Hard Frost (51 page)

   Frost concealed his irritation. The bastard had a glib answer to everything, all delivered with that snide, unconcealed smile which showed his satisfaction in putting one over on the police. "You took the kid to the woods, didn't you?"

   Finch raised his eyebrows in mocking query. "Did I? That's news to me."

   "We've got teams with dogs searching the woods now," said Frost. "It won't be so bloody funny when we find him."

   "I hope you do find him," said Finch, 'but if you think I put him there, you are wasting your time."

   Frost saw no point in pushing it further. "Interview suspended." He marched out to his office. Forensic must have turned something up by now, something that would wipe the smile off the face of this smug bastard.

   He pulled the phone towards him, then hesitated. If they had anything they would have been through to him. He stared moodily at the rain. cascading down the window, blurring the view of the car-park.

   The phone rang. He grabbed it. It wasn't Forensic, it was Arthur Hanlon.

   "Radio message from Johnnie Johnson," reported Hanlon. Johnson was leading the search team in Denton Woods. "He says it's absolutely hopeless. The dogs are useless in this weather, the team can hardly see a hand in front of their faces and they're slithering and sliding all over the place. Unless we can pin-point a precise search area, they want to pack it in."

   Frost looked out again at the atrocious weather. He could sympathize. Soaking wet, stumbling through sodden undergrowth in the dark, brambles snagging and slashing, visibility down to a few feet. They'd have to stumble over the poor little sod to locate him. Hardly any chance of finding him in those conditions, but no chance at all if they packed it in. "Tell them to give it another couple of hours," he told Hanlon, completely forgetting Mullett's limit of two. "Tell them I am sure the kid is there." But don't tell them I'm equally sure the poor little bugger is dead, he muttered after he had hung up.

   He steeled himself to phone Forensic. Let's get the bad news over. Harding answered the phone. He was most apologetic.

   "That house has been cleaned so thoroughly, we've found nothing that would help, but there were a few fibres that could have come from the child's clothing."

   Frost gripped the phone tightly. His luck had changed at last. "Then we've got him."

   "I'm afraid not, inspector. The fibres mean nothing on their own. Find the child and from his clothing we can prove he's been in the house . . . but we need the child."

   "If I had the child I wouldn't bleeding need you," growled Frost.

   "We can't find what isn't there, inspector."

   He banged the phone down, but Harding was right. Finch was being too clever for all of them. He had stripped Dean of his clothing to avoid leaving any clues and had probably done the same with Bobby.

   "How is it going, Frost?"

   Bloody hell! Bang on cue when things were going wrong, there was Mullett ready to twist the knife in the wound.

   "Not too brilliant," he replied. "Without proof it looks as if the bastard is going to get away with it."

   "Have you heard from Forensic yet?"

   "Yes. They haven't come up with a flaming thing."

Mullett stared at Frost, his lips tightening. This, of course, was all Frost's fault. "So tonight's expensive exercise has achieved precisely nothing. In fact you've achieved nothing right from the moment you took on this case."

   Frost smiled sweetly. "Thank you, super. You have the God-sent gift of stopping me from feeling big-headed." He barged past him out of the office. He'd had all he could stomach of Mullett for one night.

   Back to the interview room for another crack at Finch, but he found Liz there on her own, patting the dog. "Toilet break for Mr. Finch," she explained.

   "Let's hope the seat falls down on his dick," he grunted. He sat down and immediately the dog leapt up on his lap. He patted it and it licked his hand. "Friendly little sod, isn't he?" His eyes narrowed. He wondered if the dog had been friendly with the boy. If it had got on the boy's lap . . . nuzzled against him, licked him . . . could some hairs from the boy have got on to the dog? He scooped the animal up and dashed off to the incident room where he phoned Harding, catching him as he was just ready to go home.

   "Worth a try, inspector," agreed Harding. "Extra overtime, of course."

   "Of course," said Frost. An area car was called in to rush the dog off to the laboratory.

   Finch, escorted by Burton, was led back into the interview room. He looked around. "Where's the dog?"

   "He's helping us with our enquiries," Frost told him.

   Finch stood up. "I want him here - now!"

   "Sit down," snapped Frost. He shook a cigarette from the packet and offered one to Finch who waved it away in annoyance.

   Frost lit up and grinned. "Friendly little dog, isn't he? Did he jump up to the kid . . . was he the only friend the poor little sod had?"

   "I've already told you - "

   "That you don't know anything about the kid. Well, you've been bloody clever with your sweeping and scrubbing and vacuuming, but I bet you didn't give Rin Tin Tin a bath. Our Forensic Lab are checking the dog over now. Want to bet they find the odd hair or two from the kid . . . the poor little kid whose finger you chopped off? Come on I'll give you ten to one we find something."

   The briefest flicker of concern blinked on Finch's face, but was quickly suppressed. He stared at Frost, expressionless. "You won't find anything, because I know nothing about the kidnapping. I have already made a statement to that effect. I have no intention of saying the same thing over and over again. Unless you intend to charge me, I take it I am free to go?"

   "Give my colleague another statement explaining your movements tonight," said Frost. "We'll get it typed up and you can sign it . . . but it might be best to wait until we get the results from the dog first in case you want to change it to a confession."

   If this was meant to ruffle Finch, it failed. I'd hate to play poker with you, thought Frost, making his way back to the incident room.

Burton sat by the old Underwood manual typewriter on the end desk in the incident room pecking out the statement for Finch to sign. Frost had told him to take his time so they could hold on to Finch until the results from Forensic came through. Burton didn't need telling. He was a very slow typist at the best of times and this snail's progress was his top speed. Frost came in and looked hopefully at Hanlon who had just put down the phone.

   "They're still looking, Jack . . . It's the wrong sort of weather for a search."

   "It's the wrong sort of weather to be on holiday, but that's where I ought to flaming well be, not here." He hurled himself down into a chair and realized one of their party was missing. "Anyone seen Mr. Cassidy?"

   "No, thank God," muttered Burton.

   The external phone rang. Hanlon answered it, listening, then putting his hand over the mouthpiece. "For you, Jack - Forensic'

   He took the phone, pausing before he raised it to his ear. He didn't think he could take much more bad news without something to cheer him up, like Mullett falling over and breaking his neck. "Frost."

   "We've taken samples from the dog's fur," reported the lab technician flatly. "We've found three hairs that could have come from a young boy . . ." Frost's elation flared, but was instantly doused.". . . but they do not come from Bobby Kirby. Sorry, inspector."

   He held the phone and stared blankly as waves of despair washed over him. Then his head snapped up. They'd only tried to match it with Bobby. "The other boy - Dean the dead boy. See if they come from him," he roared into the mouthpiece. "No - don't ring back. I'll hold."

   The phone at the other end went down with a bang and he could hear mutterings and echoing footsteps and then silence. He thought they had forgotten him and started whistling into the mouthpiece. Someone picked up the phone, said, "Be with you in a minute," and immediately put it down again.

   He hunched up a shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he fished out his cigarette packet. Before he could light up, Harding was back. This time he wasn't apologetic. He was downright jubilant. "You were right, inspector. Those hairs come from the dead boy, Dean Anderson."

   It was so long since he had heard good news, he didn't know how to take it. "Are you sure? Lie to me if you're not . . . but please say you're sure."

   "Positive. Absolutely positive."

   A hot surge of relief flooded his body. "You're not so bloody useless as I thought." He spun round in his chair and yelled in triumph. "We've got the bastard! We've got him!"

   He bumped into Mullett, nearly spinning him round, as he sprinted down the corridor to the interview room. "You look absolutely ravishing tonight, super," he cooed to a puzzled and gaping superintendent. "We've got the bastard!" he explained. "I'm going to charge him now."

   Finch was sitting, looking bored, as he waited to sign his statement, when Frost burst in. Right, thought Frost, now we wipe the smile off your face, you supercilious sneering sod.

   He crashed down in the chair opposite Finch and leaned forward. "It's the end of the line, you sod. Man's best friend has let you down. There are hairs from the dead boy all over it."

   Finch flinched as if he had been hit. He struggled to keep his face impassive, but he was clearly shaken. "I don't think I want to say anything," he said.

   "Is Bobby still alive?"

   Finch didn't answer.

   "Don't sod about," said Frost. "It's all over. We've got you. Where is the boy?"

   Finch sank his head and squeezed his chin in thought. Then he straightened up. "I want the tape recorder switched off."

   "Why?" asked Frost.

   "Turn it off and I'll tell you."

   Frost nodded to Liz who stopped the recording and removed the cassette tapes.

   "I would now like the young lady to leave," said Finch. "What I have to say is for your ears only."

   Frost nodded and waited until Liz went out. "Well?"

   "You believe me to be the kidnapper."

   "I bloody know you are!"

   "But your first concern is for the boy."

   "So?"

   "Only the kidnapper would know where the boy was, and in telling you, he would be sealing his guilt."

   "Go on," urged Frost.

   "If I were the kidnapper, I would want a deal. An assurance, in writing, that if I reveal the boy's whereabouts, all charges would be dropped and any evidence you might have against me would be destroyed."

   "We don't make deals," said Frost.

   Finch shrugged. "Well, in that case the boy will most certainly die." He looked up to the ceiling, through which the rain bucketing down on the roof could be heard. "Such shocking weather. If that poor boy is out in it, he'll be dead by the morning."

   "You're telling me he is still alive?"

   A thin mirthless smile from Finch. "Only the kidnapper would know that, inspector." He moved his chair closer to the table. "You've got nothing on the kidnapper. If he kept his mouth shut, the boy would die and the kidnapper would walk free. Do a deal and the kidnapper would still walk free, but the boy would live. As they said in
The Godfather
, surely an offer you can't refuse?"

   "But you wouldn't walk free," said Frost. "We have evidence."

   The supercilious sneer returned and Frost began to worry again. What had the swine up his sleeve? "Are you talking about the hairs from the boy you say you've found on the dog? I hardly think that would stand up in court."

   "It's good, solid, forensic evidence." But even as he said it, he saw the flaw, the gaping hole in the evidence that he realized Finch had spotted first.

   "It is only evidence that the hairs taken from the dog came from the dead boy. But how did they get there? You were at the scene of the crime when the boy's body was found . . . You could have picked up the hairs and when the dog jumped up on your lap, they could have been transferred. I wouldn't be at all surprised if many of the constables who have been in contact with the dog were also at the crime scene. The hairs could even have been picked up from the car that took the dog to your laboratory. Hardly good, solid evidence against me, inspector, especially as it is all you have."

   "You bastard!" said Frost.

   "Do we have a deal?" asked Finch.

   "I'll see," said Frost.

   He went out to find Mullett.

Chapter 19

He barged out of the interview room, crashing into Cassidy who was hovering outside and moved to block him. "I want a word," he said.

   "Later," said Frost.

   "It's about my daughter," hissed Cassidy, 'and it's got to be now!"

   "Your daughter's dead," Frost snapped. "Bobby Kirby might still be alive." He pushed Cassidy out of the way and almost ran down the corridor to the incident room. Cassidy, his eyes spitting venom, followed him.

   Hanlon was hanging up the phone. He didn't look very happy. "The other search party, Jack. They want to pack it in. In this weather it's hopeless."

   "The kid's still alive," said Frost. "They've got to carry on. I'll talk to them."

   Before he could do anything about it, Mullett charged in, his tongue hanging out for the good news about Finch. Frost told him.

   Mullett felt for a chair and dropped into it. "He admitted he had taken the boy?"

   "Off the record, no witnesses, with the tape switched off. He'd deny it in open court."

   "And he said the boy was alive?"

   "Yes, but probably wouldn't last the night."

   "Do you believe him?"

   "Yes."

   Mullett knuckled his forehead, trying to think. "You haven't enough evidence to charge him?"

   "Nothing that would stand up in court. The choice is that we do a deal, let him go and the boy lives, or no deal, we still have to let him go, but the boy dies."

   Mullett turned to Cassidy. "What would you do?"