R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Did you give it to him?"

"No, I damn well didn't. So he threatened me. He said, "If you don't want to get hurt, grand ad just hand it over," and he balls his fists as if he's going to hit me. Me I was in the war. I fought for bastards like him. "Just you try it, sonny," I said. So he shrugs as if to say "You win" and makes to go. Like a silly sod I turned my back on him and, wham!" he's belted me with a brick or something. I hit the ground with a thud. The next thing I knew I was in the ambulance."

"Can you describe him?"

"About five foot nine, clean-shaven and a sneer on his bloody face."

"How old, do you reckon?"

"I don't know mid-twenties, I suppose."

"Colour of hair?"

"Couldn't see he wore one of those anorak things with the hood up."

"What colour anorak?"

"Dark blue, red lining and sort of rabbit's fur round the hood."

"Trousers?"

"Dark darkish… didn't pay much attention to them. But I'll tell you something. I'd recognize him anywhere. Let me get near him when he hasn't got a brick in his hand, I'll show the little swine."

Frost was now beaming. "You'd recognize him?"

"Like a bloody shot!"

Frost jumped up. He wasn't tired now. "Nurse get this gentleman his clothes. He's coming with me."

The dog, sensing its master was in the station, was yapping almost hysterically. Sergeant Wells let it into the interview room where it went mad, jumping up at Finch, its stumpy tail a blur. Finch was settled down at the table with a cup of tea from the vending machine and the books of photographs placed in front of him. "Take your time," said Frost. "If you're not sure, just say so."

"If he's in your books, I'll spot him," said Finch, firmly. He took a swig at the tea, patted the dog which was now stretched out on the floor at his feet, and turned the first page. Frost left him with Button and went into his office.

Another batch of paperwork had been heaped in his in-tray, most of it nagging rubbish from Mullett. Didn't the sod have anything better to do? He flopped heavily into his chair, lit up a cigarette and pulled the tray towards him, at the same time dragging the wastepaper basket over with his foot. The first three were Mullett memos beginning "When may I expect…?" "You can expect whenever you flaming well like," he muttered, 'but you're not going to get." He screwed them into a ball and flipped them into the bin. The fourth was again from Mullett: "I have repeatedly asked for…" It joined the others.

"Ah Frost, there you are! I've been waiting for you in my office."

Heck! Hornrim flaming Harry! He had been putting off attending the old log cabin for his bollocking until he had some good news from Finch to take the edge off it.

"I was just coming, super."

Mullett eyed the screwed-up balls of paper in the waste-paper bin. They looked suspiciously like the memos he had dictated earlier. "I sent you some memos," he said.

"Did you?" said Frost, all wide-eyed and innocent. "I haven't come across them yet." He jumped from his chair and footed the waste bin under his desk. "What was it you wanted to see me about?" He followed Mullett to his office.

Mullett went on and on. Frost managed to shut most of it out, but the words 'fiasco', 'ill-conceived', 'sloppy', 'utter disgrace', kept filtering through. The old log cabin, like the hospital, was overheated and that, plus Mullett's droning, was sending him to sleep. His head began to droop, then snapped up as his auto-pilot told him Mullett was expecting an answer.

"Sorry, super… won't happen again," he muttered, hoping it was the right response.

"Sorry! Sorry isn't good enough," said Mullett, getting his second wind.

Isn't it, thought Frost, then what about 'balls'? How was this helping? He was just working himself up to the point where he was going to tell Mullett to stuff his flaming job when he was saved by the bell. The phone.

Annoyed at being interrupted, Mullett snatched at it. "Mullett," he barked. A look of alarm crossed his face. He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Sir Richard

Cordwell," he hissed. Back to the phone. "Hello, Sir Richard… Yes, I've just got into the office and I believe that what you say is correct. I know he gave his word… I shall look into it… I don't know the details… I wasn't involved, of course… No, disappointingly the man got away… No, regretfully we have no idea who he is.. He eased the phone away from his ear and the buzzing of angry invective crackled round the room. At a pause for breath from the other end, Mullett smiled ingratiatingly into the mouthpiece and asked, "I suppose the kidnapper hasn't contacted you with news of the boy's release?" He winced and pulled the phone away again as another molten lava of abuse erupted from the earpiece. "No contact from the kidnapper," he hissed superfluously to Frost. Back to the phone. "Yes, Sir Richard, but I don't really think you can blame us… Oh come.. that's hardly fair…" His feeble interjections were receiving short shrift.

The internal phone buzzed and, at Mullett's signalling, Frost, who was wondering if this might not be a good opportunity to slip out, answered it. An excited Burton. "Mr. Finch has made an identification. We're checking it out now."

"Is he sure?" said Frost, waving down Mullett who was signalling for him to be quiet.

"He says he's bloody positive."

He put the phone down and waved to Mullett who again slapped his hand over the mouthpiece. "We could have an identification. If so, we could make the arrest tonight."

Mullett hesitated. "Is he definite?"

"He says he's positive. I'm checking on it now."

A deep sigh of relief from Mullett who conveyed this information to Cordwell. "I'll be back to you very shortly," he assured him. "You'll be the first to know, Sir Richard." He replaced the phone and gave it a little satisfied pat. "I'll come with you," he said.

He followed Frost back to the interview room where a smugly self-satisfied Finch was leaning back in his chair, his hand ruffling the neck of his dog. "Definitely him," he told Frost proudly. "I'd know him anywhere. I never forget a face."

Mullett beamed and gave the dog a couple of tentative pats while Frost studied the details under a photograph of a scowling youth. Richard Francis Hartley, aged twenty-four. Lots of petty of fences scaling up to robbery with violence for which he had served a two-year stretch. Not one of Frost's arrests, so he couldn't place him, but from his mug shot, he looked a real right charmer.

The door opened and Burton looked in. He caught Frost's eye and beckoned, at the same time giving the thumbs-down sign to signal it was not good news. A dismayed Frost went to sidle out but Mullett wanted to hear the good news first hand and called Burton in.

"A slight complication," said Burton. "The man Mr. Finch positively identified is in the remand centre at Bister. He's been there for the past two weeks."

Mullett glared at Frost whose fault this clearly was. "Typical," he snapped. "Damn typical!"

"I could have sworn it was him," said Finch, completely unabashed. "If it wasn't him, it was someone very much like him."

"The courts don't go much on lookalikes said Frost. "They insist on the real thing."

"Sorry," shrugged Finch, taking the dog's lead.

"Never mind," smiled Frost through clenched teeth. "We'll catch him."

"When you do," said Finch, 'just give me a shout. I'll identify him."

"Or someone very much like him," added Frost as the door closed. "Stupid old sod." He dropped into the chair vacated by Finch. The tiredness was back.

"Tonight's stupidity was not confined to him," said Mullett significantly.

Frost was too tired to come up with an answer. He could barely make the V sign as Mullett left. From outside he could hear Finch's dog yapping. Bloody dog. It had the chance to bite Mullett and didn't do so. He took another look at the photograph Finch had identified. "I suppose he hasn't got a twin brother who's done time for kidnapping?"