Hard Frost (54 page)

   Another dustbin sack. Hanlon had cut the white plastic tie. He tipped out the contents. A pair of fisherman's waders, plus a muddy stone to ensure the bag sunk. Frost lifted them up and examined the heavy rubber soles. No sign of any wear - they could have been brand-new.

   Cassidy, determined not to be left out, came running over. "What have we got?" Frost showed him. Cassidy shrugged. "So what does it mean?"

   "Why would anyone want to chuck away a pair of brand-new waders?" asked Hanlon.

   "A fisherman could have dropped them in by accident," suggested Cassidy.

   "With a flaming brick inside to make sure it sunk?" snorted Frost. "Besides, fishermen don't come here. Any fish that survived through the chemicals being shunted in the river would be purple and shine in the dark." He shook his head. "I'll lay odds Finch dumped these."

   "Why?"

   "Because he didn't want us to know he'd been paddling in the bleeding river." He was getting excited now. "He's found a place to hide the boy, but had to get in the river to reach it."

   "Another possibility is that he waded in the river to dump the body in the deepest part," said Cassidy.

   "My brain can only deal with one possibility at a time," said Frost. He looked over to the far bank. "Could anyone wade across to that bank?" he asked Jordan.

   Jordan shook his head. "Far too deep."

   "Then we concentrate on this side." He looked down at the cold swirl, steeled himself then stepped into the river which came well above his knees. He didn't believe in asking people to do things he wouldn't do himself. "We need to search the bank from the river," he told Hanlon. "Get all the volunteers you can. Tell them they'll have to get their feet wet . . . their dicks too if it gets any deeper." The water was icy and the current threatened to knock him off his feet, but, unsteadily, he pressed on, pushing aside the overhang of vegetation from the bank which was now bobbing in the raised water level. Behind came a splash as Jordan joined him. Cassidy stayed on the bank, keeping pace with them.

   At one point Frost got his foot stuck deep in the mud and in pulling it free lost his shoe, but no time to retrieve it, only to curse softly and limp on.

   He nearly missed it. It was at the point where the river curved and the current was at its strongest and nearly kicked his feet from under him. He clutched at a clump of reeds to stop himself falling. And there it was, no longer hidden. An opening in the bank. Water was lapping almost half-way up a brown, glazed pipe, some eighteen inches in diameter. "Jordan!"

   Jordan splashed over to him. "It's part of an old drainage system to run off rain water from some of these fields at back of us. They're blocked off now." He pulled back the overhang of long, dank grass so Frost could look inside.

   "Torch!" called Frost. Cassidy, from the bank, handed one down.

   The beam ricocheted off something drably white. Passing the torch back to Cassidy, Frost squeezed his arm through and touched it. Cloth of some kind. Woollen cloth. He managed to get a grip on it and tugged. At first it didn't want to move, then it slid forward. The weight was right. His heart pounded. He now had it out and raised it out of the water. It was a child, cocooned in a sodden blanket which was bound round with cord. Brown plastic tape sealed the mouth and eyes. The flesh was cold. As cold as the river water. "I've got him," he yelled and could hear excited voices and people running towards him.

   "Give him to me." Cassidy, bending over, held out his arms for the bundle. Frost passed it up.

   Helped by Burton, Frost managed to clamber up on the bank, and was still on his hands and knees, shivering with cold, as Cassidy was cutting the cord and stripping off the sodden blanket. Under it the child was naked. Cassidy shrugged off his greatcoat and swaddled the boy. Then he carefully peeled off the plastic tape. The eyes were tightly closed. He could detect no sign of breathing.

   He's dead, thought Frost, hugging himself for warmth. The poor little sod is dead.

   Liz pushed through the huddle and bent her ear to the child's mouth. Her eyes narrowed as she listened. "He's breathing," she announced. "Just about, but he's breathing."

   "Ambulance," yelled Mullett. "Get an ambulance."

   Frost took charge. "No!" He grabbed Cassidy. "It will be quicker to get him straight to the hospital. Take him in an area car. Radio ahead and let them know you are coming."

   Cassidy nodded and, clutching the child tight to his chest, pushed through to the area car. Electronic flash guns crackled as Sandy's man took photographs.

   Mullett was beaming. He couldn't wait to get back to phone the Chief Constable. "A most satisfactory ending," he told Frost.

   "Thanks, super." The wind on his wet clothes was chilling him to the bone. "Pass me the blanket . . . I'll get it over to Forensic'

   Mullett bent and picked it up. He frowned. He was looking at something caught up in the folds. "Seems to be a receipt of some kind."

   "Show me," said Frost excitedly. Soaking wet, but still readable, it was a till receipt for the purchase of petrol. Hatter's Garage. That day's date and paid for by credit card. Finch's credit card.

   He looked up at Mullett and smiled. "You clever old sod," he said. "We've got him. Thanks to you, we've got him."

   A doubtful smile flickered on and off Mullett's lips. He wasn't quite sure what it was he had done.

   "The evidence we wanted," explained Frost, slipping the receipt between the pages of his notebook to dry it. "We can now tie Finch to the kid." He looked round for Liz and beckoned her over. "Ever charged a man with murder and kidnapping?"

   She shook her head.

   "Then here's your chance. Get that bastard Finch banged up."

   "Aren't you going to do it?" asked Mullett.

   "I'm soaking wet," answered Frost. "I'm going home to change." At the car he yelled his thanks to the search team. "Booze-up in the incident room in an hour. I'll bring some bottles, but don't let that stop any of you from bringing your own!"

Clutching tightly to his chest bottles which clinked and threatened to slip from his grasp, he backed through the swing doors and into the lobby. From the raucous sounds seeping from the incident room the celebration party was already in progress. Bill Wells on the front desk beckoned him over.

   "Finch wants to see you."

   "What about?"

   "He didn't say," said Wells. "No-one takes me into their confidence."

   He left the bottles on the front desk, reminded Wells he had counted them, then went down to the cells.

   Finch was lying on his bunk. He got up when Frost entered. "You bastard!" he hissed.

   "Sticks and stones . . ." said Frost, waggling a finger.

   "You framed me. You fitted me up!"

   "Fitted you up?" said Frost, his face a picture of injured bewilderment.

   "That petrol receipt."

   "What about it?"

   "You planted it. You found it with my credit card and you planted it."

   "My Divisional Commander found it - not me."

   Finch stood up and pushed his face close to Frost's. "I don't care who found it you planted it to be found."

   Frost shook his head. "I know you like to think of yourself as infallible, Mr. Finch, but you slipped up this time. The receipt must have fallen from your pocket as you were stuffing the poor little git up that drainage pipe."

   "There's a flaw in your reasoning, inspector, an insurmountable flaw. I drove to the river, I hid the child and I filled up with petrol on the way back. So how on earth could that receipt have got there?"

   Frost shrugged and gave an enigmatic smile. "One of life's little mysteries." He paused. "Do you want to make an official complaint?"

   Finch barked a scornful laugh and sat down again. "What use would it be? You'd lie your head off."

   "How well you know me," said Frost.

Chapter 20

He woke with a raging headache, feeling stiff, cold and uncomfortable. The alarm was shrieking, chewing through his brain like a rip saw. He fumbled to switch it off, but his hand floundered about in empty space. One eye creaked open to a confusion of images. He wasn't in his bedroom. The window was in the wrong place. And he wasn't in his bed, he was curled up on a hard, rigid-backed chair. Slowly, realization filtered through to his alcohol-deadened brain. The party last night. He was in the incident room and the ringing was the phone. He squinted at his watch, moving his arm to bring it into focus. 8.30 a.m. Reaching for the phone sent his headache throbbing anew. "Frost," he winced into the mouthpiece.

   "Wakey wakey campers," chirped a disgustingly cheerful Bill Wells.

   "What do you want?" growled Frost, his eyes crawling round the incident room. Ashtrays overflowed with half-smoked broken-backed cheroots, empty glasses and bottles everywhere, on desks, rolling about the floor. Jordan and Arthur Hanlon were asleep on separate desks, snoring loudly. The atmosphere was thick with stale tobacco smoke and whisky and . . . God, his stomach churned at the thought of it . . . jellied eels. At five in the morning someone was sent to an all-night stall which sold sea food and came back with containers of cockles, whelks, winkles . . . jellied eels.

   A fourteen-inch colour television set in the corner was playing with the sound off. It was the early morning news and, in eerie silence, Cassidy, carrying the child, was seen dashing into the hospital . . . being hugged by the mother . . . making modest speeches to the press.

   He snatched his attention back to the telephone. "Sorry, Bill . . . what was that?"

   "I said the good news is that the kid is pulling through. The bad news is that Mullett is in."

   "You haven't woken me up just to tell me that?"

   "No, Jack. The solicitor for those two women who killed Lemmy Hoxton is here. He wants to see you."

   "It's Cassidy's case, not mine."

   "But it's you he wants to see."

   Frost sighed. "Right. I'll be along."

   He staggered into the washroom, kicking aside an empty jellied eel tub on the way, and splashed cold water on his face. His rumpled hair was smoothed back, a cigarette stuck in his mouth and lit. His first cough of the morning, then he ambled out into the corridor.

   The door to Mullett's office was swinging open. He could hear the Divisional Commander, oozing false modesty as he spoke on the phone to the Chief Constable, so he paused, ears cocked, hoping to pick up some tit bits to pass on to Bill Wells.

   ". . . I know the overtime level had been exceeded, sir, but my only concern was for the missing boy, so I took the risk in the belief that a human life was worth it, no matter what the outcome might be for me . . . You're too kind, sir, I was just doing my duty . . . Thank you, sir . . . Thank you very much." A click as the phone was replaced.

   Frost tiptoed a few steps back the way he had come, then, rather noisily, resumed his walk.

   Mullett called him in as he was passing. "Frost!"

   He shuffled in and dropped into a chair.

   "Take a seat," said Mullett, too late as usual. He gave an ingratiating smile. "You'll be pleased to learn that I've managed to get you off the hook regarding the excessive unauthorized overtime."

   "Thank you very much, super," mumbled Frost. "I don't deserve you."

   He said this with such sincerity that Mullett saw no double meaning and beamed happily. "Cassidy did well." He tapped the
Denton Echo
on his desk. A large picture of Cassidy, the boy in his arms, under the headline "Policeman Hero Saves Child From River'.

   "Didn't he just?" said Frost.

   "Unfortunately, Lexford Division want him back again."

   "Tough," grunted Frost.

   "So I might have some good news for DS Maud regarding a temporary promotion."

   "She deserves it," said Frost.

George Perry, the solicitor for the two women, was white-haired and stooped. He looked benign, but he was shrewd. Very shrewd.

   Frost led him to his office. As he opened the door he nearly tripped over a heap of clothes. Liz and Burton were asleep on the floor near the radiator, locked in each other's arms. Neither was wearing very much. Frost backed out, closing the door firmly. "We'll try next door," he said.

   They went into the office Cassidy was using. Frost sat at the empty desk and offered Perry a chair. "So what can I do for you?"

   Perry unzipped his solid leather briefcase and pulled out two typed statements. "I am acting for Miss Millicent Fleming and Miss Julie Adams. You took statements from them yesterday?"

   "Not me," said Frost. "My colleague Inspector Cassidy."

   "The statements were taken without a solicitor being present."

   "They were asked if they wanted one. They both declined."

   Perry smiled. "I am sure everything was explained to them. The thing is, my clients would like to withdraw their statements."

   "Can't be done," said Frost.

   Another smile. "Come now, inspector. All things are possible. They admit the crime but the prurient details . . . the sexual relationship . . . the photographs . . . They are going to cause such a stir."

   "I'm afraid so," nodded Frost.

   "They have families . . . friends. They are respected members of the church. They would much prefer that these details were not part of the case against them."

   "So what are you suggesting?"

   "Hoxton came to rob them. He tried to rape Julie. Millicent hit him to stop him and he died. That is not in dispute. But surely there is no need for the sexual aspect to come out. They are both most concerned almost suicidal about this."

   "Their statements will have to be read out in court."

   "I'm suggesting we tear up the original statements and destroy the tapings of the interviews. They will give you fresh statements that will omit the sexual aspect."

   "I don't see why we can't do that," began Frost. "I'll have a word with my colleague, it's his case."