Hard Frost (49 page)

   Collier wasn't too happy about this. It was yapping non-stop and scratching frenziedly at the door, sounding ready to tear the intruders' throats out. Gingerly, he opened the kitchen door inch by inch. The barking stopped. Collier froze. A danger signal. He had been told that when the barking stopped, the animal attacked. The dog waddled towards him, growling menacingly, then leapt up and licked his hand. He gave it a pat, and fed it some tinned dog food from the larder. It gulped the food down, then went off to sleep oblivious to the houseful of strangers. "Bloody good house dog," commented Frost.

   In the lounge Jordan was on his knees by the magazine rack, taking each magazine out in turn, shaking it, then leafing through the pages. Frost wanted to tell him not to bother Finch wasn't going to hide the boy's location in a magazine - but he didn't want to discourage enthusiasm, no matter how misplaced.

   Everyone was bustling with their own search areas. No need now to put everything back exactly as it was. Upstairs, in Finch's office, Burton was studying the items on the cork-based pin board taking each off and checking the backs. Nothing very exciting. A few business cards . . . a hand-written list of his premium bonds, a picture postcard from Spain . . . the telephone number of a plumber. In the bedroom Liz was going through the pockets of all the clothes in the wardrobe.

   Frost was in the lounge. On a coffee table was an answer phone its little green light flashing to signal that a message had been left. He played it through . . . it was a call from a firm asking if Finch could do their accounts a week earner than planned. He switched it off. The phone had several numbers stored in its memory so he tried them all, only to get other people's answer phones They were all to do with Finch's accounting business. The man didn't seem to have much of a private life.

   Bill Wells called him on the radio. "We've just had a complaint from the woman who lives next door. She says there's a gang of scruffs in Finch's house acting suspiciously."

   "OK," said Frost. "I'll see to her." Everyone else was busy, so he ambled over to the next house himself and charmed his way into a cup of tea.

   "Knock the dog off the chair," said the little grey-haired woman, pouring hot water into a cup and adding a tea-bag. As soon as Frost sat down, the animal, a fat, snuffling bulldog, was up on his lap dribbling all over his trousers.

   "You're honoured," said the woman. "He doesn't take to everyone." She added milk and passed the cup, with its floating tea-bag, to Frost. "Why are the police here?" she asked. "Mr. Finch isn't in any sort of trouble, is he?" She said it as if she hoped he was.

   "Good Lord no!" said Frost. "He kindly gave us permission to search his house in case we overlooked something." He didn't elaborate further.

   "I saw him go out earlier," said the woman, 'but I didn't see him come back . . . and I usually notice."

   I bet you do, you nosy cow, thought Frost. "Any idea where he might be?"

   She shook her head. "Hardly know anything about him. I used to chat with his wife, but that stopped when she died."

   "Yes, I suppose it would," said Frost.

   "Killed herself," she said confidentially. "He never got over it." Frost nodded sympathetically, then his nose began to twitch. A most foul aroma. He hated to suspect the woman, but the dog was looking very innocent.

   "Oh dear," said the woman, catching a whiff. "He's not being naughty, is he? He suffers from the odd touch of flatulence."

   "He's not selfish. He shares it around," said Frost. He lifted the dog off and stood up. "I'd better make a move." The woman followed him to the front door where he bent and gave the dog a pat to show he bore it no grudge. "How does he get on with Mr. Finch's Jack Russell?"

   "That's not Mr. Finch's dog," she said. "He's looking after it for someone while they're on holiday."

   He gave her a wave and returned to Finch's house. A glum-faced team awaited him. "Nothing," reported Burton. "Not a damn thing."

   He sat on one of the bottom stairs and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette to give him time to think. This was his last hope. There just had to be something here.

   "I hate to say it," said Burton, 'but it could be you've made a mistake about Finch."

   He shook his head. "It's him," he said, stubbornly. He was at his lowest ebb. The investigation had come to a dead end, it was peeing with rain and a seven-year-old was out there somewhere and he hadn't the slightest hope of doing anything about it.

   "It's all a mess here," said Liz. "Shall we tidy up?"

   "No," he said. "Leave it . . . Let's all go to the pub and get pissed."

   From the kitchen a salvo of barks. Something must have disturbed the dog. Frost stopped dead. The barking triggered the memory of what the next-door neighbour had said, something that didn't seem important at the time. "It's not his dog!" he exclaimed. "It's not Finch's bloody dog!"

   They looked at him as if he was mad. "Have I missed something?" asked Liz.

   "No, but I nearly did," said Frost, beckoning to Burton. "Up on that pin board in his office there's a holiday postcard from Spain. Go and get it."

   With a puzzled shrug to the others, Burton galloped up the stairs and brought down the card which he handed to Frost. A highly coloured beach scene with towering hotel blocks in the background. He turned it over and read the message." 'Dear Henry: Very hot here. We pity you shivering in Denton. Yes, please pay the phone bill for us and I'll settle up when we get back next week. Ethel and Wilf.' "

   He looked up at them expectantly, only to be greeted by a wall of blank stares. "Flaming hell!" he moaned. "I'm supposed to be the dim one." He jabbed his finger on the card. " '. . . please pay the phone bill for us . . .' Doesn't that suggest anything?"

   They looked at each other, eyebrows raised in bewilderment. "It means they want him to pay their phone bill," said Jordan as if answering a stupid, self-evident question.

   "So how would Finch know about their phone bill?"

   It was Liz who saw what he was getting at. "Finch is keeping an eye on their place while they're on holiday. He's checking their post for them."

   "Which means he's got the key . . . to an empty house. A perfect place to hide a kid."

   "Possible, I suppose," said Liz, grudgingly.

   "It's all we've got, so it had better be bloody probable. So let's find out where Wilf and Ethel live. Did anyone spot an address book?"

   They all shook their heads.

   "His computer!" said Frost. "People keep names and addresses in their computers."

   "I tried to access it," said Burton, 'but it's password-protected."

   "What does that mean?" frowned Frost.

   "It means you've got to key in the password to gain access to the information. We could probably crack it, but it would take time."

   "Time is what we haven't bloody got!" He paced up and down pounding his palm with his fist. "They must live in or near to Denton otherwise Finch couldn't keep popping in to check all was well."

   "If we knew their surname it would help," said Burton.

   "So would their bloody address," said Frost, 'but we haven't got it." Then his head came up slowly and he smiled. "I know how we can find them. The electoral register."

   "How would that help?" Liz asked.

   "The electoral register lists everyone living in the Denton area eligible to vote and I'm damn sure that anyone called Ethel and Wilf have got to be of voting age. All we've got to do is look through it until we find an Ethel and a Wilf living at the same address."

   "But there's thousands of names on the register," moaned Burton.

   "Then the sooner we start checking, the better. Let's go."

A blue haze of cigarette smoke was rolling around the incident room, the silence broken only by the drumming of rain from outside and the rustle of turned pages from within. Everyone available had been dragged in to help, even patrols dropping in for their meal break had to take sections of the register up to the canteen with them.

   "I've got a Wilfred and Elizabeth Markham," called Jordan.

   "Check it out," said Frost, blowing cigarette ash from his sheet. "People sometimes use a different name from that on their birth certificate." But he wasn't optimistic. No-one changed their name to Ethel from choice.

   "What is going on?"

   Frost raised his eyes from the page and groaned. Mullett again, scavenging around, trying to find something to complain about. Still, he was an extra pair of hands. He quickly explained and pushed a section of the register across to the Divisional Commander.

   "Delighted to help," boomed Mullett. "We are, after all, a team." He settled himself down at an empty desk, which made Frost's heart sink as his stomach was rumbling and he was hoping to send out for another feast of fish and chips. "You'd be more comfortable in your own office, sir," he suggested hopefully.

   "I'm quite happy here," smiled Mullett. "What were those names we were looking for . . . George and Mildred?"

   "Wilf and Ethel."

"Of course, of course." Mullett coughed pointedly. "I'm sure we'd all work a lot better if people didn't smoke."

   They had three false dawns. Two "Wilfred and Ethel's that seemed promising, but were at home watching television when the car called to check. At the third, the house was empty, but the next-door neighbour said they were at the pub and would be back in half an hour.

   Frost rubbed a weary hand over his face. The names were beginning to blur and wriggle in front of his eyes. At one stage he suddenly realized he had turned a page but hadn't consciously read any of the names on it. There must be an easier way.

   "What names did you say again?" asked Mullett.

   Bloody hell. The man had a memory like a bleeding sieve - and how could he have been checking away for half an hour without knowing the names he was looking for? "Wilf and Ethel," said Frost patiently.

   "I've got a Wilfred and Ethel here," said Mullett, tapping the page with his finger. Frost dashed across and snatched it from him. "Wilfred Percival Watkins and Ethel Maureen Watkins, 2 Wrights Lane, Denton." He checked the map. Wrights Lane was a fairly exclusive area with a few detached Victorian houses in extensive grounds on the outskirts of Denton, not too far from the woods and the river.

   After three disappointments, no-one got too excited; they plodded on with their own lists while Frost sent an area car to check this one out.

   Within five minutes an excited radio message. "Charlie Baker to Mr. Frost. Checked the Wrights Lane address. Lights are showing, but as you instructed we did not approach. Neighbours say the owners are a retired pharmacist and his wife, holidaying in Spain. They also confirm they have a Jack Russell terrier which is being looked after by a friend."

   "Bingo!" yelled Frost, throwing his list up in the air where the papers fluttered and autumn-leafed to the ground. He grinned broadly at Mullett. "Thank you, super. I always said you weren't entirely useless."

   By the time Mullett had worked out that this wasn't the whole-hearted compliment he had assumed, Frost and his team were racing across the rain-swept car-park, leaving empty desks and sheaves and sheaves of printed lists.

The car slithered and bumped up the unmade road that led them to Wrights Lane. Rain bounced and drained off the road into an overflowing ditch which ran along its length. The road dipped sharply as the car went beneath a small, iron railway bridge and churned its way through a deep puddle; a slight bend and there was the house, just to their left behind a fringe of trees. Its lights were on.

   They turned into the drive, skidding to a splashing halt by the front door, the second car with the rest of the team having to brake sharply to avoid running into the back of them. Out of the car, heads down against the driving rain, and Frost was hammering at the front door after sending Burton and Jordan round to the back. No answer but he could see someone moving about inside the hall through the frosted glass of the door.

   He was about to knock again when Finch's voice called, "Who is it?"

   "Police - open up."

   "Just a minute."

   A brief pause, then the door was opened by Finch, his jacket off, a sponge mop in his hand. He raised his eyebrows in pretended surprise. "Inspector Frost! Twice in one day - what an unexpected pleasure!"

   "We want to search these premises," said Frost.

   "Do you have a warrant?"

   "No, but it won't take long to get one."

   "Is it about the missing boy?"

   "Yes."

   "Then I waive my right to demand a warrant. Please search where you like." He moved back so they could pass. "Do wipe your feet . . . and don't make a mess. This isn't my house."

   He's too cocky, thought Frost, hoping and praying this wasn't going to turn out yet another wasted exercise. He's too bloody cocky.

   They thudded past him. Liz went straight through to the back door to let in Burton and Jordan who were shivering in the rain. They stepped thankfully into the dry and on to gleaming chequer-board linoleum tiles, dripping pools of water which Finch hastily sponged up with the mop. "Please," he admonished. "I've gone to a great deal of trouble to tidy this place up. It belongs to friends of mine who return from Spain tomorrow." He checked the washing machine which was churning away. "I've got so much to do before then."

   Liz allocated areas of search, while Frost sat with Finch in the lounge, a large, high-ceilinged room, its gleaming furniture reeking of polish.

   "How did you find me here?" asked Finch, slipping on his jacket. Then he smiled. "Of course the address on the dog's name tag. How clever of you!"

   Bloody hell, thought Frost. Don't tell me it was on the flaming dog's name tag all the time! He smiled back modestly as if pleased at his cleverness. "That's right."

   "Why do you think the boy is here, inspector?"

   "Because you are here, Mr. Finch." He took a cigarette from the packet and lit up.