The search warrant was waiting for him on his desk. He stuffed it in his pocket and was giving his chin a quick going-over with the electric razor when the door creaked open and a death-warmed-up DC Morgan staggered in, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, clothing soiled and crumpled and reeking of stale spirits and vomit. 'Good morning, vicar,' said Frost.
A sickly grin from Morgan. He flopped into a chair, wincing at the pain from his throbbing head.
'So what happened last night?' Frost asked.
The act of furrowing his brow in an effort to remember made Morgan wince again. 'It's all a bit vague, guv. There was this young lady and we had a drink…'
'Another bit of crumpet?' said Frost. 'You can't leave them alone, can you?'
'It's difficult to say no when they waggle it under your nose, guv.' He winced yet again as his fingers touched his forehead and found the gash. 'I remember getting into the car and driving off, but it gets a bit hazy after that.' He listened, looking more and more shamefaced as Frost quickly filled him in.
'It must have been those painkillers from the dentist… they make you drowsy.'
'Only if you're well pissed to start with,' said Frost, pulling on his mac. 'Get off home and clean yourself up before Mullett sees you. He's already given me a bollocking for looking like a tramp and I'm Beau Brummell compared to you. Stay away from the station. Report to Sergeant Hanlon and join the search for the missing kid.'
'Right, guv… sorry, guv… owe you one, guv.' He sidled out as PC Jordan came in.
'Was that a tramp or Taffy Morgan?' he asked.
'Both,' grunted Frost. 'SOCO and Forensic ready?'
'In the van and waiting.'
'Right,' said Frost. 'Let's pay our respects to Mr Weaver.'
'A search warrant?' blinked Weaver, staring at the document Frost had thrust into his hand. He had been roused from his bed by their hammerings and was still tying the cord round a grey dressing-gown. 'But this isn't necessary, Inspector. I told you yesterday, you can search where you like.'
'You are too kind, sir. I wish all citizens were as decent and co-operative as you.' Frost jerked a thumb to his team. 'Start with the upstairs rooms.'
Weaver watched in dismay as Forensic and Rawlings, the Scenes of Crime Officer, thundered up the stairs. 'It's a mess up there, I'm afraid.'
'Don't worry yourself,' beamed Frost amiably. 'It'll be a lot more of a bleeding mess when they've finished.' He took Weaver by the arm and led him to the small kitchen where PC Jordan was opening and shutting drawers. 'We can talk in here, sir.' He noticed a bag of boiled sweets on the table. Sherbet limes. He hadn't had sherbet limes since he was a kid. 'Are these yours, sir?'
'Yes,' snapped Weaver, snatching the bag from him. 'They're mine. I don't use them to lure young children in here, if that's what you're implying.'
'I wasn't implying any such thing, sir,' said Frost. 'I was hoping you'd offer me one.' He pushed Weaver into a chair then pulled a wad of photographs from his pocket and began to deal them out on the table, like a hand of cards. As each photograph was laid down, Weaver flinched. 'I believe these are yours, sir?'
Weaver shrank away as if he wanted nothing to do with them. 'Not mine, Inspector – definitely not mine.'
Frost looked across to Jordan in mock exasperation. 'We've boobed again, Constable. These aren't the gentleman's photographs.' He turned back to Weaver. 'I can't apologize enough, sir, so if you'll just explain why your fingerprints are all over them and how it was you were seen dumping them in the canal last night, we'll say no more about it.' He folded his arms and waited.
Weaver had gone the colour of chalk. He hung his head and mumbled to the table top. 'All right, Inspector. Yes, they are mine. To my deep shame I get pleasure from studying photographs of children…'
'Naked children,' corrected Frost.
'Yes. It sounds bad, but it's harmless. I just like to look at photographs, that's all. After you called here yesterday I was concerned you would find them and get the wrong idea, so I decided to get rid of them.'
'Did you take any of them yourself, sir?'
A quick shake of the head. 'Oh dear me, no. I bought them.'
'From a man in a pub you'd never seen before?'
Weaver gave a thin smile. 'Something like that. I paid cash. I don't know his name.'
Frost nodded as if he accepted this. 'Fair enough, sir. But something puzzles me. If I liked to dribble over photographs of bare young flesh, like you, I don't think I'd turn away a seven-year-old girl who knocks at my door and begs to be photographed. I'd have her stripped off and my Box Brownie out before you could say "Cheese".'
Weaver flushed angrily. 'You can believe what you like, Inspector, but I told you exactly what happened. She never came into the house.' The sound of nails wrenched from wood coming from above made him start. 'What is that?'
'That's the floorboards coming up – in case you forgot to tell us about the body.'
Weaver smiled. 'You can tear the place apart, Inspector. There is no body here.'
It doesn't have to be a body,' Frost told him. 'We'll settle for a single hair, a shred of clothing. DNA can do the rest.'
The mention of DNA had the same effect on Weaver as it had on Bernie Green. He began twitching in agitation. 'DNA?'
'One hair, that's all they need, sir – they'll be disappointed if they find a body. They get paid extra for doing DNA tests.'
Weaver pulled the dressing-gown tighter around him. He was shaking, but not from the cold. 'There's something I should tell you.'
'My ear-hole is at your disposal, sir.' Frost sat in the chair opposite him and pulled out a cigarette, but remembering Weaver's asthma, reluctantly shoved it back in the packet.
'I'm afraid I didn't quite tell you the truth…'He paused. Frost said nothing. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Weaver's tongue moistened dry lips. 'I did let her in. It was foolish of me, but she seemed such a sweet little girl. I did take her photograph -fully clothed, of course – and then she left. Even though it was innocent and harmless, when I learnt she was missing, I panicked and threw the photographs away.'
'And the film?'
'I threw that away as well.'
Frost stared hard at him. Weaver wouldn't meet his I gaze. 'And what about the other little girl, Vicky Stuart?'
'I know nothing about her. I've never seen her. It was just Jenny, I swear it.'
'Inspector!' PC Simms was calling from the top of I the stairs. 'Would you come up and have a look at this, please.'
Frost thudded up the stairs. Simms, in Weaver's bedroom, had pulled the wardrobe away from the wall. Sellotaped to the back was a large manila envelope. Frost felt it. There seemed to be photographs inside. He yelled for Weaver to be brought up. 'Any idea what this contains, sir?'
Weaver collapsed on the bed and buried his face in his hands. Frost removed the envelope and shook out the contents. A series of black and white photographs of a young girl, some semi-clothed, others in the nude. The girl was Jenny Brewer.
Frost rammed the photographs in Weaver's face. 'You couldn't bear to part with them, could you? All| right, you bastard, where is she? What have you done to her?'
Weaver flinched and sniffed back tears. I've done nothing with her. She was alive when she left I here.'
'You're lying,' snarled Frost. 'You lie until you're found out, and then you lie some more to cover up your lies. Where is she?'
Weaver shook his head, knuckling his eyes.
'Charles Edward Weaver,' intoned Frost, I'm arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the disappearance of Jenny Brewer…' He tailed off. He I never could remember the words of the new caution and had to step back so Simms could finish it off for him.
'This is a nightmare,' blubbed Weaver. 'I'm innocent.'
'Take the innocent bastard away,' said Frost.
The cleaners had given the interview room a flick over. Its permanent smell of sweat, old socks and stale cigarette smoke was now tinged with pine disinfectant. Frost squeaked a chair across the brown lino and plonked himself down opposite Weaver. As he waited while Simms set up the cassette recorder, he rammed a cigarette in his mouth and lit up without thinking. One puff before Weaver was coughing, spluttering and flapping his hand to clear away the smoke. 'Please, Inspector – my asthma.'
Frost pinched out the cigarette and dropped it back in the packet. 'Sorry. Tell me about Jenny.'
'She saw me in the street with my camera and wanted her photograph taken…'
'When was this?'
'A few weeks ago. I told her no, but she kept knocking at my door. In the end, I let her in.'
'Why?'
'She looked so pitiful. I felt sorry for her. I didn't intend taking those photographs. It just happened.'
'She just happened to strip off and you just happened to have your camera handy?'
Weaver bowed his head and didn't answer.
'Did she do it for free?'
'I gave her sweets. I bought her little gifts, annuals, toys…'
'Clothes?'
'A red dress. She kept it at my place.'
'Why?'
'Jenny didn't want her mother to know.'
'And you didn't want her mother to know what you were doing with her daughter. So you paid the kid? You bought her presents to entice her to come?'
Weaver stared at the wall behind Frost and shrugged. 'If you want to put it that way.'
'Where is the red dress?'
'I burnt it.'
'What time did Jenny arrive on the day she disappeared?'
'A little after four. She came straight from school.'
'What time did she leave?'
'About a quarter to five. She said she had to get round to her grandmother's house. It was raining, so if gave her a pound for the bus fare.'
'How did she leave – the front way… the back way?'
'The back way. She said she didn't want any of her school friends to see her.'
'And you didn't want the neighbours to see her either.'
Weaver gave a wry smile. 'You know how neighbours talk.'
'With good bloody reason in this case. Let's pretend you're telling the truth. What do you reckon happened to her after she left you?'
Weaver spread his hands. 'I don't know, but if I were you, I'd start questioning her mother's boyfriend. Jenny told me he used to hit her. I saw bruises.'
Frost brought out the photo of the first missing girl. 'I'm showing the suspect a photograph of Vicky Stuart,' he told the tape. 'Tell me about Vicky.'
Weaver sighed. 'How many more times… I have never, ever in my life seen or spoken to that child. Jenny was the only one and I never so much as laid a finger on her.'
'Call me a sentimental old fool, if you like,' said Frost, 'but I think you're a bleeding liar. I think know damn well where they are.'
Weaver shook his head as if in sorrow. 'I'm sorry you don't believe me, Inspector. I can only tell the truth and the truth is I don't know anything about them other than what I have told you.'
Frost's lip curled contemptuously. 'Are they dead? Is that why you won't tell us where they are?' He jerked his head round angrily as someone knocked at the door of the interview room. The red light was on and he was interviewing a murder suspect. He flicked a finger for Simms to see who it was.
It was Sergeant Bill Wells who waved Simms aside and beckoned urgently to Frost to come outside. 'The hospital phoned, Jack. Weaver's mother has taken a turn for the worse. They think he should get over there right away.'
Frost found a dog-end in his pocket and took a couple of quick drags before grinding it underfoot. 'The bleeding woman picks her moments to go critical.' He went back in. 'Bit of bad news for you, Mr Weaver, I'm afraid.'
No other cars were available, so Frost had to drive him to the hospital, deliberately taking a route which led past Denton Woods, slowing down as they passed lines of men and women painstakingly searching for the missing Jenny Brewer. 'Tell us where she is,' he pleaded.
Weaver, staring out of the window, sighed. 'If I could, I would. I just don't know.'
'Her mother is desperate.'
'Her mother is a cow and the boyfriend used to beat her up. You should be questioning them, not wasting your time with me.'
The car crawled past another group, breaths smoking in the cold air, as they pushed through waist-high grass and bramble.
'There was a funeral in our street last week,' said Frost. 'Little boy of three, run over by a bus. The wreath from his mum and dad was in the shape of a kiddy's scooter – his favourite toy. It broke my heart.'
'It would have broken mine as well,' said Weaver, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. 'I'm terribly sentimental about things like that.'
Crocodile tears, thought Frost gloomily. How the hell do I get through to the sod? Weaver lay back in his seat, looking relaxed, but as they approached the hospital Frost sensed the man was tightening up, looking slightly uneasy. 'Anything wrong, Mr Weaver?'
'Wrong? No, of course not. Just worried about my mother.'
The denial was a little too strong. Weaver was uneasy about the hospital. The kid was somewhere in the hospital's sprawling grounds. He'd tell Hanlon to make the search of the grounds a priority.
Once through the main entrance Frost had a job keeping up with Weaver as he hurried to his mother's ward. They climbed stairs, passed ward after ward, then a sharp turn to the right. 'This is it,' Weaver announced. He trotted in, only to stop abruptly and turn to Frost in dismay. A complete stranger, another woman, was in his mother's bed. The old girl's croaked, thought Frost gloomily, but a nurse tripped across to explain that the old lady had been moved to a side ward where she would be more comfortable.
The nurse took them to a small, single-bedded room where an old woman, her face as white as the hospital sheets, lay with her eyes closed, mumbling to herself. 'Visitors for you, Mrs Weaver,' said the nurse breezily. The old woman made no sign that she had heard. 'Stay as long as you like,' smiled the nurse to Weaver. Frost stiffened. Deja vu Those words. This room… It was the same bloody room. He knew every inch of it: that same zigzag crack in the ceiling over the bed, the peeling white paint on the skirting board. This was the room where they had put his wife so her dying wouldn't disturb the rest of the ward and where she could be quickly wheeled across the corridor to the big lift down to the mortuary without upsetting the other patients. 'Stay as long as you like, Mr Frost.' This was the room where he had sat, staring at the blank walls day after day, night after night, waiting for her to die. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. He felt suffocated and wanted to get out.
Weaver, seated in the chair by the bed, was talking quietly to his mother whose eyes had fluttered open. He took her hand, the parchment skin showing a map of thin blue veins, and gently stroked it. 'It's me, mother – Charles.' If she knew he was there she gave no sign. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as if she was trying to say something, then the eyes fluttered shut… just the way Frost's wife's eyes would flutter shut.
Frost backed away to the door. I'll leave you to it for a while,' he whispered, almost feeling sorry for the poor sod. Outside he sucked in fresh air, then wandered off to a side passage where he could smoke without the nurses seeing him, staring, eyes half closed against the smoke, through the fourth-floor window to the surrounding countryside. At this height he was above the mist and could see clumps of it in the hollows clinging to the ground and then, suddenly emerging from it, a line of searchers looking for the girl. He switched his gaze down to the hospital grounds. To his left stood the old nurses' home, now empty, ready to be demolished. Lots of sheds and outbuildings, plenty of places to hide a seven-year-old girl's body. Weaver would often visit the hospital when it was dark.
He pulled out his phone to call Hanlon, remembering in time that mobiles weren't allowed within the hospital as they could interfere with medical equipment. He took the lift to the ground floor, then walked outside, dialling Hanlon's number.
'We've already done the hospital grounds, Jack,'' Hanlon told him.
'I want them done thoroughly.'
'They were done thoroughly,' protested Hanlon.
'Do them again,' Frost ordered. 'This is where the kid is… I know it.'
'I don't want to pull men off other areas at this stage, Jack, areas we haven't searched yet.'
'All right.' He pinched out the cigarette and dropped it back in his pocket. 'But as soon as you've got a team free, I want them here. Pander my whim, Arthur, I've got one of my nasty feelings.'
Back again to the fourth floor where he peeked in on Weaver who was still sitting by the bed talking to her in a low, gentle tone. 'I've got your room waiting; all ready for when you come home, mother… and Aunt Maisie sends her love…' The old woman's eyes remained closed and she wasn't hearing him.
Frost looked at his watch, surprised to see they had only been here for ten minutes. Time was crawling, just as it did when he visited his wife. He went out for another cigarette, then remembered he was supposed to be covering the armed robbery case for Liz Maud while she was away so wandered up to the fifth floor to talk to the old boy who had tackled the robber and got shot in the legs for his trouble.
'He left this morning,' the nurse told him. 'Discharged himself.' Frost made a mental note to find time to see him at his home. A slight chance he might remember a bit more about the gunman.
He gave Weaver another half-hour, then drove him back to the station. The man seemed withdrawn, but looked up and pushed a smile. 'I think my mother looked a bit better today. Now they've moved her to that private room she'll get better in leaps and bounds, I know she will.'
Frost gave a non-committal grunt. 'We're going to search the hospital grounds,' he announced. 'We reckon that's where you've put the girl.' He pretended to be looking straight ahead, but watched Weaver out of the corner of his eye. The man didn't seem at all worried.
'I hope you find her, Inspector. And I hope you find her alive and well, then you can stop wasting your time on me and get after the real culprit.'
Frost felt the slightest flicker of doubt as to Weaver's guilt, but his gut feeling shook this off. The sod was as guilty as sin. He drove through the red light area, realizing that until they found the girl, they didn't have the resources to do much, if anything, about the serial killer. Sod Mullett and his generosity in giving away half the bloody station staff to County.
Sergeant Bill Wells slammed shut the door to Weaver's cell then chalked the time on the small blackboard outside. 'You can't hold him much longer without charging him, Jack,' he told Frost.
Frost nodded gloomily. 'We need a body. I can't charge him with murder unless we find the kid.' He followed Wells back to the front desk where the internal phone was ringing. Wells answered it. 'Mr Mullett is getting edgy at the build-up of overtime, Jack. Wants an itemized breakdown of the possible total sum involved on a day by day basis.'
'I'll have a bleeding breakdown if he doesn't get off my back,' said Frost, edging towards the door. 'Tell him I've just gone out, and I may be some little time.' The outside phone rang. He waited as Wells answered it in case it was one of the search teams.
'It's that old boy who was injured in the armed raid, Jack. Says he's received some money in the post.. reckons it's from the bloke who shot him.'
'Right,' said Frost, glad of a legitimate excuse to go out. 'I might not be back until after Mr Mullett's gone home…'
The old boy, Herbert Daniels, his leg heavily bandaged and reeking of hospital antiseptic, opened the front door as far as the security chain would permit and stared at Frost's warrant card. 'You're not the woman policeman.'
'You're too bleeding observant,' said Frost. 'Can I come in?'
He followed Daniels into a tiny living-room where a huge coal fire roared away. The room was like a tropical greenhouse and Frost was soon unwinding his scarf and shucking off his mac. He pulled a chair further away from the fire and sat down. 'Understand you've had some money, Mr Daniels?'
Daniels handed Frost a padded envelope. 'Came yesterday morning.' Inside was a wad of used banknotes, some speckled with white paint. 'Five hundred quid in there,' Daniels told him. 'I counted it – and there's a message.'
A folded sheet of paper with handwritten block capitals read: 'SORRY. WE DIDN'T MEAN ANYONE TO GET HURT.'
'Sorry!' snorted Daniels. 'They shoot your bloody leg off and say sorry… hanging and bleeding flogging, that's what they want.'
'But preferably not in that order,' murmured Frost. He was studying the address on the envelope, also handwritten in capitals, 'HERBERT GEORGE DANIELS, 2 CLOSE COURT, DENTON'. He looked across at the old boy who was carefully arranging his injured leg on a stool. 'How long have you lived in Denton, Mr Daniels?'
'Just over a month. Came here from Leeds when my wife died. I wish I hadn't now – nutcases with bloody guns. Wouldn't have happened in my day – we had the death penalty then.'
'Do you have any friends in Demon?'
'Years ago, but they're all dead now.'
'Relatives?'
'My son's in Australia, there's no-one else.'
'I see.' Frost chewed on his knuckle. 'Have you joined any organizations or clubs since you've been in Demon?'
'The Denton Senior Citizens' Club. I go there a couple of days a week for a game of draughts and me dinner.'
'Do you know anyone there?'
'An old boy called Maggs, that's all. I play draughts with him… Why?'
Frost tapped the envelope. 'Whoever sent this money knew your middle name and your address. You're not yet in the phone book or on the voting register, so how did they get it?'
Daniels shrugged. 'I expect they got it from somewhere.'
'Yes, I expect they did,' said Frost. 'I hadn't thought of that.' His trouser legs were scorching from the heat of the fire so he moved the chair even further back, then fumbled for a cigarette, but decided against it. Only two left in the packet and the old sod might expect to be offered one. 'You haven't joined any other clubs, have you – clubs you'd rather not talk about?'
The old man scowled at him angrily. 'What the hell do you mean?'
'Strip clubs… blue film clubs?'
'That's a flaming insult.'
'Whoever sent the money must have got your full name and address from somewhere, Mr Daniels, and a strip club would be the sort of place they might frequent.'
'Well, it ain't the bloody place I frequent.' Daniels couldn't tell Frost any more about the gunman than the brief description he had already given, so the inspector took his leave.
After the sauna bath atmosphere of the old man's room, the freezing cold air outside hit him like a plunge in icy water. He hurried to the car and tried unsuccessfully to get the heater to work. The interior still held the smell of stale spirits and vomit after his previous night's escapade with Morgan but there was no way he was going to open the window to let fresh air in. He wound his scarf tighter and was half-way back to the station when he stopped. A thought had struck him. He wondered if the other old boy – the one who was shot and had his car pinched -had also received money from the robbers. He was keeping quiet about it if he had. He radioed the station for the name and address. 'And get someone to check the membership lists of all the strip clubs and so on to see if Daniels is on them.' The old boy may have denied it, but best to make certain. He swung the car round and made for the other shotgun victim's house.
Mrs Redwood, thin and frail and in her seventies, peered nervously at the warrant card.
'Inspector Frost? Where's that nice young lady?'
'She's off sick. Just a quickie. Have you had any money sent to you in the post?'
She blinked. 'Money? No – why?'
'The gentleman who was shot had some money sent to him by the gunman.'
'Well, they didn't send us any and we wouldn't have kept it if they did. It wasn't their money, it was stolen.'
'If you do receive anything, please let us know.
How's your husband?'
'In pain, but recovering. Did you want to see him?' 'No thanks,' said Frost hurriedly. He'd had enough of old boys with their legs bandaged for one day.
PC Collier was waiting for him in his office. He had drawn a blank with the various Denton clubs he had phoned. Frost plonked in the chair and scratched his chin. 'So where did they get his name and address from?'
'The milkman? The newsagent?' suggested Collier. A firm headshake from Frost. 'The milkman or the newsagent don't bother taking down your middle name.' He drummed his fingers on the desk then pulled the note sent to Daniels from his pocket and read it aloud. ' "We didn't mean anyone to get hurt." It doesn't add up.'
'I don't follow,' said Collier.
'They say they didn't mean anyone to get hurt, yet they shoot the other old sod in the legs and pinch his car. They meant to hurt him all right, but didn't send him any money.'
'Probably don't know his address,' said Collier. 'If they found Daniels' address, they could find his bloody address.' Frost stared up at the ceiling. Something was nagging away at the back of his brain… He dug deeply into his memory, then snapped his fingers. 'Cordwell – the bloke who owns the mini-mart, didn't he prosecute some old age pensioner recently – caught her shoplifting? There was a stink about it in the paper.'
'That's right,' nodded Collier. 'Old dear got fined Ј200… Not her first offence.'
'I think her name was Maggs, son. Check it for me. It's important.'
As he waited for Collier, he rummaged through his in-tray, discarding all memos he didn't have time or the patience to deal with – mostly memos from Mullett starting with 'May I remind you…'or 'When may I expect…?' That chore done, he stared out of the window. Barely three o'clock and already starting to get dark with a thick mist descending again. The search parties wouldn't be able to work for much longer. Had Hanlon searched the hospital grounds again yet? He looked up as Collier returned. 'You're right, Inspector. Mrs Ruby Maggs.'
Frost interlaced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair, beaming with delight. 'And Maggs is the old boy Daniels plays draughts with at the geriatrics' club. He'd know Daniels' address and he'd have a lovely grudge to bear against Cordwell who owns the mini-mart.'
'You're not suggesting Maggs was the bloke with the shotgun?' asked Collier. 'The man whose car they pinched said he was a lot younger.'
'Maggs could have a son, or a grandson, and got them to do it for him.' Once Frost had a theory he was reluctant to let it go. He snatched his scarf from the peg. He was feeling pleased with himself. Great to have this all tied up for Liz Maud when she returned. 'Come on, son, let's go.'
It took some time for Maggs to open the door. His laboured breathing and cries of 'I'm coming, I'm coming' seemed to go on for ever as he creaked his way up the passage. The front door opened to reveal a man in his late seventies, gasping for breath and leaning heavily on a stick. He was surprised to see Frost. 'I thought you were the District Nurse.'
'People often mistake me,' said Frost. He showed his warrant card. 'A couple of words, if you don't mind.'
Mrs Maggs, looking even frailer than her husband, was huddled in a chair by the fire. 'Police?' she gasped in alarm, holding a heavily veined hand to her mouth. 'We're sending the money off for the fine today. I'm sorry it's taken so long, but-'
'It's nothing to do with that, Mrs Maggs,' cut in Frost. 'It's about that robbery at the mini-mart.'
Husband and wife looked at each other. 'We read about that, didn't we, dear?' she said.
'Yes,' agreed Maggs. 'Gave me the biggest laugh I've had for ages. That sod Cordwell deserved to be robbed.' He held his wife's hand and squeezed it tight. 'Pity they didn't take more.'
'It was a friend of yours who was shot, Mr Maggs,' Frost told him. 'Mr Daniels.'
Maggs frowned. 'Who's Daniels?'
'Your draughts-playing friend.'
'Oh – you mean Bert? I never knew his second name. Oh dear. I never knew it was him.' He shook his head in dismay. 'How is he?'
'Not too badly hurt.' Frost heaved himself out of the chair. This was a waste of time. Maggs seemed genuine in not knowing Daniels' full name. Another theory flushed down the pan. 'I won't bother you any more, Mr Maggs.' And then he saw it. Behind the clock on the mantelpiece, a large brown envelope, the name and address handwritten in block capitals. He leaned over and pulled it out. Yes, identical to the one received by Daniels. It was empty.
Grunting with pain, Maggs rose and snatched it from him. 'That's personal!'
'Where's the money?' asked Frost.
Mrs Maggs, visibly distressed, was staring open-mouthed at her husband whose hand was shaking vigorously, bidding her to keep quiet. 'What money?'
'Was there a note with it?'
'We know nothing about no note. This is private, none of your business.'
Frost looked at them both. The man defiant, the woman close to tears. No point in bullying them into an admission. It was obvious they too had been sent part of the robbery money and he now had a bloody good idea who had sent it. He buttoned up his mac. 'All right, Mr Maggs. I might need to talk to you again… but in the meantime, don't spend any of the money you didn't receive.'
Collier drove him to the Redwoods' house where Mrs Redwood seemed surprised to see him back so soon. 'A couple of points I should have cleared earlier, Mrs Redwood. Can I come in?'
Her husband, wearing a dressing-gown over pyjamas, sat in the living-room, his bandaged leg up on a stool. Frost declined the offer of a cup of tea. He smiled sympathetically. 'How are you feeling, Mr Redwood?'
His wife answered for him. 'He's still in a lot of pain but he's healing slowly.'
'Good,' said Frost.
Redwood eased his leg to a more comfortable position. 'Are you any closer to catching the swines ' that did it?'
'Very close,' Frost told him. 'In fact, we hope to make an arrest today – which is why I'm here.' He was studying the old man's face and noticed the slight start his words had produced.
'That's good news, Inspector,' said the wife, putting an arm round the old man's shoulders.
'How's Mr Daniels?' asked Redwood.
'Not too bad,' said Frost. 'Good job you had the gun pointing down.'
The man's head snapped up. 'Me?'
'Did I say "you"?' said Frost, sounding surprised he could make such a stupid mistake. 'I meant the armed robber.' He shook his head in annoyance with himself. 'I've so many things running through my mind, I get confused. They sent him money, did you know?'
'You told my wife earlier.'
'Did they send you any?'
'No – and if they did I wouldn't have accepted it.'
'Mr Daniels is not going to accept it either. They also sent a wad of money to a bloke called Maggs. He goes to your Senior Citizens' Club, doesn't he?'
'The name rings a vague bell.' Redwood was no longer looking up at Frost.
Frost scratched his chin. 'I wonder why they didn't send you any? You suffered more than Daniels… they nicked your car as well.'
Redwood shrugged and shook his head. 'No idea.'
Frost dragged a chair over and sat next to the old man, giving him one of his disarming smiles. 'You couldn't post it to yourself, I suppose. What did you do with the rest of the money?'
Redwood dropped his gaze. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he mumbled.
But his wife could stand the strain no longer. 'For God's sake tell him… he knows anyway.' She broke down and sobbed.
Redwood took her hand and held it tightly, then raised his eyes to Frost. 'It all went wrong,' he told the inspector. 'Fire the gun up in the ceiling to frighten the life out of them, grab the money and run. It should have been all over in seconds. But Daniels had to act the bloody hero and grabs for the gun. I never meant the damn thing to go off… he got half the pellets in his leg, I got the rest in mine.'
'How did you know the security cameras weren't working that night?'
Redwood gawped, wide-eyed with dismay. 'Not working? You mean you didn't have our car on video?'
'We had sod all on video. Are you saying you didn't know it was out of action?'
'I didn't even know they had security cameras until we were driving away and my wife spotted them.' He gave an apologetic smile. 'I suppose we're not really cut out for this sort of thing.'
'I've known it done better,' said Frost. 'What have you done with the money?'
'We sent it anonymously to charities. We didn't want it.'
Frost frowned. 'Then why the hell did you pinch it in the first place?'
'That damn man Cordwell who runs the supermarket chain, he's raking in millions and he take people like poor old Mrs Maggs to court for stealing; couple of packets of biscuits. There was another old dear a few months ago. Rather than face the disgrace of going to court, she took an overdose. We were angry. We wanted to make him pay.'
'Cordwell wouldn't have felt a bloody thing,' said Frost, 'and he would have got all the money bags from his insurance company anyway. Bastards like him always win. What happened after you drove away?'
'It was all panic. Connie told me we were on that damn security camera… paint from the carrier bag all over the seat, shotgun pellets in my leg and I was terrified I might have killed Mr Daniels.' His face screwed up at the pain of the recollection. 'It was Connie's idea that we made up the story about the car being hijacked and the man shooting at me. She left me in the woods while she went off to hide the car, then she phoned the police.'
'You say you sent the bulk of the money off to charities?'
'Yes. Connie parcelled it up and sent it anonymously.'
Frost pulled out a pen. 'Which charities?'
They looked at each other. 'Will it make any difference to what sentence we get if I tell you?' asked the man.
Frost shrugged. 'Probably not.'
'Then let them keep it. I suppose you'll take the money back from old Maggs?'
'He denies receiving it,' said Frost, 'and if you deny sending him any, there's not much we can do.'
'Then I didn't send him any.'
'Fair enough,' nodded Frost. 'Then the charities got it all.' He stood up. 'I've got to take you in.' He sounded almost apologetic.
Redwood's arm tightened around his wife, who looked ready to collapse. 'What will happen to us?'
'You'll give us a statement, then you'll be charged, then you'll probably be released on police bail pending the court hearing.'
The man blinked in dismay. 'We won't go to prison, will we?'
'It was armed robbery,' said Frost. 'If only you hadn't used that loaded bleeding gun you might have got off with a caution.'
'We thought it would make it more realistic.'
'Well it certainly took me in,' grunted Frost, 'especially when you nearly shot that poor sod's leg off.' His voice softened. 'I don't know what sort of sentence you'll get, but play up your motive and keep limping on that bad leg and wincing. The judge might mink you've suffered enough.' He was helping the man on with his coat when he remembered what he should have asked earlier. 'Where's the shotgun?'
'Locked away in the cupboard under the stairs,' Redwood told him. 'Shall I go and fetch it?'
'No,' said Frost hastily. He didn't want the old boy to return with the gun and demand a fast car and a plane. I'll get one of our firearms blokes round to pick it up.'
Redwood raised his chin so his wife could wind a long woollen scarf round his neck. 'The key's in the bureau with the shotgun licence.'
'Shotgun licence?' echoed Frost.
'A police shotgun licence. I suppose that's how you got on to us in the first place?'
'Yes lied Frost. 'It was the first thing I thought of.'
'Another case solved then, Jack?' beamed Police Sergeant Wells.
'I can solve other people's cases, but can't solve my own.' He pulled a face. 'A couple of geriatric Bonnie and Clydes trying to do Cordwell one in the eye. If there was any justice the poor sods should have got away with it.' He scribbled a note and attached it to the case file. 'Liz Maud can have the credit when she comes back. I don't mind solving her cases, but I'm damned if I'm going to do her paperwork.'
'That cow solves more cases when she's away then when she's here,' sniffed Wells.
Frost stared out of the window. It was getting dark and the mist was thickening. 'I think I'll go and see how the search parties are doing.'