R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Patience, Jack, patience. Anyway, once Cordwell realized we had all this duff cash and if he tried to pay it into the bank he would lose the lot, he went berserk, so he packed it all away in his safe. He's been hoping for a robbery or a fire so he can claim it off the insurance as genuine. And over the months he's been passing small amounts of it out to all his branches. It goes in the tills and gets handed out to customers in change. He's got rid of nearly two thousand quid that way and has only had a couple of come-backs. Anyway, let's jump to the ransom…"

A gleam flashed in Frost's eye. He was way ahead of Dunn now. "You're not trying to tell me he used the forged notes to help make up the ransom money?"

"Getting on for 13,000 worth. I don't suppose it's a crime to pay off a kidnapper in forged currency, but I bet he wouldn't want the public to know."

Frost leant back in his chair and beamed up at the ceiling. "Tommy, if you're telling me the truth…"

"I am, Jack, I am."

"Then not only are you off the hook, I might be as well." He opened the door and ushered Tommy out. "I'll be in touch but bake a cake with a file in it just in case." As Dunn turned the corridor, Frost was yelling for Burton. "Keep an eye on the shop, son. I'm off to see Cordwell."

Cordwell looked at Frost, his eyes glinting malevolently. "You've got two minutes, then the press conference. Have you caught the kidnapper or got the kid back?"

"No," said Frost.

"Then start scouring the Help Wanted ads, because you'll be out of a bloody job after today."

"I don't think so," said Frost.

"You sodded it up. You mounted an inadequate surveillance after assuring me you would not get involved. You let the kidnapper get away with my money and because the police were there, he won't release the kid, so you've got that on your bloody conscience."

"There's a rumour going around began Frost.

Cordwell banged his fist on his desk. "I am not interested in bloody rumours."

"You'll be interested in this one. The very strong whisper is that the reason the kidnapper hasn't kept his side of the bargain is because he didn't appreciate being paid out with forged banknotes."

Cordwell jerked back, wincing as if he had been hit, but quickly composed himself and picked up a paper knife which he gently tapped on his desk. He spoke quietly, looking at something behind Frost as if the matter was of no importance. "And who has been putting about these malicious rumours?"

Frost gave him a sweet smile. "A couple of nasty bastards me for one, Tommy Dunn for the other."

"Dunn? My crooked security man? The guy who's been emptying out my spirit warehouse? Is this where you got your information from?"

"We never reveal our sources," said Frost. He stood up. "I'll see you at the press conference."

Cordwell's eyes narrowed. "The press conference?"

"I want to suggest a few headlines for them," said Frost. "How about "Supermarket Chiefs Swindle Costs Child His Life"? It would take more than a penny off a tin of beans to make the public forget that.. Then, of course, the press will want to know about possible criminal charges, like being in possession of forged banknotes, withholding information from the police." He looked at his watch. "Better not keep them waiting."

Cordwell stabbed the paperknife into the desk top and left it quivering. "You're a bastard, Frost."

"It takes one to know one," smiled Frost.

"I presume I can buy my way out?" He brought out his cheque book and tapped it suggestively with a gold-cased fountain pen.

"A lot cheaper than you deserve," said Frost. "Forget the press conference and drop the charges against Tommy Dunn."

"Dunn's an ex-copper, isn't he? You bastards certainly look after your own."

"No-one else looks after us," explained Frost. "Lastly, I want full details of the duff notes… denominations, numbers, the lot… and I want them now. And warn your staff to be on extra alert for the forgeries. If our luck's in, he might try to start passing them." He slid the antique phone across the desk. "Do it now, please."

Cordwell picked up the phone. A tap at the door and his secretary looked in, cringing as she received the full force of his laser-beam scowl. "Sorry to disturb you Sir Richard, but the press conference is in two minutes."

"Get out of here, you cow. Tell them it's cancelled," yelled Cordwell.

As he breezed through the lobby, he was beckoned over by Johnnie Johnson. "What have you done to Mr. Mullett, Jack? He's been in a foul mood ever since you phoned him."

"It's relief coupled with joy," explained Frost. "He was heart-broken because he thought he was going to lose me and now he's over the moon because he isn't." He pulled the list of forged notes from his pocket. "Have this photo stated then taken round by hand to all banks, stores, garages, discount warehouses, public toilets, the lot. Get them to pay particular attention to anyone paying cash for large purchases, even in genuine notes. If anyone passes any of the duds we want to know right away."

Johnson took the list and, in return, passed over a thick wad of computer print-outs. "And this is for you, Jack. Details of all registered owners of Ford Escorts in Denton and the surrounding area."

Frost flicked over the pages. It went on and on and on… There were hundreds of names and addresses. "What silly sod asked for this?"

"You did, Jack. You're looking for the Ford Escort you saw just before the ransom money was taken."

Frost stuck the print-out under his arm. "I must have been bloody mad. Still, I won't be short of toilet paper this week it'll make a change from Mullett's memos."

Liz, her coat buttoned, was waiting for him in the office. "Ready when you are, inspector," she said.

"Ready for what?" asked Frost. "If it's sex, then shut the door I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

She didn't even flicker a grin. The return she had so meticulously prepared had been snatched from her without a word of thanks by Cassidy and she had heard Mullett praising him for such a good job. "You said we were going to Primrose Cottage where Lemmy Hoxton was supposed to have pulled his last job."

He hesitated. It was Cassidy's case, but Cassidy would have enough on his hands with Sidney Snell. He looked at the computer print-out and wondered if he should get people checking. But they didn't have the manpower and the list was too bloody long. "Primrose Cottage? Right, let's do it now."

Primrose Cottage, standing on its own at the end of a long winding lane, was a detached two-storey building erected in the sixties, but tar ted up to look as if it dated from the seventeen hundreds. The doors were oak, stained black to give the appearance of age, the tiny bow windows were chintz-curtained and the walls were painted a fading buttercup colour. A white wooden gate opened on to a path to the front porch. Frost ducked to miss the hanging flower basket and rapped at the well-polished brass knocker.

"Who is it?" called a woman's voice, raised over the sound of a dog yapping.

"Police, Miss Fleming," answered Frost. "Nothing to worry about just checking."

The door opened slightly on a length of stout chain and the proffered warrant cards were studied. Then, reluctantly, she let them in. Millie Fleming was in her early forties, slightly plump, dark brown hair, and wearing a pink woollen cardigan over a floral dress. The dog was a small spaniel which hid under a chair the minute they walked in. "Not a very good house dog, I'm afraid," she smiled, 'but we hope his barking might frighten any burglars away." They were in the living-room with its dark oak and chintzy furniture.

Frost patted the dog, which looked at him with big brown eyes filled with apology for its cowardice and licked his hand. "Seems friendly enough," he said. "How old is he?"