk stank of urine and the floor was littered with stale, damp papers and takeaway containers. Most of the pages had been torn out of the directory; but he hoped Kelly’s number was there. It was! He rammed 20p in the slot and dialled Kelly’s number. It rang and rang. ‘Answer the flaming thing,’ hissed Jordan. ‘You’ve got to get your arse out of there bloody quick.’
Frost froze. The shrill ringing of the phone sounded as if it could be heard halfway down the street. ‘Stop, you sod, stop,’ he muttered angrily. But the damn thing went on and on and on…
‘The bloody fool’s not going to answer!’ cursed Jordan, slamming down the phone. Charlie Baker wouldn’t be there yet and the minutes were ticking away. There was nothing for it, desperate measures were called for. He’d have to involve accident-prone Taffy Morgan.
The ringing stopped. The subsequent silence screamed. Frost waited for a couple of seconds, then lifted the receiver. He shone his torch on the girl’s number and dialled. A pause. He waited, holding his breath. A woman’s voice announced, ‘The person you are calling is unavailable. If you would like to leave a – ’ Damn. Of course. He’d switched the damn thing off to conserve the battery. He hung up, switched on the mobile and waited for it to register. He dialled again. ‘The number you are calling has not been recognised…’
Double shit. He flicked his torch at the scrap of paper. Damn, he’d transposed the last two numbers. He drew a deep breath and, carefully checking each digit, slowly and deliberately he dialled again. One digit to go when…
Banging, crashing, then footsteps thudding up the stairs.
Bleeding hell! Kelly was back and no one had warned him. He clicked off the torch and stood stock still, holding his breath, his heart going ballistic, in the dark.
The footsteps stopped outside the bedroom door.
‘Guv… Where are you? It’s me – Morgan!’
Frost sighed with relief. Taffy bloody Morgan! ‘You frightened the shit out of me, you Welsh sod. What are you doing here?’
‘Get out quick, Guv. They left early. They’ll be here any minute.’
‘So why didn’t you phone me?’
‘Your phone is switched off. Come on, Guv.’ He tugged at Frost’s sleeve to hurry him up.
A car drew up outside.
Frost twitched back the curtains and took a quick peek at the street below. Flaming arse holes! Kelly’s car was reversing into the drive.
‘The back way,’ hissed Frost. ‘It’s our only chance.’
The sound of a key turning in the lock downstairs.
Frost froze. Too bloody late. There was no way they could get down the stairs and out with out being seen.
‘Guv,’ bleated Morgan.
Frost flapped a hand to silence him. ‘Keep bleeding quiet and pray.’ What excuse could he use… they’d heard a burglar so they broke into the house the back way? Sod it. Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a flaming lamb. He dialled the last digit. And nothing happened. He’d risked everything for sod all.
They stood in the dark, waiting to be caught red-handed. For a brief moment there was screaming silence. No – not silence!
Very faintly, powered by the dying breath of a failing battery, the mobile was ringing. He had dialled Debbie’s number and it was ringing. It was Debbie’s phone!
They had to get out unseen. Once out he would get a search warrant, turn the house over and ‘find’ the phone. If they were caught inside the house, Kelly’s brief could claim the evidence was planted.
Downstairs the front door opened. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. The toilet door opened and closed. The sound of someone being violently sick. One in the toilet, but where was the other one?
Kelly’s voice called, ‘Are you all right up there?’ He began ascending the stairs.
This is it, thought Frost. We’ve bloody had it.
Then there was a hammering at the front door. ‘Police. Open up.’
Kelly paused on the stairs. ‘Police?’ he echoed. ‘What the hell do you want?’
Footsteps retreated down the stairs. The door unlatched and opened.
PC Simms’s voice announced, ‘Sorry to bother you, sir. Is that your car on the forecourt?’
‘What if it bloody is? Is it an offence to park your own bloody car on your own bloody forecourt?’
‘We’d like you to check it, sir. We just spotted someone trying to break into the boot.’
‘The bastard. Did you get him?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Typical, bloody typical.’
Footsteps crunched on the gravel outside. Frost could hear muffled voices Kelly was on the forecourt.
I owe you one, Simms, thought Frost.
He listened to more sounds of retching from the toilet. ‘Come on, Taff. We’re going!’ They tiptoed down the stairs. Halfway across the living room, Frost stopped dead. ‘Shit.’
He was still holding Debbie’s bleeding mobile!
Prat, prat, stupid flaming prat! If he couldn’t get the damn thing back before Kelly returned it would be curtains. There would be no way they could use the phone as evidence – assuming he hadn’t been booted out of the force long before then.
‘What’s up, Guv? Why have we stopped?’
‘Don’t ask flaming questions. Wait for me in the car.’
‘But Guv – ’
‘For Pete’s sake, Taffy – go! And if I’m not out in a couple of minutes, leave me, get the hell out of here.’
‘But Guv – ’
‘Don’t argue, Taffy, just bloody do it!’ He shoved Morgan out of the way and spun on his heel to charge back up the stairs. He knew he was making a noise, but hoped vomiting Vera in the karzy would be too preoccupied with throwing up to notice.
The muffled voices from outside suddenly died. Flaming heck. Was Kelly coming back in? ‘Please, Simms,’ he prayed, ‘keep him out there for another minute – fifty seconds, anything…’
He replaced the mobile in the airing cupboard with fumbling fingers. As he dashed back down the stairs, the voices outside started up again. Reprieved, but for how long?
Through the living room into the kitchen, out into the garden, running like hell. Halfway up the garden he heard the car starting up. No Taffy – please, no!
Slamming the back gate behind him, he saw the rear lights of the car moving off.
Sod making a noise. ‘Taffy!’ he yelled.
Thank God! The Welsh git had heard him. The car stopped and backed at speed, then screamed to a stop. Frost hurled himself in and lay speechless, panting at Taffy’s side, sucking in air and rubbing the stitch in his side.
‘Drive,’ he gasped.
As they sped round the corner, they could see the area car with two uniformed men walking round Kelly’s Citroen. The driver’s window had been smashed. ‘Good old Simms,’ said Frost. He leaned over and punched the horn as they passed. Behind Kelly’s back, Simms fluttered a hand of acknowledgement.
‘Can we go home now, Guv?’ yawned Morgan. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘No we flaming can’t,’ said Frost. ‘But to compensate, tomorrow’s going to be a short day because I doubt you’ll be in bed much before noon.’