R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Vaccinated?" asked Liz.

"Yes, sergeant. He was a pervert. Liked sticking needles in little bottoms or little plump arms. It gave him a kick to see them bleed, to hear them cry."

"He injected the arms and buttocks?" said Liz, still not taking it in.

"He only had water in the syringe," said Frost. "The object was to make them bleed. He did it to about six or seven kids before we caught him. Prior to that he used to expose himself to mothers with kids in push chairs

"We had a couple of complaints this morning," said Wells, 'about a bloke exposing himself to women in the park."

Liz leant back and snatched up a sheet of typescript from her desk. She waved it angrily at Wells. "I asked you for a list of all known sex offenders against children. This is what you gave me. Why isn't Snell's name on it?"

"Because he's ancient history," retorted Wells. "This all happened some ten… eleven years ago '

"Even so Liz cut in.

"If you would kindly let me finish," sniffed Wells. "Snell doesn't live in Denton any more. When he came out of prison about five years ago, he moved up north. Too many parents in Denton had threatened to do him over if they ever saw him back here."

"Oh!" said Liz, crestfallen. She had really thought

Frost was on to something. She transferred her annoyance to him. "Then why are we wasting our time looking for his file?"

"I've an idea the sod might have sneaked back to Denton," Frost told her. "I think I saw him yesterday."

"And you didn't think it worth mentioning to anyone?" asked Cassidy sarcastically.

"I wasn't sure," said Frost, shuffling through his stack of files. "It's been ten years since I last saw him." He looked up as Wells cried, "Bingo!" He held aloft a file and flipped it over to Frost. Frost blew off the dust, then turned the cover so he could see the photograph affixed to the inside. The photograph showed a podgy-faced man in his early thirties scowling at the camera. Frost jabbed it with a nicotine-stained finger. "I was right. It was Snell I saw."

"Are you sure?" asked Liz, getting excited at the thought of an arrest.

"I'm positive," said Frost. "It's been ten years, but he's still got the same little piggy eyes."

"He used to live with his mother," said Wells. "Proper little mummy's boy." He leant over Frost's shoulder and pointed to the address on the file. "Ten years ago it was 39 Parnell Terrace. I don't know if she's still there."

Liz picked up her handbag and checked that the street map was inside. "I'll go and find out."

"Hold it!" Now Cassidy sounded excited. He was staring at a typed sheet in the folder. "You've overlooked something, inspector." He held out the arrest sheet.

"What's that?" asked Frost, quickly skimming through it.

"Snell used to carry a genuine medical bag around with him when he posed as a doctor."

"I know," said Frost.

"Do you remember what was in it?"

Frost shrugged. "Syringes, bandages, — iodine…"

"And a bottle of chloroform," said Cassidy with a smug smirk. He pointed out the entry on the arrest sheet.

Frost whistled softly. "Bloody hell! You're right. I'd forgotten about that."

"Chloroform?" asked Liz.

Frost nodded. "No evidence that he used it at the time. Apparently he had an uncle who was a doctor. The uncle died and Slimy Sid pinched his bag." He chewed at his thumb as he thought this over. "Chloroform! I can't see our luck running that way, but it would be bloody handy if it was Sidney who stabbed the kids and killed Dean Anderson." He stood up. "I'll drive."

"Hold on!" Cassidy was buttoning up his jacket. "I'm coming with you." There was no way he was going to miss out on this. "Two more cases solved," he would tell Mullett with studied modesty. "I spotted the reference to chloroform and put two and two together…"

"It doesn't need three of us," said Frost.

"Sergeant Maud can stay here and look after the administration," said Cassidy.

Liz was indignant. "This is my case!"

"The murder of the boy takes precedence," said Cassidy. "You'll be more useful here, helping Sergeant Wells put these files in alphabetical order."

She looked in mute appeal to Frost who shrugged and went out followed by Cassidy. She picked up a file and hurled it with all her strength against the wall where it fluttered papers all over the place. She looked to Wells for support. Wells's delight at the smug cow's frustration fought with his hatred for Cassidy. His hatred won. "The bastard!" he said.

Cassidy swung the car into Parnell Terrace, pointedly fanning his hand to drive away the smoke from the stale cigarette Frost had found in the torn lining of his jacket. The car crept between a double row of identical and ugly terraced buildings made of preformed concrete. Not a light showed anywhere. The houses stood sullenly silent and an unnatural stillness hovered over the street. Cassidy's heart sank. The street was derelict. Every house was empty and boarded up with contractors' chalked notices saying "Gas Off… Electricity Off… Water Off…"

"All that's missing is "Piss Off'," said Frost gloomily.

"What the hell."began Cassidy.

"Concrete cancer," explained Frost. "The same as the houses in Rook Street where the fourteen-year-old had her baby." He now remembered the article about it in the local paper. "They've re housed everybody."

Muttering audibly about the complete and utter waste of time, Cassidy drove to the end of the road where he could reverse and head back to the station.

If Frost hadn't been looking up at that precise moment, he would have missed it. A flicker of light from one of the houses as a curtain was twitched back and quickly closed. A brief glimpse of a white face looking down at them.

"What light from yonder window breaks," whooped Frost, nudging Cassidy and pointing. "There's someone in that house."

It was the only house in the street where the doors and windows were not boarded up. It was number 39.

Four empty milk bottles stood in a line on the doorstep, waiting vainly for a milkman who no longer called. Frost jammed his thumb in the bell push and leant his weight on it. A bell inside shrilled edgily. He gave the door a couple of kicks and yelled, "Open up police!"

A light clicked on inside and showed dimly through the grimed fanlight over the front door. The sound of someone stumbling down the stairs.

"Who is it?"

"The Avon Lady," said Frost. "Come on, Sidney, open up… you know damn well who it is."

A chain clinked and the door opened a fraction so a bleary eye could study the warrant card held out by

Cassidy. The chain was unhitched and the door opened wide. A meek-looking man in his early forties, wearing a dressing-gown over red-striped pyjamas, thinning brown hair falling over his eyes, blinked at them. "What is this all about?"

"Hello, Sidney," beamed Frost. "Long time, no see."

Snell peered at the inspector. "Sergeant Frost!" He shivered and drew his dressing-gown more tightly around him. "I'd hoped I'd never meet up with you again."

Frost pulled a face. "I don't seem to endear myself to people, do I?" He stepped into the hall and kicked the door shut behind them. "Can we come in?"

There was a musty smell to the house. Snell led them to the lounge, a cold room with old, worn furniture. Two battered suitcases and a pile of bulging carrier bags stood on the floor. A picture of Snell as a young boy, in the garden with his mother, stood in the centre of the sideboard. He switched on a two-bar electric fire and motioned them to chairs. "I'm sure, if I wait long enough, you'll tell me what this is all about."

"We were passing, we saw your light and we knew we'd get a friendly welcome and a fairy cake," said Frost. "But I'm forgetting my manners. How's your mother?"

Snell's lower lip quivered. "My mother is dead."