R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"The item purchased was a 28-inch Nicam Stereo Panasonic TV set. But after two weeks no-one at the Discount Warehouse had any recollection of the purchaser or what he looked like."

"They wouldn't have known what he looked like after two flaming minutes," said Frost. "AH they look at is your credit card. You could walk in those places with your dick hanging out and they wouldn't spot it."

Jordan had asked the credit card company to fax a copy of the actual Visa docket and this was clipped to his report. Frost compared it with a genuine Lemmy signature. It was an all too obvious forgery. "You'd think the store would have queried the different signatures," he muttered. "I suppose there's no chance the set was delivered and we've got an address?" v

"No, it was collected."

Frost swung from side to side in his chair, sucking at his fourth cigarette of the day. Someone had used Lemmy's credit card to buy an expensive large screen TV. So was Lemmy killed for his credit card? Hardly likely. The card was only used once and that was months after his death. More likely that someone with a reason had done Lemmy in and the credit card was a bonus. Or perhaps the killer had thrown the card away and someone else had used it? He flapped the Visa docket to shake off cigarette ash. He couldn't work up much enthusiasm in finding Lemmy's killer. The sod deserved to die. A thought struck him. "Check with Panasonic. See if the guarantee's been registered."

"He'd be a bloody fool to do that," said Jordan.

"It's the sort of stupid thing I'd do," said Frost. "Check it."

Burton stuck his head round the door. "Time for the briefing, inspector.",

A fair-sized crowd waited for him in the canteen, not quite so many as the day before when hopes were high that the boy would be found alive. Frost noticed that Liz Maud was there, alone at a corner table, snatching a hurried breakfast, even though she must have been up until the small hours with the tragedy in Cresswell Street. He bought himself a hot sausage sandwich, its melted butter making the bread soggy, and took it, with a mug of tea, to the raised section at the end. He yelled for silence. As the burble of conversation died down he let his eyes drift around the room, checking who was present. He couldn't see Detective Sergeant Hanlon.

"He's in the toilet," someone told him. Almost on cue there was the rumble off of a cistern emptying and Arthur Hanlon, looking a mite bedraggled, stumbled into the canteen, doing a mock bow to the applause that greeted his entrance. "Sorry I'm late, inspector," he apologized.

"Flaming hell, Arthur," said Frost. "You always come out of the toilet looking as if you've just gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Which reminds me… did you hear about the constipated mathematician? He had to work everything out with a pencil and a piece of paper." A roar of laughter, the loudest coming from Frost himself who then almost choked on a lump of sausage sandwich. Mullett, who had just come in and was standing at the back, frowned. This was not the time nor place for poor taste jokes.

"OK.," said Frost as the laughter subsided. "That's probably the last laugh any of us will have today." He jabbed his sandwich at the enlarged photograph of Bobby Kirby on the wall. "We didn't find the poor little sod yesterday. My gut feeling is that he is either dead, or he's being held captive somewhere. As you all know, another boy, Dean Anderson, was found dead near where Bobby went missing. Dean's naked body was stuffed into a black plastic dustbin sack and we've got to consider that the same fate might have overtaken Bobby. This means that some of you are going to have to go down to the Council refuse depot and start examining the hundreds of filled rubbish sacks collected by the Council yesterday." He gave a nod to Burton. "DC Burton will tell you which of you lucky lads and lassies have drawn the short straw." He took another sip at his tea. "But let's hope Bobby is still alive… in which case we've got to find him "bloody quickly, so the sooner you get started the better."

Mullett moved forward and indicated to Frost that he would like to say a few words.

"Bit of hush for Mr. Mullett," called Frost. "You've seen him on the telly, now hear him in the flesh."

The thinnest of smiles from Mullett. "Inspector Frost forgot to mention that we are also looking for this woman." He waited as Liz Maud rose from her table and pinned up a large photograph on the wall by the side of the boy. "A tragic case. Her three children dead and she has gone missing. You have other priorities, I know, but please keep an eye out for her." A brisk nod to Frost and he strode back to his office.

Frost sat on the corner of a table, legs swinging, watching the main group file out. He wiped the front of his jacket where the melted butter from the sandwich had dripped, then wandered over to the table where Liz was doing her crossword puzzle. He leant over her and pretended to read a clue. "Four down "Little Richard that ladies love big?" That must be Dick!" She found herself looking at four down before she realized it was another of his childish jokes. Too tired even to fake a laugh, she knuckled her eyes and took another sip from her mug of black coffee.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" Frost asked.

She shook her head. "I was questioning neighbours until six and the postmortems are at eight thirty." She took the offered cigarette. "Mr. Cassidy suggested I attended."

Frost clicked his lighter. "The kids? I'll get someone else to go if you like."

Her eyes blazed. "Do you think I'll faint? I've been to postmortems before."

"I've been to the dentist before," said Frost, 'but that don't make me anxious to go again. It's worse when it's children, love. Wild horses wouldn't drag me if I didn't have to."

"Very kind of you to be so concerned for me, but I'm going," she said, firmly.

He drained his tea then dumped the crust from his sandwich in the mug. "Any developments after I left last night?"

"Nothing particularly helpful. The father is still in hospital, heavily sedated, so we haven't been able to question him. I've found two more neighbours who say they heard raised voices from the bungalow just before midnight. They thought it was the husband and wife having one of their frequent rows."

Frost frowned. "The husband? Could it have been him?"

She shook her head. "Mark Grover never left the department store until just before two."

"Are we sure about that?"

"I've spoken to the night security guard. He confirms that the two men were there until a little before two o'clock in the morning."

"Could they have got out without his knowledge?"

"No. All the main doors are security locked and he would have to operate the release switch."

"Damn," said Frost. The wife rowing with another man around midnight was a complication he would have preferred to be without.

"And I've spoken to the owner of Denton Shopfitters," continued Liz. "He phoned the store just before midnight to check on their progress and spoke to the husband."

"You're very thorough," said Frost ruefully.

"Mr. Cassidy is suggesting that the man the neighbours heard could have been Sidney Snell."

Frost treated this with scorn. "You don't have a row with a man who breaks into your house… you scream and shout at the bastard. Did the neighbours think she sounded frightened?"

"No. They said it was a heated row."

"Well then.. He stood up. "Sidney Snell is not a killer. Don't waste your time going down that road." He glanced up at the clock, then flicked his scarf over his shoulder and stood up. "Frogman time … if anyone wants me I'll be paddling in the canal." At the door he paused, trying to remember what it was he intended asking Liz to do. Oh yes. He wanted her to check with the Council to find out who used to live in the derelict houses where Lemmy's body was found. But the poor cow looked ready to drop and she had a three-body postmortem to attend. He'd get someone else to do it.