R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Which means," Liz continued, 'that we can concentrate on our number one suspect Sidney Snell, who seems to have done a runner."

"I just can't see Sidney killing anyone," said Frost. "The mother was killed in a frenzied attack. Sidney might stamp his foot and say "knickers" but he wouldn't get into a frenzy."

"Three children, all in one room that could have worked him up to a sexual state where he'd do anything."

"A bit of bare thigh does the same for me," sighed Frost. He saw there was more to come.

"We've got a key witness. An old boy walking his dog who swears he saw someone running from the house and driving off in a blue car."

Frost's head jerked up. "What time was this?"

"About ten minutes before two o'clock."

"In the morning? What was the silly sod doing walking his dog at that time?"

"He used to be on shift work before he retired and old habits die hard."

Frost tugged the man's statement towards him and read it. The old boy seemed pretty definite as to what he saw. "He's sure the man he saw came out of the Grovers' house?"

"He's positive… And to back it up, Mark Grover says that when he came home last night the front door was wide open."

Frost dug in his pocket and found a half-smoked cigarette hidden in the lining that had been there a long time. It was stale, but better than nothing. He lit up. "And what colour is Snell's car?"

"Dark blue," replied Liz.

He sucked in smoke and coughed, shaking ash all over a memo from Mullett complaining about the inadequacy of his daily call reports. "Could be a clue there, somewhere." He heaved himself up and snatched his scarf from the hat-stand. Something was nagging away at him, something just out of reach, something he knew he should have picked up, but the more he tried to remember, the more it crept back to cower in the dark, inaccessible recesses of his mind. He had to get out of the office and think. "I'm off to see her doctor. Let's find out if he agrees with the husband about her suicidal tendencies."

The waiting room was crowded, people hunched up coughing, snuffling and groaning in counterpoint to children running around, screaming unchecked. If you weren't ill when you went in, you certainly would be after a few minutes of this.

The receptionist was flustered. Patients were annoyed with her because the doctor was running late, the phone was ringing nonstop, and this scruffy man, claiming to be a detective, wanted to nip in in front of people who had been waiting for nearly an hour. "I don't know when he will be able to see you. We're very, very busy," she said.

"That makes two of us," said Frost.

She looked up as a patient emerged from the surgery clutching a prescription form and was about to ask the next patient to go in when this scruffy man scooted in before the surgery door closed and before she could warn the doctor.

"I thought I was next," said one of the women indignantly. "I'm writing to the General Medical Council about this."

The doctor, a plump young man in his early thirties, was at his desk, scribbling something in a register. He didn't look up as Frost entered. "Please sit down, Mrs. Jenkins. What's the trouble?"

"The sex change operation didn't work," said Frost, sitting as requested.

The doctor looked up startled. "I thought '

"I'm not a patient," said Frost, sliding a warrant card across. "Police."

The doctor stared at the warrant card as if Frost had just dumped a hand grenade with the pin removed on his desk. "Look, officer. I think my solicitor had better be present. I never touched that girl. She stripped to the waist, I gave her a normal examination. I know she was only fifteen '

"Hold it," interrupted Frost. "This is nothing to do with that… I wish it were, it sounds quite juicy. I'm enquiring about another patient of yours Mrs. Nancy Grover, Cresswell Street."

In his relief, the doctor couldn't have been more helpful. He dragged a file from his filing cabinet and opened it up. "Yes those poor children. I had no idea she would do anything like that."

"What were you treating her for?"

"Depression paranoia. She imagined people were following her everywhere she went, watching her, staring at her through the windows of her bungalow at night when her husband wasn't there."

"And the bastard rarely was there, was he? Shouldn't she have had specialized help?"

"Yes. I wanted to send her to a consultant psychiatrist, but she wouldn't go. I prescribed tranquillizers, but I don't think she took them."

"You say she was imagining she was being watched… that a man was looking through her window. Could this really have happened?"

"It's possible. It's difficult to be certain with patients like her. They are convinced that things that only happen in their own minds are actually occurring. She was so upset because her husband didn't believe her."

"What do you think brought it all on?"

The doctor gave a sad smile. "Three children, another on the way. A husband who worked most of the day and was then out drinking most of the night. No relatives or close friends she could confide in. It was all getting too much for her."

Frost stared at the desk in silence. He felt so sorry for the poor cow. He stood up. Thanks, doc."

Angry faces sped him on his way out of the waiting-room. Outside in the darkened street, the first heavy drops of rain were splattering the pavement.

"Penny for the guy, mister?"

He froze. The small boy standing in front of him with his palm outstretched, a misshapen Guy Fawkes propped up in a push chair at his side, was the spitting image of Bobby Kirby. But it wasn't Bobby, of course.

"You didn't ought to be out," said Frost.

"You tight-fisted old sod," said the boy, trundling off with the push chair

Frost watched him go and wondered if parents should be warned of the dangers. He'd have a word with Mullett when he got back.

As he turned the key in the ignition and his engine tried to cough itself into life, the radio called him. Burton sounding excited. At first Frost couldn't take in what he was saying, his mind was still on that poor woman and her kids, terrified because someone had been staring in the house. Her husband didn't believe her and had left her all alone. Could the face at the window, the face that everyone thought was only in her mind, have been the face of Sidney Snell? He shuddered, then realized Burton was still talking.

"Sorry, son — I didn't catch that."

Burton told him again, slowly and clearly as if the poor old sod was going deaf. This time Frost was able to share the DC's delight. The first stroke of luck they had had in the Lemmy Hoxton case.

The television set bought posthumously with Lemmy's credit card had been registered for the guarantee.

They had a name and address.

"He registered the guarantee!" said Burton triumphantly. "Douglas Cooper, 2a Merchant Street, Denton. And he's got form." He handed the inspector a photostat of the form sheet.

Frost didn't need to read it. "I know Duggie Cooper, son. I've nicked him a couple of times… breaking and entering, handling stolen goods, obtaining money under false pretences."

He looked at his watch. Ten past two. He shook his wrist with annoyance. He must have forgotten to wind the damn thing last night. "Have we got time to give Duggie a tug before the ransom caper?"

Burton checked his own watch. Six thirty-five. The ransom call was due to be made at eight. "Not really," he said.

"Let's do it anyway," said Frost.

Merchant Street, a narrow side road to the north of Denton, was jam-packed with parked cars, most of them without a current tax disc. Burton had to double park at the end of the street and they walked back to the house. A dark grey Ford transit van stood outside Duggie's house and this reminded Frost that he should get someone to keep an eye on the boyfriend of Tracey Neal with the light brown van.