R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Eh?" It wasn't a summer night any more. It was peeing with rain and he was wet and cold. Cassidy was shaking his arm and pointing back to the road. "What did you say?"

"Another car coming."

All they could see at first were the headlights shining blearily through the rain. Then the car. A dark blue Austin Metro.

"He's slowing down," said Cassidy in excitement. "He's stopped… the bugger's stopped."

Frost squinted through the glasses. He could just about make out the figure at the wheel. There didn't appear to be anyone else in the car, which splashed to a stop, almost dead in line with the clump of bushes where the money was hidden.

"It's him!" hissed Frost. "It's bloody got to be him."

For some minutes the car just stood there, engine ticking, lights on. Then the lights went out, the engine was switched off and the only sound was the drumming rain.

"Keep down," hissed Frost, tugging at Cassidy who was raising his head to get a better view.

They waited. Frost was able to wriggle through the long grass and pick out the registration number through the binoculars. Cassidy whispered it into the radio for Control to check. The reply came back in seconds. The registered owner was a Henry Finch, 2 Lincoln Road, Denton. It hadn't been reported stolen and nothing was known about the owner.

Frost grabbed the radio. "The kidnapper would be a prat driving his own car. The owner might not realize his motor's gone. Phone Finch and ask where his car is. If he says it's parked in the street outside, then we know this one's been nicked. If there's no answer, send an area car round to his house to nose around. If Finch is the kidnapper the kid might be in the house. Get cracking."

"Will do," acknowledged Control. "Don't switch off — Mr. Mullett wants a word."

"Over and out," said Frost, dropping the radio back in his pocket.

Cassidy nudged him. "Someone's getting out the car."

The driver's door had swung open and a man in a dark blue raincoat, shortish and plump, got out, snapping open an umbrella before stepping gingerly over a puddle. For a while he stood still, head turning from side to side, like an animal checking for signs of danger. It was difficult to make out his features as rain streamed off the umbrella and curtained down to the ground. Frost guessed he would be somewhere in his late fifties.

There seemed to be no-one else in the car. Frost nodded his satisfaction. "Not a courting couple and this is definitely not the weather for a peeping tom… This could be our bloke!" Then he frowned. "Bloody hell… what's he doing now?" The man had turned and was leaning back inside the car and seemed to be taking something from the glove compartment and stuffing it into his pocket.

"Did you see what it was?" asked Cassidy. "Could it have been a gun?" i} flaming hope not," said Frost. "It looked too small for a gun." He had the glasses firmly fixed on the man, who was now opening the rear passenger door and seemed to be talking to someone inside. His mouth was moving but the wind tore the words to shreds before they reached them.

"There's someone else in there!" said Cassidy.

"They must be bleeding small, then," said Frost, 'because I can't see anyone."

The man, huddling under the umbrella, took a few steps, then turned and called out something. A small, white and brown Jack Russell terrier, its tail docked far too short, jumped from the back seat, yapping excitedly. The man closed the car door, then took the object from his mac pocket a well-chewed tennis ball, which he hurled across the waste ground, urging the dog to fetch it. Undeterred by the rain, the dog raced after it while the man stood by the car and watched.

Cassidy snorted his disappointment. "He's exercising his dog. He's not our bloke after all."

"Worse than that," said Frost, glumly. "Him and bloody Rin Tin Tin could drive the real kidnapper away."

The radio in his pocket called him. Control reporting. As ordered they had rung Finch's number. No reply. An area car had been despatched and was at the house now. The house was in darkness and no-one answered their knocking. A neighbour said she had seen Mr. Finch drive off with his dog about half an hour ago.

Frost grunted resignedly. It was just telling them what they already knew. This flaming clown had stumbled on the very spot the ransom money was to be collected from and was going to play ball with Fido all flaming night.

The cigarette he tugged from the packet was sodden before he could get his lighter to it and flopped limply in his hand. He shoved it into his top pocket to dry out for later. That damn man, seemingly oblivious to the belting rain, was huddled under the umbrella, calmly hurling the ball; no sooner had the dog retrieved it, than he would take it and fling it again. Bite the bastard, Frost silently urged the animal. He shrunk his neck down deeper into his mac in response to the cold trickle of rain running down the inside of his upturned collar. He was wet, and uncomfortable, and was getting that all too familiar feeling that, bad as things were, they were going to get a bloody sight worse. He could sense the smirk of satisfaction at his discomfiture on Cassidy's face.

Then, in a flash, his despair evaporated. The dog had returned with the ball which it dumped proudly at the man's feet, its stump of a tail wagging wildly. Scooping up the ball, the man suddenly turned at right angles and hurled it straight into the midst of the clump of bushes where the money was hidden, apparently unobserved by the dog which was still sniffing around in the grass. They could hear the man saying "Fetch, fetch," pointing to the bushes, but the dog just yapped its puzzlement and jumped up at him for the ball to be thrown again.

Finch bent down and picked up the dog, then carried it back to the car. With the waggle of a finger, telling the dog to "Be good!" he turned and walked back towards the bushes, disappearing from view behind them.

"It was him all the time!" breathed Frost. "He's putting on a bloody good act, but it's him!" He radioed through to Burton. "Get ready to tail him, son. He's collecting the money now." There was no denying the simple brilliance of Finch's ploy. If the police pounced, he could feign innocence he was simply looking for his dog's ball and if he had already collected the money he could claim he found it by accident. And there'd be no way we could prove otherwise, thought Frost… unless the bastard has got the kid in the boot of his car. He swung the binoculars over to the Austin. All he could see was the brown and white head of the Jack Russell, paws up at the window, waiting for its master.

Control radioed through. A further report from the area car at Finch's house. They had nosed around as much as they could without actually breaking in. Nothing obviously suspicious could be seen from the outside.

"Tell them to stay put," said Frost. If Finch was arrested they could help search the premises. He clicked off and returned to his surveillance of the thicket. "Hasn't he come out yet?"

Cassidy shook his head.

Frost wiped the rain from his eyes and raised the night glasses again. He stared at the thicket until his eyes hurt. No movement. Nothing. "He's taking his damn time." Worry started gnawing. "Could he have come out and we didn't see him?"

"We'd see him going for his car," said Cassidy. Then a thought struck him. "Unless he's letting us watch the Austin and he's got another car parked further up the road for his getaway."

"Shit!" Frost hadn't thought of this. He turned and looked again at the Austin. The dog was still staring out of the window and seemed to be whimpering. "I can't see him abandoning his dog," said Frost. "The bastard might kill a kid, but he'd never leave his dog." He hoped and prayed he was right and that the dog wasn't some poor stray Finch had collected from the gutter on the way over.