The door was opened by WPG June Purdy, a bouncy little brunette in her mid-twenties. Frost was glad Morgan wasn't with him. The DC would have been panting all over her like a dog on heat. He wouldn't mind doing a bit of panting himself, but this wasn't the time. 'Fill me in, love,' he asked.
'Eleven-year-old Tony Scotney. Went to school today as usual, never came home for his tea, and they haven't seen him since.' She was not one to waste words.
Frost rammed a cigarette in his mouth. 'Why didn't they report it earlier?'
'They suspected he'd sneaked off to the cinema straight from school… he's done it before, apparently.'
She led Frost into the living-room where the father, dark-haired, early forties, a permanent frown creasing his forehead, was pacing up and down. The mother, a few years younger, sat huddled up in an armchair, biting her lip to stop the tears and drumming her fingers incessantly.
'For God's sake, stop that,' snapped her husband. He looked up anxiously as Frost came in. 'Any news?'
'We're still looking,' said Frost. He hadn't organized a separate search, but the teams searching for the girl had been alerted. 'We need a photograph.'
Silently, the mother handed over a photograph taken at the school around the same time as that of the missing Jenny Brewer. A boy, dark-haired like his father with a hint of devilment in his eyes. He stuffed it in his pocket. No-one was inviting him to sit, so he plonked himself down in a chair near the fire and loosened his scarf. 'I understand Tony's done this son of thing before?'
'He's never stayed out this late,' said the woman.
'The little sod,' shouted his father. I'll wring his bloody neck.' He stopped as worry overcame anger, then took his wife's hand and patted it gently.
'When did you last see Tony?' asked Frost.
The mother answered him. 'Lunchtime. He wanted to see the new Walt Disney at the Regal, but he was rude to me, so I said no. He started shouting at me and stamped off.'
'You've checked with his friends?'
'The first thing I did,' said the father. 'He left them after school and told them he was going to see the film.'
'Would he have had the money to go?'
The mother shook her head. 'I wouldn't give it to him. In the past he would have taken it from my purse when I wasn't looking, but now I don't give him the chance… I always keep it with me.'
'You're sure there was nothing missing from your purse today?'
'Positive. There were only notes in it and they're still all there.'
'You checked with the cinema?'
'Of course I did,' snapped the father. 'Went with the manager and we looked everywhere… he wasn't there.' He stared at the floor and shook his head. 'The little sod. If he's doing this just to teach us a lesson, I'll…" He left the sentence hanging and sprang to his feet, glaring at Frost. 'Questions, questions, questions.
You won't find him with bloody questions. I'm going out to look for him.' He barged out and they heard the front door slam.
'I'm sorry he's so rude,' said his wife. 'He's worried sick.'
Frost nodded sympathetically. He was bloody worried too. Two kids missing the same day. A paedophile gang operating in Denton? God, he hoped not. He shuddered at the thought, but kept his voice casual, trying to think of words to reassure her. 'We deal with missing children all the time, Mrs Scotney. The parents worry themselves sick, then nine times out of ten the kid comes swaggering back, as bold as brass.'
'But why would he stay out so late?'
'Perhaps he's afraid of what his father might do to him?' suggested Frost.
She shook her head and sniffed back her tears. 'His father's all talk… he threatens, but doesn't do anything. I sometimes think it would be better if-' The phone cut her short. With a gasp of hope, she snatched it up. 'Yes…?' Her face fell. 'No, mother, still no news… Please stay off the line.' She hung up. Her shoulders shook. She was crying.
Frost squeezed her shoulder. 'Don't worry, love. Tony's going to be all right, just you wait and see.' Empty words. How the hell did he know? But she knuckled away her tears and smiled bravely as if she believed him. _
He pulled the WPG to one side and lowered his voice. 'Stay with her, and while you're here, give the place a thorough going-over. The little sod could well be hiding somewhere just to pay them back.'
He let himself out. A heavy clammy mist was forming. Just the thing for a night bloody search. As he climbed in the car and turned up the heat, his radio buzzed. Bill Wells from the station. 'Didn't want to call you while you were in the house, Jack, in case the parents overheard. We think we've found the boy.'
Frost's stomach tightened into a hard knot. The sergeant's tone made it clear this was bad news. 'You think we've found him?'
'Kid answering his description taken to Denton Hospital. Victim of a hit and run…'
'Shit! Where did it happen?'
'The slip road running along Denton Woods.'
'Denton Woods? What the hell was he doing there?'
'No idea. We had a call from a motorist, wouldn't give his name. He told us where to find him. Said the kid ran straight out in front of his car, didn't give him a chance.'
'And how is the boy?'
'He's in intensive care, Jack. They don't expect him to pull through.' Wells paused. 'Someone's got to break the news to the parents.'
Frost looked back at the house. He didn't want to go back in there with this sort of news. 'A road accident? Traffic should do it.'
'With the search for the girl, we're thin on the ground, Jack – and you are on the spot.'
'Yes. Always in the right place at the wrong bleeding time.'
'Then you'll do it?'
'Yes, anything for a laugh.'
He took one last drag on his cigarette, pitched it out into the darkness, then went back to the house and jammed his thumb in the doorbell.
PC Jordan bumped the area car along the pot-holed short cut which would take them out of the woods and back on to the main road. He and Simms should have had their meal break half an hour ago but this hit and run accident had held them up. The mist was thickening and visibility shrinking fast. Simms had his head stuck out of the side window to ensure they didn't end up in the ditch running alongside the lane. Suddenly he pulled in his head. 'Stop the car!'
Jordan braked. 'What is it?'
'A car, no lights, parked among the bushes.'
Jordan groaned. 'Top bleeding marks for observation.' His stomach was rumbling, begging for food. 'All right, but let's make it quick. I'm starving.'
They climbed out and walked back to a dark grey BMW, not more than a year old. The doors were locked and no sign of the driver. Simms felt the bonnet. 'It's not been here long.'
'Joy-rider?' suggested Jordan.
'Joy-riders don't lock the bleeding thing up when they leave it. Better check it out.' While Jordan radioed Control Simms shone his torch inside. A mobile phone on the passenger seat next to a briefcase, nothing else.
'Not reported stolen,' said Jordan, giving the tyres a perfunctory kick. 'Can we go and get something to eat now?'
'The owner probably doesn't know it's missing yet,' said Simms. 'You don't abandon an expensive motor like this in the middle of the woods.'
'Perhaps it broke down?'
'He's got a mobile phone. He'd phone for assistance and wait in the warm.' He lifted his hand for silence. 'Did you hear that?'
From behind some bushes, a groan then the sound of someone being violently sick.
'Just what I wanted to give me an appetite for my supper,' moaned Jordan.
They waited by the BMW until a short, pasty-faced man in his early thirties, wearing a sheepskin-lined leather jacket, staggered from the bushes, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and dabbing sweat from his forehead. He started when he saw the two policemen, but managed to force a weak grin. 'I've been sick,' he explained.
'So we heard,' said Simms, holding out a hand. 'Driving licence, please, sir.'
The licence confirmed that the man was Patrick Thomas Morris, the registered owner of the car. Hoping that was the end of it, Jordan edged back to the area car, but Simms hadn't finished. His nose twitched. 'Have you been drinking, sir?'
The man looked even more unhappy. 'Drinking? No – a beer… just one beer…'
'I'm sure you're right, sir,' said Simms, 'but I'm sure you want us to check.' He fetched a breathalyser. Jordan watched anxiously while Morris blew into the mouthpiece. Let it be negative, he pleaded silently. I want my flaming supper. He suppressed a groan as the crystals changed colour.
Simms showed it to the man. 'More than one beer, sir – you must have miscounted. I'm afraid you will have to accompany us back to the station.'
'No – please.' The man was clasping his hands together beseechingly. 'I only had one beer while I was driving, I swear. But I then felt sick, so I stopped and took a sip of brandy to settle my stomach.' He pulled a flask from his hip pocket to show them. 'I wasn't going to drive any more. I was going to sleep it off in the car, I swear.'
Simms shot a questioning glance to Jordan who shrugged, indicating, I'm hungry – let the poor sod go.
Simms chewed it over, then nodded. What the hell. If they drove him back to the station he'd probably be sick all over the back of the area car and by the look of his greenish face there was a lot more to come up before the night was out. 'It's your lucky night, sir-' he began, but stopped in mid-sentence. Jordan, on his way back to the area car, was beckoning him over urgently. 'What's up?'
Jordan pointed. The front nearside wing of the BMW was dented and the headlamp glass shattered. 'Shit!' hissed Simms. They returned to the man, who was trying to appear unconcerned. 'Spot of damage to the front of your motor, sir. Haven't been in an accident, have you?'
'What, that?' The man attempted a weak laugh. 'Did that this morning – hit the gatepost when I drove out of the garage.'
'And been driving around all night with only one headlamp?' tutted Simms. 'That's a very serious offence.' His voice hardened. 'You didn't do it when you hit the boy, by any chance?'
'Boy? What boy?' Sweat was beading his forehead.
'The boy in intensive care. The boy you hit and sent flying… or are you too bloody drunk to remember?'
The man dabbed his face with his handkerchief again. 'I don't know what you're talking about, officer. I haven't hit anyone.'
'I think,' said Simms, taking his arm and steering him into the area car, 'we'd better take a little drive down to the station.'
The interview room was warm, almost too warm, but a welcome change for PC Collier who had been out pounding the beat in the cold. The man was pacing nervously up and down, from time to time mopping sweat from his face with a none-too-clean handkerchief. 'How much longer?' he demanded.
'The inspector should be here soon.'
'You've been saying that for the past half-hour. This is all a mistake. Do you think I could hit someone and not know it? I want a solicitor.'
'Ask the inspector when he comes in,' said Collier.
The door crashed open as an untidy individual backed in carrying a mug of tea on which was balanced a greasy-looking sandwich. He plopped down in a chair and beckoned the man to sit opposite him. 'Frost,' he announced. 'Detective Inspector Frost. Sorry to have kept you waiting.' He looked at the arrest report and took a bite at the sandwich. 'Mr Patrick Morris, is it?'
'Yes… and I want to protest. This is all a terrible mistake.'
'I'm sure it is,' agreed Frost, 'but don't worry. I've asked our Forensic boys to see if the blood on your car's headlamp is the same group as your gatepost.'
The man stared at Frost, his face scarlet with rage. 'You bastard!' he spat.
'Sticks and stones,' reproved Frost gently.
Morris fluttered an apologetic hand. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' His head sank down. 'I wasn't even going fast; just pootling along. The kid came straight at me. He didn't give me a chance.'
'He was sober, you were drunk,' said Frost.
Morris pushed himself up to shout at Frost. I was not drunk.'
'And I'm not bloody deaf,' said Frost, wiping his mouth after a swig of tea. 'Please sit down.'
Morris sat. 'I'm sorry… I'm sorry.' He leant over to Frost. 'I'm an oil company representative in line for promotion. One drink-driving offence and I lose my job. Do you think I'd risk that? I was not drunk. I was stone cold bloody sober. I had the brandy afterwards.'
'Drunk or sober, you knocked an eleven-year-old kid down and you didn't stop.'
'I couldn't afford to get involved; my job-'
'Sod your bloody job. The kid's in intensive care. You could have done something to help him.'
'The man in the other car came running over. I left it to him.'
Frost's head snapped up. 'What other car?'
'An old banger – a blue Vauxhall Astra. It was parked up on the verge. When I hit the boy the Astra driver dashed over to him. There was nothing I could do to help so I phoned for an ambulance on my mobile.'
'Yes,' snapped Frost, 'a great humanitarian gesture. Remind me to nominate you for the Nobel Prize.' He dropped the crust from his sandwich into the mug of tea and pushed it away. 'Describe the man.'
'Middle-aged – forty-five to fifty. Darkish hair, going bald.'
'Clean-shaven?'
'Yes, I think so. It all-'
'I know – it all happened so fast,' said Frost, finishing the sentence for him. 'Build?'
'Average.'
'Clothes?'
'A suit. A dark suit, I think.'
'A suit!' exclaimed Frost. 'Well, that saves us looking for a man in a dress.'
'If I could tell you more, I would,' snarled Morris. 'It's in my own interest that you find him. He'll confirm I wasn't speeding and the kid didn't give me a chance.'
'Then you'd better hope we do find him,' said Frost, 'because at the moment I don't rate your chances at all.' His cigarette end joined the sandwich crust in the mug of cold tea. He stood up and nodded at Collier. 'The constable will take your statement.'
Bill Wells was hovering outside the interview room, waiting for him. 'Initial report from Forensic, Jack. Glass from the headlamp definitely matches up with the glass found at the scene.'
'They always confirm what you know already,' grunted Frost. 'He's admitted knocking the kid down.'
'And Traffic reckon the skid marks where he braked indicate he wasn't doing more than thirty mph at the most.'
'Knickers!' said Frost. 'I was hoping to throw the book at the bastard.'
His phone was ringing when he got back to the office. WPC June Purdy from the hospital. 'The boy died ten minutes ago, Inspector.'
He threw his head back and swore at the ceiling. 'Shit! Do the parents know?'
'They were with him when he died.'
He felt ashamed that his relief that he would not have to break the news to the parents almost outweighed his sadness at an eleven-year-old boy's death. 'Are they still there?'
'Yes.'
'I know it's difficult, love, but ask them if they know anyone who drives a blue Vauxhall Astra; a man in his late forties, going bald – someone who might give their son a lift. Phone me back right away.'
'Was he the hit and run driver?'
'No. He's a possible witness. We've got the hit and run man but it doesn't appear as if the kid gave him much of a chance. Baldy might be the bloke who drove the boy to the woods and I've got a nasty feeling about the bastard. You don't take an eleven-year-old to Denton Woods in the middle of the night to pick mushrooms.'
She phoned back in five minutes. The parents knew no-one of that description.
'Too much to hope it would be that easy,' sighed Frost. 'Get back here, love, and bring the boy's clothes so Forensic can tell us sod all about them.'
He sat at a desk in the murder incident room, moodily smoking as he replaced the boy's bloodstained clothing in the evidence bag. A smaller bag held items taken from the boy's pockets. He shook them out on the desk: a comb, eight pence in copper coins, a handkerchief and the torn half of a cinema ticket. Open in front of him was the file on the first missing girl, eight-year-old Vicky Stuart. Looking through its many pages of typescript he had spotted that a couple of witnesses reported seeing a blue car cruising past the school on the afternoon Vicky went missing, but the car hadn't been traced. He drummed his fingers on the desk top. There were millions of flaming blue cars and the fact that the Vauxhall Astra was blue probably didn't mean a damn thing, but he had one of his feelings…
He checked his watch. Ten minutes past midnight. Mullett had only authorized overtime for the search parties until midnight so they should be returning soon. The mist was pressing a greasy kiss against the window. He hoped it would clear by the morning when the search would be resumed.
A tramping of tired feet announced the return of the first of the search parties as they headed up the stairs to the canteen. He gave them a few moments to get settled, then followed them up. They all looked tired and dejected. No need to ask if they had found the girl. He made his way over to a table where Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon sat with five off-duty police officers, all cold and miserable, gratefully warming frozen hands round mugs of scalding tea. 'Where's Taffy Morgan?' Frost asked, dragging a chair over to join them.
'He's where I'm soon going to be,' replied Hanlon, 'fast asleep in a nice warm bed.'
Frost gave a knowing smile. 'You do tell fibs, Arthur. You're not going to bed for hours yet. I've got another job for all of you.' A mass groan. He grinned and pushed his cigarettes around. 'I know – I'm a rotten bastard and I could be wasting everybody's time, but there's the slimmest of chances this might lead us to the girl.' He turned his head as Jordan and Simms, finishing their meal break, walked past. 'The boy died,' he told them.
Jordan shook his head sadly. 'Poor little sod.' He buttoned up his greatcoat. Another cold six hours before their shift ended.
'Is that the hit and run?' asked Hanlon.
'Yes,' nodded Frost. 'Only the driver didn't run very far – we've got him. He reckons the kid came flying out of a parked blue Vauxhall Astra straight into his path. He's a nasty, slimy bastard, but I'm ashamed to say I believe him, which is why you've got to do a bit more work.'
They looked at each other, wondering where this was leading. He expelled a mouthful of smoke and watched it whirl lazily up to the ceiling. 'We've got a kid, in a blue Astra, with a strange man in the middle of the bloody woods at night. Why? And why did the kid come flying out of the car like a bat out of hell?'
'You're suggesting the bloke was a child molester?' asked Hanlon.
'This is how I see it, Arthur. The bloke offers to drive the kid home, but instead takes him to the woods. Just as he starts his stuff, the kid manages to scramble out, but runs straight into the other car.'
'What has this got to do with the girl?' asked Howe, one of the off-duty PCs.
'Probably sod all,' conceded Frost, 'but the day Vicky Stuart went missing, two of the witnesses mentioned a blue car cruising past the school as the kids came out. The Astra was blue.'
'And you think it's the same man?' exclaimed Hanlon. 'Just because it's a blue car? It's a bloody long shot, Jack.'
'Maybe, Arthur, but it's all we've got… before this we had sod all.' He produced the cinema ticket. 'This was in the kid's jacket pocket – a ticket for tonight's performance of the Disney. It's an adult's ticket. Does I that suggest anything?'
A sea of blank looks.
'The boy would have got in at the child's rate, so this isn't his ticket. Try this out for size. He's hanging about outside the cinema when some nice kind balding gentleman says, "Going to see the film, sonny?" "I haven't got any money, kind balding gent," replies the boy, so the man offers to pay for him. In they go. The bloke buys one adult ticket and one child's ticket. Comes the interval. The kid hadn't been home for his tea, so he's hungry. "Go and buy a hot dog," says the nice man in the dirty mac. The hot dogs are in the foyer and you've got to have your ticket to get back in again, so the man gives him a ticket… the wrong one as it happens, but that doesn't matter.'
They looked at each other and grudgingly nodded. 'It fits, Jack,' said Hanlon, 'but you're making a lot of assumptions.'
Frost pulled a wad of photographs of the dead boy from his pocket and handed them around. 'Then see if we can get some hard evidence. One of you go to the cinema – they're doing an all-night horror programme, so they'll still be open. Does anyone remember this kid coming in with a man in his forties, balding dark hair, dark suit. The programme finished at 8.25, but they didn't get to the woods until around ten. My guess is that the nice man took the kid out for a meal. So some of you surf the fast food joints. I want another couple of you to sift through computer; records of middle-aged child molesters, baldies preferred, but many of them might not have started going bald when we arrested them. Drag them out of bed, find out where they were tonight and see what car they own. Lastly, I want someone to go through the computer for blue Astras, at least five years old, owned by people in the Denton area.'
'How do we know he's local?' protested Evans.
'He's got to be,' said Frost. 'He hangs about the local school, he goes to the local cinema and he knows where to park in Denton Woods. When you get the list of Astra owners, check it against our child molesters. If you can say "Snap" we throw the book at the sod whether he's guilty or not.'
'And this is all on official overtime?' asked Evans, remembering Mullett's strictures that he didn't object to people doing overtime so long as they didn't always expect to be paid for it.
'Money's your bloody God!' said Frost. 'Yes… all on official overtime, but don't drag it out.'
He left them to get themselves organized, then went down to the lobby to tell Bill Wells what he had arranged. 'Book them all in for extended overtime, Bill.'
'You know Mullett's got to authorize it,' Wells reminded him. 'He went berserk last time you sent our overtime expenses sky high.'
'He'll be in bed,' said Frost, doubtfully. 'He might even be having it away.' He dialled the number. 'Still, if it's with his wife he'll be glad of the interruption.'
Mullett wasn't glad of the interruption. The phone had woken him from a deep sleep. 'Authorize overtime? On the flimsiest of evidence? You don't even know for certain that the boy was ever in the blue car, just that there was one in the vicinity.'
'Which didn't wait for the ambulance,' Frost reminded him.
'There could be all sorts of reasons for that,' replied Mullett, who couldn't think of any. 'I'm sorry, Frost, I'm not authorizing overtime.'
'Fair enough, Super,' said Frost. 'But if it is the same blue car, this bastard could be holding the missing girl. I know the budget has to take precedence over a human life-'
'Ten hours,' cut in Mullett hastily, 'and not a second over.'
'Per man?' asked Frost hopefully.
'In total, Frost, in total, and you'd better come up with something to justify it.'
'Well?' asked Bill Wells as Frost put the phone down.
'He said we could have all the men we wanted for as long as we liked,' Frost replied.
He sat in his office, fighting tiredness, answering the phone as the negative reports came in. 'Sorry, Inspector,' reported Evans, the last on the list. 'No-one remembers anything.'
'Call it a day,' yawned Frost.
He took a stroll to the computer room, where Howe and Collier were wading their way through armfuls of computer print-outs. 'No joy yet, Inspector.'
'Keep trying,' he grunted. Flaming heck, Mullett would have kittens when he saw the overtime bill especially for a nil result.
Back to his office with the nagging feeling that even if they found the man he would have nothing to do with the missing girl. A quick flip through his in-tray. More news to add to the gloom. The beaten-up torn had decided not to press charges. She'd been paid off and Mickey Harris would walk scot-free. This was not going to be a night to remember.
A quick squint through grime-encrusted windows out to the car-park. The swirling mist was thickening. Cars were murky outlines and the sodium lamps reduced to dirty orange smears. It looked cold and miserable which was just how he felt… Another yawn. Sod it, he was so tired he could hardly think straight. Nothing more he could do here. He dragged his scarf from the peg and wound it round his neck. At the doorway he paused, waiting, hoping the phone might ring and he'd be told they had found the driver and the girl. Silence. He clicked off the light, shut the door behind him, and made for his car.
The car heater was playing its usual tricks and kept blasting cold air. He was frozen by the time he reached his house where the central heating had switched itself off at midnight so the place was as icy and unwelcoming as the morgue. Shivering, he scooped up the post from the door mat; two bills and three circulars, one marked in red "This is not a circular'. He chucked them on the hall table and dumped his mac on top. He could go a cup of something hot, but was too dead beat to make it.
He thudded up the stairs and clicked on the electric blanket. The phone rang the second his head touched the pillow.
The phone was downstairs, in the hall. He'd wanted one by the bed but when his wife was alive she wouldn't hear of it; said the ringing would wake her up and she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep again. He kept promising himself he'd get an extension, but hadn't got round to it. What was it this time? Another bloody killing? Another dead tom? He threw aside the bedclothes, gritted his teeth against the shock of the cold lino to his bare feet and went down to the phone. He didn't recognize the voice and at first couldn't make out what the man was saying. 'Who is this?'
'PC Bearsley of Traffic. Sorry to phone you at home, Inspector, but we have a problem.'
'Traffic? Why the hell are you calling me for a traffic problem?' His teeth began to chatter. It was freezing in the hall.
'I can't talk about it over the phone, Inspector. Please get here quickly – corner of Saxby Street and Avon Drive.'
'It had better be bloody urgent.'
'It is, Inspector,' Bearsley assured him, 'it is.'
Frost was still shivering as he drove but kept the window down so the cold air would stop him falling asleep at the wheel. Why was he doing this? Dragged out of bed at five past four in the morning just because some damn traffic cop thinks it's urgent.
As he turned the car into Saxby Street he passed a metallic green Nissan, its paint scraped and a wing crumpled. A yellow and red striped traffic car was waiting, its lights out. Two worried-looking traffic policemen came over to meet him. Bearsley introduced himself. 'Glad you got here so quickly, Inspector.' And then Frost saw the crashed Ford Sierra which had driven straight into a wall at the end of the cul-de-sac. 'The driver must have put his foot down, not realizing it was a blind alley,' said Bearsley, headlight glass scrunching underfoot as they approached the vehicle. 'It's a miracle he wasn't killed.'
'Have you called an ambulance?' asked Frost, wondering why he was being involved.
'If we did, it would make it official and you might want to avoid that.' Bearsley shone his torch through the driver's window so Frost could see inside.
Frost bent and squinted. 'Flaming bloody hell!'
Lolling in the driving seat, a bleary-eyed Taffy Morgan, blood trickling from his forehead, gave Frost a shamefaced smile as the inspector yanked open the door. The interior of the car stank of whisky and vomit which was all over the DC's jacket. 'Bit of a prang with the car, guv,' slurred Morgan.
'You stupid bastard!' hissed Frost.
Morgan looked ready to burst into tears. His face crumpled. 'One whisky, guv, that's all I had, one little whisky.'
'One? You've spewed up five doubles down your flaming jacket.' He checked that the two traffic officers were out of earshot. 'I don't know how I'm going to get you out of this, Taffy.' He jerked a thumb back to the rear window. 'Have you seen what you've done to that poor sod's brand new Nissan?'
Morgan creaked his head painfully round, focusing with difficulty. 'How did that happen?'
Frost examined the wound on the DC's forehead. Lots of blood but not too deep. 'Do you need to go to hospital?'
Morgan touched his forehead and seemed surprised to see red on his fingers. 'Bit of sticking plaster, that's all.' He wiped his fingers on a clean part of his jacket. 'What's going to happen, guv?'
'If there was any justice, Taffy, you'd be charged, imprisoned, castrated and kicked out of the force. Lucky for you there's no bleeding justice.' He thought for a moment. I'll see what I can do.'
He went back to the two traffic policemen. 'How did you find him?'
'He was weaving all over the road. When we slammed on the siren he put his foot down and swung the car into Saxby Street. The next thing we heard was the scraping of metal and then this bloody crash.'
'Did any member of the public see what happened?'
'I doubt it. If it had been reported, the station would have contacted us, and they haven't.'
'And you haven't radioed details to the station?'
'No. We thought we'd let you know first.'
Frost grunted his thanks. 'Good. Now forget all about it. Drive off and continue your patrol.'
They looked at each other doubtfully. 'I don't think we would get away with it, Inspector. Someone could have seen him; someone could be looking out of their window at us now.'
Frost did a quick scan of the nearby houses. All were in darkness. 'You didn't drag me out of bed just so I could watch you arrest the poor sod, did you? Do what I say – forget it. Any comeback and I'll take the full blame. You'll be in the clear.'
They looked questioningly at each other then gave a reluctant nod, knowing that if Frost said he would take the blame, then that's what would happen. 'All right, Inspector.'
Frost grinned happily. 'Thanks, lads. And if ever you murder your mother-in-law give me a bell – I owe you one.'
'But what about his wrecked car?' asked Bearsley. 'And there's a couple of thousand quid's worth of damage to that Nissan. How do we explain that away?'
'You know what I think happened here?' said Frost. 'I reckon a flaming joy-rider nicked Morgan's motor and caused all this damage. I'll report it the minute I get home.'
'A joy-rider?' exclaimed Wells incredulously, answering Frost's phone call. 'At this time of the morning?'
'His watch must have stopped,' said Frost. 'Morgan was round my place. We heard a car starting up and when we looked out of the window, this bloke was driving it off. We nipped down and tried to follow him, but he lost us in the fog.'
'Bloody convenient,' sniffed Wells. 'And what was Morgan doing round your place at four o'clock in the morning?'
'We were discussing ways to bring down the outstanding crime figures.'
'Now I know you're lying,' said Wells. 'All right, I'll report it as stolen. Any idea where we should start looking for it?'
'Just a shot in the dark, but try Saxby Street,' said Frost. 'And whoever finds it, tell them not to sit in the driving seat… the bloke I saw nicking the motor looked as if he was going to be sick all over it.'
'Charming,' muttered Wells. He lowered his voice. 'That Welsh bastard isn't worth it, Jack. Why are you sticking your neck out?'
'Because if I got into that sort of trouble I'd hope my mates would lie their flaming heads off for me, it's one of the few perks of the job.'
He hung up and yawned, rubbing sore and gritty eyes. Morgan had been left, snoring noisily in the back of his car outside. Let him sleep it off until morning. Morning! He was due to brief the search parties at eight, so with luck he might snatch three hours' sleep. One last look at the phone, daring it to ring. Half-way up the stairs it defied his dare, and rang and rang and rang…
He fumbled the receiver to his ear and stifled a yawn. 'Frost.' He braced himself for the worst. You didn't get good news phoned through in the wee small bleeding hours. But he was wrong.
'Inspector!' An excited PC Collier. 'We might have something on that car. Guess who owns a dark blue ten-year-old Astra?'
'Say it's Mr Mullett and you've made my night,' said Frost.
'Better than that,' crowed Collier. 'Bernie Green.'
'Not the Bernie Green?' said Frost, flipping through the record cards of his memory. 'Never heard of him.'
'Not in your league, Inspector. A small-time flasher. He's done time for assaulting kids – nothing serious, touching them up in the cinema, things like that… and he's going bald!'
'Eureka!' exclaimed Frost, his tiredness suddenly vanishing.
'We've still got quite a few names to check. He might not be the one.'
'Even if he isn't the right one, he'll bloody do for me,' said Frost. 'What's his address?'
'56B Gorge Street, Denton.'
He scribbled it on the wallpaper. Tm on my way. Meet me outside his house.'
Gorge Street was crammed with parked cars and he had to double park alongside the area car as Collier and Howe came over to meet him.
'Which house?'
Collier pointed to a dilapidated building with steps leading down to a basement area. 'Down there. "B" stands for basement.'
'I thought it stood for bum-holes,' muttered Frost. They peered down the stone steps to the area where mist swirled around overflowing dustbins, soggy cardboard boxes and other junk. 'These bastards never live in rose-covered cottages, do they?' sniffed Frost. 'Is there a back way?'
'A yard of sorts and a broken-down brick wall,' Howe reported. 'We did a recce as soon as we got here.'
'Get round there,' Frost told Collier. 'He might make a run for it.' He pushed open the rickety iron gate to the steps, the rusty screech setting his teeth on edge and, with Howe following, descended the steps. A single sash window was almost opaque with the grime of ages and his torch beam bounced off the glass when he tried to see inside. He found his penknife and tried to manipulate the sash lock.
'What are you doing?' Howe whispered.
'I want to get inside,' whispered Frost. 'If he's got the kid in there, we need to get to her before he does. I don't want a bloody knife to her throat and the demand for a fast car and Concorde to Buenos Aires.' Sweat poured as he worked away with the penknife, but he had to admit defeat. The window was held tight in the iron grip of multiple layers of ancient paint. 'I think I'm going to have to accidentally smash the glass,' he said, looking round for something suitable. 'Don't want to wake the bastard though.'
'Guv!'
Frost froze and looked up. Morgan – bleeding Morgan – was swaying unsteadily at the top of the steps, peering blearily down. 'What are you doing, guv?'
Frost groaned and hissed for silence just as Morgan managed to kick a milk bottle and send it crashing down the stone steps.
'Have another go,' snarled Frost. 'I don't think the people in the next street heard you.'
'Sorry, guv,' said Morgan, then a yell as he missed his footing and went crashing down the steps.
A light came on from an upstairs window. 'What's going on down there?'
'Police,' called Frost, shining his torch on Howe so the man could see his uniform. Howe was groaning inwardly. Why did events with Frost all too often turn into farce? As the man's head withdrew another light came on – this time from the basement window.
'Shit,' said Frost, 'we've woken the sod up!' Not much element of surprise now. He hammered on the door. 'Open up – police!' He kicked the door and yelled again. 'Open up or we'll break the door down.' This proved easier said than done. The door was locked and heavily bolted and Howe's shoulder was getting numbed and bruised from charging at it in the confined space of the area. Frost's radio crackled. PC Collier. 'I've got him, Inspector. He was trying to climb over the back wall.'
Morgan was dumped back in the car. Frost and Howe hurried round to the rear entrance to find a triumphant Collier holding the handcuffed arm of red and white striped pyjamaed, bare-footed Bernie Green.
'Hello, Bernie,' said Frost. 'We were passing so we thought we'd drop in.' Green, teeth chattering, didn't answer. 'Get him in the house,' Frost told Collier.
He took a quick look round the yard which held an outside toilet and a brick-built coal bunker, and waited while Howe's torch explored the interiors. No sign of the girl. They followed Collier and Green down the stairs to the basement flat, a miserable room, cold and damp from the mist which had crept down from the open door. The single room held a bed, a table, two chairs and, in the corner, a tiny cooker and a sink. Nowhere to hide a body. Frost switched on an ancient electric fire which glowed dimly, but did little to raise the temperature. Green was still shivering violently, so Frost snatched the eiderdown from the bed and wrapped it round him. 'Don't want you dying of cold before we beat a confession out of you, Bernie,' he said.
Green looked up at the inspector, his face a picture of misery. 'I never touched him, Mr Frost. I swear to God I never laid a finger on him.'
Frost said nothing. He held his hands out to the electric fire and gave the man his disbelieving stare.
'How is he, Mr Frost?' asked Green at last.
'He's dead,' said Frost bluntly.
'Dead? Oh God.' He buried his face in his crooked arm, his shoulders shaking. 'I never did anything.'
'That's right,' nodded Frost. 'You did sod all – you just left him to die in the middle of the road.' He shuddered. The cold and damp and squalidness of the miserable little room were getting to him. 'Take him down to the station. This place is giving me the creeps.'