R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"It's possible," said Jordan, begrudgingly.

"Sniff it," said Frost.

Jordan lifted the blanket delicately to his nose. "Perfume?"

"And what's the betting that if you sniffed Simms's greatcoat where it was wrapped round her naked, hot, rampant little body, you'd smell the same perfume?"

"But the gang could have taken the blanket from her bed and wrapped it round her."

"So why wasn't it still wrapped round her naked little figure when she was flagging cars down?" He sighed. "But that little mystery must wait, son. We're putting off the pleasure of telling a mother her son has been murdered." He tossed the blanket on to the back seat and smoked silently until they reached the address given to them by Control.

Kenton Street consisted of large, three-storeyed houses, converted into flats. Burton_was waiting outside number 3a. Frost steeled himself and reached for another cigarette. A few quick delaying drags before he would have to confront the mother. But like Bobby's mother the night before, the woman had seen the police car draw up and was already on the doorstep. Frost gave a deep groan and poked the cigarette back in the packet. "They can't wait for bloody bad news, can they?" He nodded at Burton. "Come on, son. Let me do the talking."

Joy Anderson, a plump, bouncy little brunette in her twenties, anxiously watched them approach, trying to read some sign of hope from their expressions. "Have you found him?"

"Give us a chance love," said Frost. "We've only just got your message."

They followed her up the stairs to a largish room which overlooked the street. It was basically furnished like a hotel room, with few signs of personal belongings. Two large suitcases stood beside the two-seater beige moquette settee. I

Frost parked himself in a chair by the window. "How long has Dean been missing?"

She sat opposite him, staring out of the window as she answered, leaning forward hopefully every time someone turned the corner, slumping back when it wasn't her son. "About half-past two yesterday afternoon."

"But you didn't report him missing until this morning," said Burton.

She took one of Frost's cigarettes. He lit up for both of them. "It's all my bloody fault. I thought he was in bed." She held the cigarette up vertically and watched the smoke wind up to the ceiling.

Frost didn't prompt her. He let her take her time.

"I've got this job at the Coconut Grove. It's a casino near Denton Woods."

"Yes," nodded Frost. "We know it."

"I'm one of the dealers on the blackjack tables eight in the evening until four in the morning. Not much of a job, but you've got to grab what you can get." A cylinder of ash fell from her cigarette. She blew it off the polished table top. "Dean gets himself to bed. I usually look in on him when I get back, but I didn't this morning. I …" She hesitated, then lowered her eyes. "I brought a bloke back here." She glared at Frost defiantly. "I'm not a prostitute just now and then. I need the money."

"Sure," said Frost. Baskin at the Coconut Grove employed plenty of girls like her. Punters went to the casino for a gamble, then some sex, and Baskin provided both. He probably owned this flat. Frost nodded for her to go on.

"I didn't let him know I had a kid… it puts some people off. They don't even know at the Coconut Grove that I've got Dean. Me and the bloke went to bed. He left just after six this morning and I was so bloody tired, I went straight off to sleep. I didn't wake up until half an hour ago, I staggered into Dean's room to see if he wanted any breakfast. His bed hadn't been slept in." She smashed the cigarette out in a heavy glass ashtray. "He's got himself lost, that's what's happened. We've only been in Denton for two days. He doesn't know his way around yet."

"When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday afternoon. He was fed up being stuck in here on his own, so I gave him the money for the pictures. He went off about half-past two."

The cinema! Of course, thought Frost. That would be where he bought the hamburger. Probably ate it as he watched the film. "Weren't you worried he hadn't returned home before you left for work?"

"I had to have my hair done and be fitted for my uniform. I left here just after five. He knows how to work the microwave if he wants anything to eat."

"How was Dean dressed when he left here?"

"Black trousers, Jurassic Park T-shirt and a red and white zip-up shell jacket and blue trainers."

Burton noted the details. Frost showed her a photograph of Bobby Kirby. "Would your son know this boy?"

She dragged her gaze from the window to look at it. "I don't think he knows anyone yet. He hasn't even started school here. Why do you ask?"

"It's not important," lied Frost, crushing out his cigarette alongside hers in the glass ashtray. He took a deep breath. Now for the moment of truth. "Do you have a recent photograph of Dean, Mrs. Anderson?"

"Miss," she corrected, 'not Mrs." She reached for her handbag which hung from the back of her chair. "Taken about three months ago. He's filled out a bit since then."

Frost looked at it, then passed it to Burton. Burton's eyes flickered, but his expression didn't change as he handed it back. Not the slightest doubt about it. It was the dead boy.

"How old are you, love?" asked Frost.

"Twenty-four."

Twenty-four. She would have had the boy when she was sixteen. "Where's Dean's father?"

"With his wife back in Birmingham."

"Does he support the boy?"

"No. He claims Dean isn't his. I can't even be sure myself."

"Any friends, or family, who can help you?"

"No!" She stood up and glared down at him. "Look — I don't want any help. I just want you to find my son."

Frost stood up and took her hand. "I've got some bad news for you, love," he said.

She looked at him. "How bad?"

"Bloody bad," said Frost. "As bad as it bloody well could be."

She shook her head. "No!"

"He's dead, love," said Frost. "We found him last night, but we didn't know who he was."

"No," she whispered. And then she shuddered and tears streamed down her face. "No…"

Frost took her and held her close to him. "You poor cow," he said. "You poor, poor cow…"

A blown-up photograph of eight-year-old Dean Anderson, wearing the red and white zip-up shell jacket and bright yellow Jurassic Park T-shirt he was last seen alive in, grinned down at them from the wall of the murder incident room. It was a skilful combination of two photographs using another eight-year-old boy. Next to it was the enlarged school photograph of the missing Bobby Kirby.

As Frost breezed in, people swarmed around him with messages. He warded them off with a fried egg sandwich. "I'm having my dinner." He found an empty desk. "Right. What have we got?"

"No luck with the missing boy, yet," said Burton.

"I guessed that," said Frost, digging in his pockets for a cigarette for his dessert, 'otherwise someone would have told me. What else?"

"Stacks of phone calls," said PC Lambert, offering him a heap of scribbled messages.

Frost eyed them with distaste. "You don't expect me to read them, do you? Anything positive?"

"All of them, if you want to believe the twenty-three people who claim to have seen him. Trouble is, there were a lot of kids just like Bobby out with guys last night. We've had so-called positive identifications all over Denton. We're following them all through."

Frost took another bite at his sandwich. "Right. Until something definite breaks, we've just got to pin our hopes on one of the search parties finding him. So let's concentrate on the dead kid." He stood up and waved his sandwich at the blow-up. "As most of you know, we've had a positive identification. Dean Anderson. His mother, Joy Anderson, is a single parent, a blackjack dealer and, for the want of a better word, a "hostess" at the Coconut Grove. They've only been in Denton two days. The kid knew no-one here and barely knew his way around the town, although apparently he knew how to get to the cinema." He gave them the details, pausing as the phone rang and Liz answered it.