R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

Burton grinned and shook his head. "A sister on the game, that's all."

A match flared as Frost scratched it down the side of the table and lit up. "Not one of my better days, son. We don't know who the kidnapper is, we've lost the money and the kid isn't back. On the credit side, Mullett isn't very happy, but even that doesn't entirely cheer me up." The interview door opened and Cassidy came in. Frost forced a smile of welcome. "You've heard about Finch's identification?"

"Yes, rotten luck," said Cassidy, in a tone completely devoid of sympathy. "We've got Snell."

"Good," said Frost. He was too bloody tired to care. "Where was he?"

"PC Jordan spotted him driving away from his mother's place. He went back to collect his things. They're bringing him in now."

"Terrific!"

"I'd like to do the questioning."

"Sure." He wasn't going to fight over the questioning. All he wanted to do was go to bed. In any event, he wasn't sold on the idea that Snell had killed the woman and the kids. He stood up and wound his scarf round his neck. "See you in the morning."

"Yes," agreed Cassidy. "In the morning."

A tap at the door. "Do you want Snell in here?" asked Wells.

Cassidy nodded. He decided to ignore the lack of a 'sir' or 'inspector'. "Yes, sergeant. Bring him in." He quickly sat down in the chair vacated by Frost in case the inspector decided to stay after all, then smiled in anticipation as Jordan and Simms ushered in Snell. He looked frightened. None of his cockiness from the previous day remained. It was Frost he turned to.

"I didn't do it, Mr. Frost. I never touched them."

Frost pointed to Cassidy. "This is the gentleman you tell your lies to tonight, Sidney."

Cassidy indicated the chair opposite him. "Sit down."

As Snell dragged out the chair, his coat sleeve rode up showing the edge of the bandage round his wrist. Frost grabbed his arm and pulled the sleeve back further. "Hurt yourself, Sidney?"

Snell snatched his arm away. "Cut myself," he muttered.

"What with the edge of a sharp bible?"

Cassidy showed concern as Frost started to unwind his scarf as if he had decided to stay. There was no way he was going to let Frost elbow his way in for a share of the limelight. "I'll see you in the morning, then, inspector."

Frost took the hint and, with a brief nod, wandered out to the car-park. He heard hurrying footsteps clattering down the corridor behind: a grim-faced Mullett in his tailored overcoat was determined to get out of the station before Cordwell rang back to ask about the promised arrest of the kidnapper.

"Mr. Mullett!"

Mullett's brow creased with annoyance as Wells hurried after him. "Sir Richard Cordwell on the phone. Wants to know if we've made the arrest."

"Tell him I've left," said Mullett, pushing open the doors to the car-park. "Tell him you can't contact me."

Wells stood by Frost, staring at the undignified sight of the Divisional Commander, overcoat flapping, running to his car. "Then he wants to speak to you, Jack."

"Tell him I'm with Mr. Mullett," said Frost.

Now that there was no need to lie in the open on wet grass, the rain had eased off. He didn't drive straight home. For some reason he detoured and took the road by the golf course, finding himself coasting down Cresswell Street where he stopped outside the house and switched off the engine. The murder house, dark and silent like the other houses in the street, but a different dark, a different silence. A creaking sound. The front gate swinging in the wind, the way it was swinging when Mark Grover came home in the early hours of the morning. Frost climbed out of the car to click it shut, then decided to take a quick look around.

His footsteps crunched up the path. The evening paper was poking from the letter box. No-one had stopped it. It signalled that the house was empty, an open invitation to burglars. He pushed it through and heard it plop on the door mat. On impulse he took the key from his pocket and let himself in. Still the lingering smell of Johnson's baby powder. Still that terrible silence. Not a rustle, not a creak. He dug down deep in his mac pocket for a torch and let the beam creep along the passage. He hesitated outside the nursery blue door, but didn't want to go in that empty bedroom with its row of sad-faced dolls.

On to the kitchen. All the mugs and plates the police had used had now been washed up and the place looked neat and tidy. Crossing to the back door, he undid the bolts and stepped outside to the garden. The original sheet of plywood covering the broken glass panel had been removed by Forensic for tests on the traces of blood and skin tissue. A new square of ply had been nailed securely in place. Was he standing where Snell had stood, where Snell had poked his hand through and let himself in? The same Snell he could have arrested, but had let off with a caution because he was too damn lazy and wanted someone else to do all the paper work.

He stepped back into the kitchen and bolted the door. An involuntary shiver shook his body, so strong was the aura of tragedy that pervaded the whole house. What the hell was he doing here? He pocketed the torch and hurried back to his car where Cassidy, oozing smugness, was calling on the radio, anxious to impart his news.

"Thought you'd like to know, inspector. Forensic have done a quick test. Every indication that the blood and skin on the plywood panel definitely came from Snell. They also found small splinters of plywood on his wrist. So we've got our killer."

"Terrific!" said Frost, trying to sound pleased.

"I've phoned Mr. Mullett. He's over the moon, although he feels it's a great pity Snell wasn't arrested yesterday. He says he would like to have a word with you about it tomorrow."

"I can't wait," said Frost. He clicked off and chucked the radio down on the passenger seat alongside him. Three kids and their mother. Would they still be alive if he had locked Snell up? He had never felt more guilt-ridden, more inadequate and more bloody useless as a policeman than he did right now. He reached into the glove compartment for the bottle of duty frees Shirley had given him.

He shouldn't have drunk the whisky. He tried to work out how long it had been since he had had anything substantial to eat, but gave it up. It was too far back. Too much spirit on an empty stomach. He yawned, but fought off sleep although the urge to close his eyes, just for a few minutes, was almost irresistible. He would drive home and go straight to bed. It required a lot of concentration to start up the engine. Very, very carefully he eased the car from the kerb and turned back towards the town. It was so hot inside the car. He loosened his scarf as he turned on to the ring road.

At first he drove slowly, but gradually, so gradually he was hardly aware of it, the car gathered speed. Huddles of trees and houses swished past and then he was racing down the main road to the town.

Not another car in sight. Ahead of him he could see, in diminishing dots of colour, all the approaching traffic lights pin pricking into the distance like a string of tiny fairy lamps. He wound down the window and let the cold slap of the slip stream cool his head. That whisky was a mistake, a bloody mistake. He was feeling lightheaded. He fought off the urge to drive straight round to Mullett's house, throw stones at his bedroom window and demand, "If you've anything to say to me, bloody say know."

At the junction of Bath Road the traffic lights had changed to red, but he took a chance. As the car floated across the junction the vibrating clang of a sudden hammer blow made him jerk forward, snapping against the restraint of the seat belt. Then a splintering and a shattering of glass and the furious blasting of a horn. He slammed on his brakes and stared through the windscreen in dismay. He had shunted a dirty great expensive-looking motor that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.