R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

Cassidy came up with another depressing theory.

"We're not even certain this man is Finch. He could have pinched Finch's car and his dog and left Finch tied up somewhere."

Frost checked his watch. "How long has he been behind there?" It seemed like hours, but it was only six minutes. Finch might have grabbed the money: they might be sitting here like a couple of wallies, looking at a lousy bush. On the other hand, if they charged across now, they might find Finch doing a long pee and the real kidnapper could spot them and jag it in. He sighed. Whatever he did could be wrong. But he always believed that doing something was much better than doing nothing. He jerked his head at Cassidy and stood up. "Come on let's take a look."

"I think we should wait," said Cassidy, just to get it on record that he had his doubts. But Frost was already lumbering over the uneven ground. Cassidy pushed himself up, hissing in agony at the damp-aggravated pain from his scar. He hobbled along behind Frost, moving as quickly as he could while stamping his foot and muttering about "Damn cramp'.

They split and went around each side of the thicket, Cassidy praying that Finch wouldn't break away in a run. There was no way he could run after him.

Their torches slashed through the darkness, the beams steaming in the rain. There was no-one there. A noise. "What was that?" They listened. Just the drumming of the rain then… There it was again. A groan. Frost directed his torch downwards. Someone sprawled on the ground. It was Finch.

He was lying face down in the long grass. As they turned him over, the dog's ball rolled from the pocket of his raincoat. His eyes were closed and the blood trickling from a swelling lump on his forehead was diluted to a watery pink and spread over his face by the rain. He felt cold. As Cassidy radioed for an ambulance Frost looked everywhere, beating the grass flat, kicking aside the thick carpet of fallen leaves, looking for the travel bag. It had gone.

"The Ford Escort!" exclaimed Frost. "The bloody Ford Escort!" He turned the glasses towards the trees. No sign of the damn thing. He fumbled for the radio and called up Control. "Message for all mobiles. I'm anxious to interview the occupants of a Ford Escort, lightish colour, last seen on the outskirts of Denton Woods by Forest Row. Believe man and woman inside. Any vehicles answering this description to be stopped and held."

"Do you have details of the registration number?" asked Control.

"If I had, I would have bloody well told you," shouted Frost.

"It's not much to go on," said Control.

"It had four wheels and two red lights at the back," snarled Frost. "Does that help?"

"Thank you," said Lambert, his mildness tacitly rebuking Frost's outburst. "Mr. Mullett wants a word."

"How did it go?" asked Mullett eagerly.

Frost stared at the radio, trying to think of a pithy reply that would shut Mullett up for all time. The bugger never asked how things had gone when they had gone off brilliantly. "Couple of minor snags, super," he said. "I'll fill you in when I get back."

"Snags?" roared Mullett. "What snags?"

But Frost had switched off.

The junior house doctor, looking dead tired, came into the waiting-room. "Inspector Frost?"

Frost stood up, pinching out the cigarette and dropping it into his mac pocket. "How is he?"

"He's had a nasty knock. Mild concussion, nothing serious. We'll keep an eye on him tonight, but he can go home tomorrow."

"Is he conscious?"

"Yes, but I'd prefer it if you didn't question him tonight."

"Your preference noted, doc, but I've got a missing seven-year-old kid…"

The doctor shrugged and pointed to the end bed where a young nurse was twitching back the curtains. He yawned again. He was too tired to argue.

Frost shuffled over to the bed. He too was tired. It had been a long day and the adrenaline that had kept him hyped up while they were waiting for the money to be collected was now drained by failure and he felt ready to drop. The little nurse smiled. She recognized him. The number of visits he had made at night to the hospital. The times they had called him in because they hadn't thought his wife would last out until the morning, but she had hung on. There was an empty bed in the centre of the row, its clean white sheets folded back. He wished he could just climb in and go straight off to sleep. But Mullett was waiting for him back at the station. There was a bollocking to be got through before he could enjoy the luxury of sleep.

The clipboard at the foot of the bed read: "Henry Alan Finch, aged 66." There were figures for temperature and blood pressure and a scribbled prescription for pain killers.

Finch looked older than when he had climbed out of the car. His face was grey, his eyes were closed and his breathing heavy, almost a snore. A rectangle of plaster covered the wound on his forehead. Plumpish, with thinning, gingerish hair and a cupped, ginger moustache, he had the appearance of a retired army officer.

Frost dragged a chair up to the bed and dropped down into it. He loosened his scarf and unbuttoned his mac. The ward was hot and he had to fight off the urge to close his own eyes and drift off to sleep. "Mr. Finch?"

The eyes fluttered open and he winced as he swivelled his head to look at Frost. "Who are you?"

Frost held up his warrant card. Fincn blinked at it. "Where's my dog?"

"At the station. He's being looked after. How do you feel?"

"I'm all right. I want to go home." He squinted down the darkened ward. "Where's the nurse?"

"A couple of questions first. What were you doing on the common at that time of night?"

"Taking the dog for a run."

"In the peeing rain?"

"I do it every night. There's no law against it, is there?"

"Do you always go to the common?"

"Yes." His eyes were still focused down the ward. "Nurse!"

"What happened tonight?"

"Some bastard attacked me knocked me out."

"Let's take it step by step. We saw you pull up in your car."

Finch's eyes narrowed. "What were you doing there?"

"Never mind why we were there. You're lucky we were. You could have been lying unconscious all night and ended up with pneumonia. You pulled up in the car. You took your time getting out why?"

"The rain suddenly came down heavily. I was wondering whether to give it a miss."

"But you didn't?"

"The dog was all excited. I didn't want to disappoint him."

"Did you see anyone else about?"

"No."

"There was another car parked under the trees. Did you see that?"

"No." He gritted his teeth as he wriggled his back and tried to make himself comfortable. "Do you want me to tell you what happened?"

"Please."

"I was throwing the ball for the dog when it went into those bushes. I tried to get him to fetch it, but he wasn't interested, so I put him in the car and went off to look for it."

"In all that rain? A lot of trouble for a ball." Frost fished the well-chewed, almost bald tennis ball from his pocket and placed it on the bedside locker.

"Have you got a dog?"

"No," admitted Frost.

"Then you don't bloody know! It was his favourite ball. If you had a dog you'd understand."

"OK. You went behind the clump of bushes…"

"I looked for the ball when I saw this travel bag. It looked new and felt heavy. It was still fairly dry so I guessed it hadn't been there long. I decided to lug it back to the car and hand it in to the police station in the morning."

"Very commendable," said Frost. "You weren't at all curious as to what might have been inside?"

Finch sighed. "All right. I was going to take it home and force the lock. If it was full of drugs, I'd take it to the police, but if it was money.. He twitched his shoulders. "Well, I don't know. But I never had the chance to find out how honest I was. Suddenly this lout is there. He says, "Ah, you've found my bag… thanks very much," and tried to get it off me."