'I swear on a stack of bibles I never touched him, Mr Frost… He suddenly ran out of the car – for no reason.'
Frost dribbled smoke from his nose and looked contemptuously at Bernie Green who cowered in the chair opposite him, a blanket over his pyjamas. 'Don't lie to me, Bernie,' snapped Frost. 'I'm not in the mood. I'm tired, I've had a lousy day and I don't give a sod whether I keep my job in the force or not, so I might ask this nice constable to step outside for a moment while you accidentally smash your face against all four of these walls.'
Howe gave a warning cough to remind Frost the interview was being taped.
But Frost's outburst had the required effect. Bernie's tongue flickered over dry lips. 'I was going to do something – I never do things against their will. I offered him money if he'd let me do something. That's when he ran out. I swear I never laid a finger on him.' He pointed to his case file on the table. 'You check my file… I always ask them first… I always get their consent.'
Frost flipped through the file, fingering its pages by their edges as if they were too dirty to touch. 'Yes, but most of the poor little mites were below the age of consent, Bernie.' He showed him a page. 'This little girl of six, for example. I don't suppose she had any idea what you wanted in exchange for the bag of jelly babies.'
'I was punished for that, Mr Frost… that's all over and done with. But the boy tonight was eleven. All he had to say was no and I wouldn't have touched him. I'd have driven him home. He had no need to go running out of the car like that.'
'He was shit scared, Bernie. You take him to the woods in the middle of the night, you demand sexual bloody favours from a kid. He must have been terrified.'
Green stared down at the floor. 'I'm sorry. I just can't help myself sometimes…'
'And what about the two little girls from Denton Junior? Couldn't you help yourself with them either?'
The man raised his head and frowned. 'What two little girls?'
Frost flicked two photographs across the table. 'Vicky Stuart and Jenny Brewer.'
Green stared open-mouthed, then shrank back. 'Oh no, you're not pinning them on me.'
'Where are they, Bernie?'
'I don't know. I want a lawyer.'
'You'll want an armed bodyguard if we set you free and let the boy's father know where you live.'
Again Howe gave a warning cough. A confession obtained as the result of threats would be thrown out of court. Frost ignored him. He knew he was skating on the thinnest of ice, but finding the girl alive was more important to him than a conviction. 'For the last time, where are they, Bernie?'
Green leapt to his feet, the blanket falling to the floor. 'I don't know anything about them,' he shouted.
Frost waved him back to the chair. 'I'm not deaf, Bernie, you can lie to me quietly if you want to.' He gave his benign smile. 'Are they still alive?'
'I don't know anything about them.'
'Did you take them to the woods in your car, like the boy? Are they buried in the woods?'
'I don't know.'
'Your car was seen outside the school, Bernie.' To be fair, a car the same colour as yours, he thought, but who's being fair? 'Where did you take them?'
'I didn't take them anywhere.'
'Did you take them back to your luxurious apartment, Bernie, to that smelly little basement flat? We can check, you know. We can go over every inch of the place.'
A look of relief flickered across Green's face. 'You can do what you like… you won't find anything.'
'And every inch of your car. If we find so much as a flake of skin, a hair even, from either of those two girls…'
Bernie jerked back as if he had been struck. 'A hair?'
'That's all we need for DNA tests, Bernie.' He smiled sweetly. 'Not a problem, is it?'
Green buried his face in his hands. 'Hold on, Inspector… give me time to think…'
Frost blew smoke up to the ceiling, then nodded happily at Howe. The confession was coming.
After a few seconds Green sat up and pushed the photograph of Vicky Stuart away. 'I know nothing about her, Mr Frost, but this one…' He tapped the photograph of Jenny Brewer. 'I know something about her.'
Frost turned Vicky's photo face down. 'Then tell us about Jenny.'
'I want to do a deal. I'm out on parole on condition I don't go near schools or approach kids. If I do, I have to go back and serve out my sentence. I don't want to go back to prison, Mr Frost.'
'You're already going back to nick for sodding about with the boy,' said Frost, 'so you've got damn all to lose. Tell us what you know and I promise you I'll do what I can.' Which will be sod all, he told himself.
Green pointed to the photograph. 'I might have given her a lift.'
Frost's eyebrows soared. 'Might? What do you mean, might?'
'All right. I did give her a lift so it's possible you might find one of her hairs in my car but it won't mean anything. I just gave her a lift, that's all it was, a lift…'
'And when was this?'
'Couple of days ago… the day she went missing. I was sort of driving past the school just as the kids were coming out and I sees this little girl in red trotting along, all on her own. It was peeing with rain and she had no mac so I asked if she wanted a lift. She said would I take her to Argylle Street.'
'Argylle Street?'
'Yes, a few blocks away from the school. I drove her there. She told me she was going to have her photograph taken. I said, "I've got some nice pictures at home, would you like to see them?" She said no and got out and ran across the road to this house. I watched her ring the bell, a bloke answered and she went in.'
'What was the house number?'
'I don't know, but it was the one on the corner.'
'You actually saw her go inside?'
'Yes. I waited ten minutes or so in case she came out, but she didn't, so I drove back home.'
'You knew the kid had gone missing, you knew we were looking for her, so why didn't you come forward with this earlier?'
'How could I?' implored Green. 'I wasn't supposed to approach kids. I'd have gone straight back in the nick.'
Frost stood up. 'Right, Bernie. As you've got your pyjamas on, you can retire to a nice warm cell and have a kip. We'll check your story out and God help you if you've been lying.'
He had done it so many times before, he could almost do it in his sleep: walk to the front door, jab the bell push, pound the door with the flat of the hand and yell, 'Open up – police!', then turn and stare down the street, not consciously seeing, but taking everything in. Argylle Street. Another street choked with parked cars, plus two double parked police cars. His radio paged him. 'I'm in position, Inspector.' Collier had been sent to the rear of the house to block any escape route.
Again Frost thumbed the bell push, letting it ring and ring and ring.
At last an upstairs light came on. A sash window was raised and a head poked out. 'Who is it?'
'Police,' yelled Frost. 'Open up.'
'Police? Oh my God!' The window slammed shut. Frost waited, shivering as the damp night mist bit through his clothes. Sounds of doors slamming and lights coming on in various parts of the house, but the front door remained closed. 'He's taking his flaming time.' He was about to radio through to Collier to warn him to be prepared for a dash to freedom when there was a clicking of locks and the front door opened to reveal a rotund little man in his mid-forties, fully dressed and zipping up a driving jacket. He seemed nervy and agitated. 'Oh dear, how bad is she? Did they say?'
Completely wrong-footed, Frost spluttered, 'I'm sorry, sir… how bad is who?'
'My mother. The hospital said if her condition worsened… I'm not on the phone you see…' Then he saw the two police cars. 'What has happened… It's serious, isn't it… Mother's dead?'
'We're not here about your mother,' said Frost. 'Perhaps we could come in. It's freezing out here.'
'Yes, of course, of course.' Shaking his head in puzzlement he ushered Frost, PCs Simms and Jordan following, into a small room furnished with two easy chairs, a table and a sideboard on which stood a small colour TV set. He clicked on the log effect electric fire, then turned to face Frost, showing him his trembling hands. 'Look at me. I'm shaking. Every time there's a knock at the door I fear the worst.' He dropped down in an armchair, unzipped the driving coat and checked his watch. 'It must be something terrible if you've come here at this time of the morning. You want to break it gently, don't you? Then say it, she's dead, isn't she?' He was biting hard on his lower lip.
'Like I said, we're not here about your mother, sir,' Frost told him, his eyes travelling round the room. 'We're here on an entirely different matter.' He nodded for Jordan to take up the questioning, leaving himself free to have a potter around.
Used to Frost's ways, Jordan stepped forward. 'I'm PC Jordan, sir, and this is Detective Inspector Frost who is in charge of the investigation into the disappearance of two missing children, Vicky Stuart and Jenny Brewer.'
The man's face showed concern. 'Those poor children. What their mothers must be going through…'
'Could we know your name, sir?'
'Weaver – Charles Edward Weaver, but I don't see how this concerns me.'
'We've had reports, Mr Weaver,' continued Jordan, 'that one of the girls was seen entering your house on the afternoon she went missing.' He showed the photograph of Jenny Brewer. 'This little girl, sir.'
Weaver took the photograph in a hand that shook. He studied it, then looked up at Jordan in dismay. 'I didn't know it was her.'
Frost, who was edging towards the sideboard for a surreptitious rummage through its drawers, stopped in his tracks. 'What do you mean?'
Weaver wriggled in his chair to face Frost. 'Your informant is partly correct, Inspector. That little girl came to my house. She knocked and said something about wanting me to take her photo.'
'Why would she ask that, sir?' said Jordan.
The man transferred his attention to the constable. 'She must have seen me out and about with my camera – photography's my hobby. I pretended my camera was broken and she went away. She never came in.'
'Why did you tell her your camera was broken?'
Weaver gave a sad smile. 'A single man alone in the house with a young child? You know how neighbours talk.'
I hope they bloody talk when we chat them up, thought Frost, easing open one of the sideboard drawers. 'And you are positive she didn't come inside the house? You didn't close the front door behind her even for a second?'
'Definitely not, officer. It was all over in seconds. She went skipping off… It was pouring with rain. There was a blue car outside. I got the impression she might have gone off in that.' His face furrowed in sadness. 'And she was the one who is missing? Poor little mite. A lovely girl.'
Weaver sounded sincere and genuinely upset, but Frost was feeling that buzz, that almost sexual thrill of excitement that was whispering to him that this was their man. Weaver, with his tubby avuncular figure, was someone kids would trust implicitly. And what was this the sod had in his sideboard? Frost carefully moved his hand to the drawer and began tugging out the wad of photographs he could feel inside.
'As you will appreciate, sir,' said Jordan, noticing what Frost was up to and desperately trying to hold Weaver's attention, 'we have to follow up all leads. Our information is that the girl did go inside your house…' He held up a hand to stifle Weaver's protest. 'I accept your assurance, sir, but we have to check. We'd like to do a thorough search.'
Weaver couldn't be more co-operative. 'Of course, Constable. Search where you like.' He turned to Frost who quickly snatched his hand away before Weaver could see what he was up to. The photographs were of birds and animals and local views which bitterly disappointed Frost who hoped for pornographic poses of nude children. 'We appreciate your co-operation, sir,' he told Weaver, closing the drawer with a shove from his rump as he moved forward. 'I knew it wouldn't be necessary to get a warrant.' He poked a cigarette in his mouth, but before he could light up, Weaver fluttered a hand.
I'd be obliged if you. didn't smoke.' He patted his chest. 'Asthma. It affects my breathing.' He produced an inhaler from beside his chair and applied it to his nose.
Frost returned the cigarette to its packet. 'We'll get on with the search, then.'
The rest of the team were called in and ordered to tear the place apart. But as sure as he was that Weaver was their man, he was equally sure they wouldn't find anything in the house. The bastard was too flaming smug, too bloody helpful, running after them, showing them around, pointing out things they might have missed.
He went with Simms up the stairs, Weaver leading the way and flinging open the first door they came to. 'My bedroom…' A single bed, a wardrobe and a dressing-table. Nowhere anything could be hidden. Frost opened the wardrobe door for something to do. Men's suits, shirts, shoes… 'She's not here,' he grunted.
'Or anywhere, Inspector. But feel free to search where you wish.'
We're wasting our time, thought Frost. The sod's enjoying himself too much.
They passed the bathroom where Collier, kneeling on the floor, was carefully unscrewing the bath panels.
Weaver frowned. 'I do hope he's going to replace those.'
'Of course he will,' Frost assured him. 'You won't know we've ever taken them out.' Some hopes – they had no time for such niceties. The panels would be rammed back if he was lucky and the screws left for Weaver to replace.
The second bedroom was tiny, a single bed squashed up against a wall and a small wardrobe. Weaver looked sad. 'Mother's room,' he told them. With a wicked grin he nodded towards a commode alongside the bed. 'You can look in there if you like, but I don't remember when I last emptied it.' Frost chanced it. It could have been full of pornographic photographs… but it was empty.
A dragging sound from below sent Weaver running downstairs to see what they were up to, leaving Frost and Simms alone in mother's room.
'What do you reckon, Inspector?' asked Simms.
'I reckon he enticed the kid into the house and he killed her,' answered Frost. 'I've got no proof, but I just know it.'
A call from downstairs sent them both to the kitchen. 'We've got a locked door, here,' said Jordan.
Weaver came scurrying in. 'That's my dark room. I'd be obliged if you took my word for the fact there is no-one in there.'
'Your word is good enough for me, Mr Weaver,' lied Frost cheerfully, 'but my superiors are mistrusting bastards and they'd have my guts for garters if I didn't take a peek.' He held out his hand. 'So if you've got the key…'
Weaver produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. 'Please be careful – there's a lot of sensitive material in there.' He pressed the switch and a red, low-wattage bulb glowed dimly. Frost squeezed in. It was a pantry converted to a dark room and there was hardly any space to move. A narrow bench on which stood an enlarger and numerous developing trays. In the corner a tiny sink had been fitted with a cold water tap. Just above Frost's head was a shelf carrying bottles and tins of photographic chemicals and stacks of boxes of photographic paper. He lifted the lid to a couple of the boxes, but that was all they contained, photographic paper. Too much to hope that the pornographic pictures would be in so obvious a hiding place.
He switched off the light, forced a smile and emerged. 'As you say, Mr Weaver, nothing there.' He looked hopeful as the rest of the search team returned, but all shook their heads. They too had found nothing.
'Everything as it should be, Mr Weaver. Sorry we've wasted your time.'
Weaver gave an understanding smile. 'You had your job to do, Inspector.'
'How long has your mother been in hospital?'
'Nearly three months… she couldn't swallow, but they've operated.' He obviously didn't want to go into any more details.
'I wish her well,' said Frost.
Back in the car with the sleeping Morgan making bubbling snoring sounds from the back seat, Frost lit up the cigarette he had been denied in the house and chewed things over. The old lady had been in hospital for nearly three months. An empty house, mother out of the way, the ideal opportunity to get up to all sorts of tricks just at the time Vicky Stuart went missing. He looked back at the house. The lights were still on, then a curtain twitched from an upstairs window. The sod was checking up to make certain they were leaving. He revved the engine and drove off, followed by the other two cars. Once round the corner he stopped and flagged the others down while he radioed through to the station. 'I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on Weaver, starting from now.'
'Twenty-four-hour surveillance?' echoed Wells. 'That's going to make the overtime budget look sick. You've cleared it with Mr Mullett?'
'Yes,' lied Frost. He'd do it first thing in the morning. Mullett might not be in the agreeing mood if he was dragged out of bed yet again and he couldn't risk the sod saying no.
'All right,' sighed Wells, I'll get it organized. Tell Collier he's on the first four-hour shift.'
He was tired but his brain was whirling, spinning out ideas and possibilities, making it impossible to sleep. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and switched on the television and found himself watching a black and white early western where a very youthful John Wayne was beating a baddie to a pulp with punches that missed by yards. He closed his eyes, just for a minute. The next thing he knew was being jolted awake by the phone in the hall screaming at him. John Wayne, his white cowboy hat still in place, was massaging his knuckles and looking down at his opponent. He could only have been asleep for seconds. He staggered out to the phone.
It was Collier. 'I'm following Weaver,' he reported. 'He got into a car a couple of minutes ago. He was carrying something.'
Frost was now fully awake. 'What was he carrying?'
'I couldn't see. The fog's thickening and I had to park well down the street so he wouldn't see me.'
'What make of car?'
'A green Metro… I couldn't get the registration number.'
'Where are you now?'
'Bath Road. I'm going to need some back-up.'
I'll get back-up,' Frost told him. 'Whatever you do, don't lose him.'
Grabbing his coat, he phoned the station. 'We need back-up. Weaver's on the move.'
'All I've got is Jordan and Simms in the area car,' said Wells, 'and they're at Tomlin Street flats… the pillow case bandit has struck again.'
'Sod the pillow case bandit, he can wait. Get them over here… now!'
The fog was getting denser and the windscreen wipers on Collier's car were working overtime smearing the glass. Fog helped conceal him from Weaver, but made the Metro very difficult to follow. He could just make out the dirty red smears of the car's rear lights which would disappear abruptly as the Metro went through a patch of really thick fog. Suddenly the red flickered and vanished again and this time didn't come back. There was a junction ahead. Weaver had turned off on to the main road. Collier accelerated, looking left and right and seeing nothing. Which way had he gone? Damn. He'd lost him. He turned left, hoping against hope that this was correct. On and on through swirling mist, getting more and more anxious, and seeing nothing ahead. He should have turned right. He picked up the radio to tell Frost he had lost him when his heart quickened. Dimly, some way ahead, two red lights. The Metro. It had to be the Metro. The lights veered to the left. Collier spun the wheel to follow, feeling the tyres bump and judder over an unmade road. Where was he? He couldn't see a bloody thing. He had completely lost his bearings in the fog and was frantically trying to work out his location so he could report to Frost. He wound down the window to see better and suddenly heard the sound of water splashing down into water. The canal! Of course… he was on a little-used track which led to the canal. What was Weaver doing here?
Head outside the car, he could see a bit better. The splodges of red ahead were getting bigger – they weren't moving. Weaver had stopped. Collier swung his car over to the grass verge and switched off his lights. He radioed Frost and told him what was happening. 'Get out and see what he's doing,' ordered Frost.
Collier climbed out, shivering as the damp insinuated its way through his greatcoat. The mist was clinging tenaciously to the canal making visibility almost nil and he had to inch blindly towards Weaver's car, keeping well away from the edge of the tow path. He could hear the water, but couldn't see it. A car door opened and slammed shut. Weaver was getting out. A pause, then a splash. Something heavy thrown into the canal. Collier strained his eyes and could just make out the outline of a man, staring down into the water. It was Weaver, who turned and went back to his car. Collier hurried back to his own vehicle and radioed Frost. 'He's chucked something in the canal.'
'Did you see what it was?'
'No, quite a splash though. Hold on.' Collier could hear an engine starting up. 'I think he's driving off. Do I follow?'
'Yes.' But Frost instantly changed his mind. 'No. Stay there.' The boot, thought Frost despairingly. The bloody boot. He could have had the kid's body in the boot and we never searched the flaming car. The bugger sat there wearing a driving coat and we never thought to search his bloody motor!
Headlights from the Metro flared in the windscreen as Weaver drove past. 'He just passed me.'
'Let him go. Get down to the canal and try and find out what he chucked in – it might be the kid. I'll get some more bodies and we'll join you.' He radioed through to the station for the underwater emergency team.
'Has Mullett agreed this?' queried Wells.
'Sod Mullett, the kid could be drowning. Just do it, Bill, I'll square things with Mullett. And I need more men – all you can spare. The canal's going to be a sod to search in this weather.'
'They're all off duty, Jack. It'll mean extra overtime. Mr Mullett said-'
'Just bloody do it, Bill. I'll take the can – and tell all patrols to look out for Weaver's green Metro. I want to know where it goes.'
'Registration number?'
'I don't know, but there can't be many green Metros about at this hour of the morning.' He wound his scarf round his neck, steeled himself for the dash out into the cold and headed for his car.
The worsening visibility caused him to miss the turn-off and he had to waste valuable minutes backtracking and trying again. Bumping down the unmade road leading to the tow path he could just make out the flashing blue light of an area car which had got there before him. A burble of voices led him to some four or five men all thick-coated against the cold, poking and prodding the canal water with long sticks. Two cars were parked on the tow path, their headlamps trying weakly to push through the mist and give the searchers some light. Thick fog, like dirty clumps of cotton wool, rolled along the surface of the canal making it near impossible to make out where the tow path ended and the water began.
Frost grabbed Collier's arm. 'How's it going?'
'Not too well, Inspector. I never saw where he dropped it, I only heard the splash, and he might have dropped it near the bank or thrown it right in the centre. It's far too deep for anyone to wade in at this point.' He shook his head in self-reproach. 'I should have got closer. If it was the girl and she was alive when she went in, she'll be long dead by now.'
'We can only do our bloody best, son,' slashed Frost. 'We're not miracle men.' The whining growl of approaching vehicles. The underwater search team. 'About bloody time,' muttered Frost.
Within minutes floodlights were erected and a portable generator was chugging away. The team began donning frogmen suits as the duffel-coated sergeant in charge got his instructions from Frost. 'What are we looking for, Inspector?'
'A man who we suspect has abducted a seven-year-old kid has chucked something in the canal. It could be the kid.'
'When and where was it dumped?'
Frost shrugged. 'In this general area somewhere. The officer heard the splash, but didn't see anything. This was about an hour ago.'
The sergeant stared down into the smoking murk of the canal. 'No-one's going to live an hour in that.' He left the inspector and went over to his team. Frost called his own men over and ordered them to start a systematic search along the bank now that the area was floodlit. He mooched up and down, smoking cigarettes that tasted foul and occasionally kicking at a clump of grass to relieve his feelings.
His radio called him. Charlie Alpha, the other area car, had spotted Weaver and had followed him back to his house.
'He's inside now, Inspector.'
'Stay and watch,' ordered Frost.
'We're supposed to be on patrol. How long do we wait?'
'All flaming night if necessary. If he makes a move outside, follow him and let me know.'
From the canal came the creak of oars, then a soft splash as the frogmen plunged in. The duffel-coated sergeant joined Frost. "This little lot is going to cost a bomb,' he said. 'I hope your super's prepared for it.'
Frost gave a non-committal grunt. God, he dreaded telling Mullett tomorrow. It would be all his fault, especially if it came to sod all.
A splash as a frogman's arm came up and waved frantically. 'He's found something,' said the sergeant, moving forward.
Frost's heart thudded madly. Was it the girl? He almost wanted it to be the girl so the exercise wouldn't be in vain and Mullett wouldn't be able to give him a bollocking in the morning. He shook his head, ashamed of himself. Don't let it be the kid, please… let it be junk, rags, that bloody commode… I want the kid to be alive.
It was a small suitcase, tied securely with cord. The metal catches were shiny so it hadn't been in the water long. It was far too small to hold a child's body. They rowed it over to Frost and everyone crowded round to watch as he cut the cord and forced open the catches with his penknife. Inside was a black bin liner, folded over and sealed with plastic tape. Frost ripped it open, taking out first a house brick which had been included to make certain the case sank and then a large wad of brown manila envelopes held together with elastic bands. He pulled out one of the envelopes and opened it. Photographs. Lots of photographs, some black and white, some colour, all of children – small children -mostly in the nude, all obscene. Frost nodded significantly then turned to Collier. 'You only heard one splash?'
Collier nodded.
'Shall we stop looking?' asked the sergeant.
'No.' Frost shook his head. 'These bastards tend to use the same hiding place. He could have dumped the girl earlier. Give it a good going-over.' He straightened up and stuffed the envelopes and the bin liner back in the case. 'I'm going back to the station to check these and see if we recognize any of the kids. If Vicky or Jenny are in there, we've got him.'
The photographs were spread out before him on his desk when Bill Wells came in to report that the search had yielded nothing.
'Send them all home,' said Frost, pushing his packet of cigarettes over. 'Not a lot of joy with the photographs. No-one I recognize and none of them are our missing kids. We'll circulate them in case other Divisions can come up with something.'
Wells picked one up and studied it. A naked girl on a bed, legs spread-eagled. She couldn't have been more than nine. 'You reckon Weaver took this?'
Frost shrugged. 'He took some of them, but these sods share their goodies around. We'll get some fingerprints off them so we can prove he handled them.' He yawned and rubbed his eyes. 'I'm too bloody tired to pull him in for questioning now. First thing tomorrow.' He checked his watch. Twenty past six. 'I mean first thing today… we get a search warrant, arrest him, and go over his place brick by brick.' He pushed the photographs back in the envelopes and heaved himself up. I'm off home for some kip.'
'You've got to be back by eight to brief the search party,' Wells reminded him.
Frost slumped down again. 'Sod it. Right. I'll kip down in the office. Give us a shout at half past seven -tea, toast, and the full English breakfast.'
'And what morning papers would you like?' asked Wells sarcastically.
'The Financial Times and the Beano,' replied Frost.
Police Superintendent Mullett spun the wheel and coasted his repaired Rover past the lines of vans and cars of the search party and slid neatly into his allotted parking space. He was pleased to note that the overnight mist had cleared considerably, having had visions of a fog-bound search party, sitting in the canteen drinking tea, waiting for the weather to improve while the cost of the exercise mounted and mounted. Many months to go before the end of the financial year and already his overtime budget was getting dangerously close to its permitted figure. Frost was notoriously poor with his paperwork, so Mullett would have to remind him not to round times up to the nearest hour or half-hour just to make the calculations easier. With so many men, even a few minutes would multiply out to quite a large sum.
He nodded a brisk greeting to Station Sergeant Wells who was bringing the incident books up to date. 'Good morning, Sergeant. Where's the search party?' He had decided he would give the troops a few well-chosen words of encouragement before they went out, dropping very heavy hints that time was money and everything had to be paid for.
Wells, dead tired, stumbled to his feet. 'Morning, sir. They're in the briefing room.'
Mullett frowned. The man looked half asleep. He was a disgrace. What sort of an image was this to present to the public? 'You're looking very jaded this morning, Sergeant?'
'Sorry, sir. I've been on duty all night and I've had to extend my shift – there's no-one to relieve me.' He gave a brave, modest little smile, waiting for a few words of sympathetic praise from his Divisional Commander. He waited in vain.
'No relief? Then you should organize things better,' Mullett told him. 'And even if you feel tired, try not to show it. The public don't want to know your problems.'
'Yes, sir… sorry, sir,' mumbled Wells, boiling with barely suppressed rage. It was Mullett's fault there was no-one to relieve him. Half the force had been seconded to County for this flaming drugs operation.
Mullett consulted his wrist-watch. 'Cup of coffee in half an hour,' he called over his shoulder as he made his way up the corridor.
He strode into the briefing room, pleased at the way all leapt respectfully to their feet. He waved them down, his mouth smiling while his eyes travelled the room working out how much of a dent this little lot would make to his planned budget for the year. There were some faces he didn't recognize – men and women from other Divisions who had been drafted in. He found himself an empty seat near the front and checked his watch. Ten past eight. He frowned. Frost, who should have started the briefing at eight o'clock sharp, had not yet made an appearance and a roomful of people on full pay were just sitting and waiting. He turned his head. 'Does anyone know where Inspector Frost-'
Before he could finish his sentence the door banged open and Frost, carrying a bacon roll perched on top of a mug of tea, bounced in. Mullett screwed his face up in annoyance. The man was a mess – unshaven, clothes crumpled and he hadn't even bothered to run a comb through his hair. What an example to show other Divisions. As Frost passed Mullett he flicked a hand. 'Don't bother to get up, Super.'
Mullett, who hadn't the slightest intention of getting to his feet, didn't join in the general laughter, but glowered and pointedly studied his watch.
Frost dumped his bacon roll on the desk and took a swig at the tea. He beamed at the assembly. 'This bloke is crossing the desert when he sees this naked tart buried up to her neck in the sand…'
Mullett raised his eyes to the ceiling and groaned.
This was neither the time nor the place for one of Frost's dubious jokes.
'Stark flaming naked. Just her head showing. She says, "Please help me. I wouldn't submit to the Sultan's sexual demands so he did this to me. Please dig me out." "If I do," says the bloke, "what's in it for me?" She says, "About four pounds of wet sand." ' Frost led the laughter. No-one laughed louder at his jokes than he did himself. Mullett, who didn't understand it, forced a smile to show he was one of the lads.
When the laughter subsided, Frost took another swig of tea and now looked serious. 'Right, that's probably the last laugh you're going to have today.' He turned to the wall board. 'We're looking for this kid.' He tapped the large photograph. 'Jenny Brewer, seven years old, left school two days ago, hasn't been I seen since. It's bleeding cold out there and if she's still alive, the sooner we find her the better, but my gut feeling is that if we find her, we find a body, so it's not going to be a bag of laughs. The good news is we have a suspect who might be able to save us all a lot of time by telling us what he's done with her.'' He switched his gaze to the window. 'The mist has cleared up quite a bit now, but according to the clever sods in the Met Office, it's going to get thicker and thicker, so unless Mr Mullett wants to hold things up with some encouraging words…' He turned, eyebrows raised in query, to the Divisional Commander who flushed, forced a smile, mentally conveying his 'Time is Money' speech to the waste bin, and shook his head. 'OK,' said Frost, 'then off you go, and good luck.'
Mullett stood up and beckoned him over. 'My office, Frost, now!'
Mullett repositioned his blotting pad to dead centre, then pulled the in-tray towards him. There seemed to be an awful lot of overtime claim forms for him to sign. He was tugging the cap from his Parker pen when there was a half-hearted knock at the door and in slouched Frost who flopped into a chair before being asked. 'Please sit down,' said Mullett in his witheringly sarcastic tone which was completely lost on Frost.
'Thanks, Super. You wanted to see me?' He looked at his watch. 'If you could make it snappy, I've got a suspect to pull.'
'I'll take as long as it takes,' snapped Mullett. He jabbed a finger. 'Look at you! A disgrace. When you walked into that briefing meeting I didn't know where to put my face. Those clothes look as if they've been slept in.'
'Top marks for observation, Super,' said Frost. 'They have been slept in. I was up until six this morning following a lead on the girl. I had to kip down in the office.'
'That wouldn't have stopped you from shaving,' barked Mullett.
Frost rubbed his chin. Damn. He'd forgotten to shave. 'Bloody electric razor conked out. I'll borrow one as soon as I get back to the office.' He began to ease himself out of the chair. 'So if that's all. Super…?'
Mullett flapped a hand to wave him back. 'That is not all, Inspector.' He began totalling up the hours on the overtime claims when he noticed the thick wad of more overtime forms underneath. His mouth sagged open. 'What are these?' He waved the offending forms at Frost. 'Eight off-duty men called in last night, four hours' overtime each I authorized ten hours total.'
'Oh, sorry about that, Super,' began Frost. 'I was going to tell you about that-'
'You don't tell me about overtime, Frost,' cut in Mullett. 'You ask…' His voice tailed off. He had now spotted the indent for the underwater search team. 'What is this? What is this?' His voice had risen an octave. 'Do you know how much they charge per hour…?' he spluttered.
'No – but it will be on the invoice,' said Frost, trying to be helpful. He filled Mullett in on the events of the night before, dragging a couple of the photographs they had found and passing them over. As he finished, Mullett stared at him in goggle-eyed disbelief, his Parker pen a blur as it sped over his blotter, doing sums to work out the total expenditure then staring aghast at the final figure. 'How am I going to clear this with County? Even I haven't the authority to sanction an operation of this size.' He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I hold you responsible, Frost. I won't accept any of the blame.'
'Then I'll take all the bloody blame for a change,' snapped Frost. 'You don't count costs when a kid's life is at stake.'
'But a child's life wasn't at stake, was it? One splash and you jump to conclusions. All you got was some lewd photographs which would still have been there in the morning and could have been retrieved without any overtime…'
'Last night I didn't have the benefit of your flaming hindsight,' said Frost angrily.
'Don't adopt that tone with me, Frost,' snarled a red-faced Mullett, equally angry. 'The only thing that might get you off the hook is a result.'
I'll get you a result,' said Frost, standing up. I'm bringing Weaver in, then I'm getting Forensic to go over his place inch by inch.'
'And if you find nothing? What have you got? All this unauthorized expenditure for a few pornographic photographs.'
'We'll nail him,' said Frost, moving to the door and trying to convince himself. 'And if we're lucky we'll nail him for both kids… two for the price of one. How's that for a bargain?'
He closed the door firmly behind him. It was a good exit line, but could he possibly pull it off?