R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"That's what I want to know," said the man. "They claim to have a warrant."

"We have got a warrant," said Frost.

He gave it to Mayhew who skimmed through it and passed it over to the woman. "Call our solicitor," he said.

"You paid a large sum of money into the bank today," said Frost.

"No, I didn't. I haven't left the bloody house all day." He jammed a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a table lighter in the shape of a vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.

"I'm telling you that you paid 6495 into Bennington's Bank in the High Street at 10.54 a.m. today," insisted Frost.

"And I'm telling you I did not," spat the man.

"If you must know, I paid it in," shouted the woman. "Why don't you get your bloody facts straight? No wonder innocent people get sent to prison." The sound of thuds and bangs from upstairs suddenly intensified and sent her head jerking up. "What are those buggers doing?" She went to charge out, only to be stopped by Liz. "Let me go, you cow."

Frost borrowed the Silver Ghost lighter for his own cigarette. He smiled sweetly at the woman, whose eyes were spitting bullets. "I don't give a sod who actually paid it in," he said. "All I'm concerned with is that over 1000 of it was counterfeit."

This stopped the woman in her tracks. She stared wide-eyed at her husband, whose jaw had sagged, showing his gold fillings. "Counterfeit?"

Frost nodded.

The man smashed his cigarette out in a round glass ashtray which. was enclosed in a miniature rubber car tyre. "The bastard. The lousy rotten bastard. I'll break every bone in his body."

"What particular bastard are we talking about?" asked Frost.

"The bastard I sold the car to."

Frost frowned. "What car?"

"The Honda Accord. He paid six and a half grand in cash and drove it away this morning."

"You sold him a car?"

"Hoo-bloody-ray," said the man, giving a mock clap. "A brilliant deduction. Yes, I sold him a car. That's what I do. I sell used cars didn't you damn well know?"

Frost didn't damn well know. Mayhew pushed a copy of the local free paper over to him. There was a block of cars for sale ringed round in the classified section. One of them was a Honda Accord priced at 6750.

The clatter of footsteps down the stairs and Burton looked in. His face told Frost they had found nothing, neither the ransom money nor any trace of the boy. "You'd better do this room," he told Burton. "The other two can do the garden and the shed."

He ushered May hew and his wife into the kitchen, a beautifully fitted room with expensive units, but empty bottles and unwashed crockery sprawled all over the place.

"It might speed things up if you told us what you were looking for," said Mayhew. "We might even be able to tell you where it is."

"We're looking for the rest of the money."

"What money? That's all he gave me. I paid it all into the bank."

Frost leant against the dishwasher. "Let's get this straight. You sell second-hand cars. So why did you try and attack us with a baseball bat?"

"Some people are dissatisfied with their purchase. Some come back very stroppy. We have to defend ourselves."

"So this has happened before?"

He shrugged. "Now and again. Some niggling little thing goes wrong and they want their money back."

"Niggling little things? Like the wheels falling off or sawdust leaking from the gearbox?"

"The condition of the cars we sell is reflected in the price. You can't expect an ex-showroom Mercedes for three hundred quid."

"Tell me about the Honda Accord," said Frost.

"This bloke phoned me."

"When?"

"This morning. Said he'd seen my ad in the local rag for the Honda. If it wasn't sold, he wanted to come round and have a look at it. I told him it hadn't been sold, but it was such a snip, he'd better get round quick before someone else snapped it up. He said he'd be round in half an hour."

"And was he?"

"Half an hour forty-five minutes… not long, anyway."

"And how did he come on foot?"

"No, in a grey Ford Escort. There was a girl with him. She drove."

"Did she come in with him?"

"No, she waited outside."

"Then what?"

"I showed him the motor it was parked where the Rover is now and I gave him a test drive round the block. He had a look at the engine and gave the tyres a kick. He asked how much I'd knock off for cash as if I'd take a bleeding cheque! He told me he'd had a win on the horses. I said, Then it's your double lucky day because I'll let it go for six-five. He said, "Done". We shook hands and he fetched a plastic carrier bag from the Ford. I brought him in the house to give him the logbook and his receipt, while the wife tipped the money out and counted it. There was a fiver short, but I wasn't going to quibble over a lousy fiver. He took the log-book and his receipt, then drove off, followed by the tart in the Ford. End of story."

The two uniformed men came in from the garden. "Nothing," they reported.

"You come back in a couple of days' time," Mayhew told them. "If I lay my hands on the bastard you'll find his body buried there."

Burton also reported he had found nothing in the lounge, but Frost didn't seem too worried. "If you gave him a receipt, you'll have his name and address?"

They followed Mayhew back to the lounge where he tugged open a sideboard drawer overflowing with papers. He gave Frost the carbon copy. "Jack Roberts, 187 Kitchener Street, Denton."

Frost passed it to Burton. "See if we know him."

Burton moved to the back of the room and whispered into his radio while Frost stubbed out his cigarette in the motor tyre ashtray. "Describe him," he said.

Mayhew thought for a moment. "Twenty-five, twenty-six. Hair in a pony tail. Not much meat on him… slim build, about five feet eleven. He was wearing jeans… frayed cuffs, dirty trainers."

"A bloody Beau Brummell," said Frost. "You weren't surprised he had six and a half grand on him?"

"Nothing surprises me in this game."

"When we pick him up, I'll want you to identify him."

"If I get to him first, he'll be the man with his dick ripped off."

Frost grinned. Things were going right for a change. With luck they could make their arrest and have the kid back within the hour. He looked up expectantly as Burton clicked off the radio. But the expression on the constable's face sent his hopes nose diving to the ground.

"House numbers in Kitchener Street only go up to 92," reported Burton. "That name and address are as phoney as his money."

Frost sat on the corner of the desk in the briefing room, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He filled everyone in on the latest position with the kidnapping. "I'm getting worried," he told them. "He's got the ransom money, he's spending it, but he hasn't returned the boy. This could mean that Bobby is dead." There were nods of agreement. Most of the team were beginning to share this view.

He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. "We've got one bit of luck on our side. The kidnapper has no idea that some of the money is dodgy, so he's got no qualms about spending it. He's bought himself a red Honda Accord and we've got its registration number. He's local, and he's going to be driving it around, so everyone keeps their bloody eyes open." He nodded at Arthur Hanlon who had his hand up to ask a question. "Yes, Arthur?"

"How do we know he's local?"

"He spotted the ad for the Honda in the Denton Free Advertiser, which is only distributed locally. It only took him half an hour to reach the bloke who was selling it. We know a bit more about him. He's got a girlfriend who drives a grey Ford Escort, in which she is not averse to having it away, although, sadly, that probably applies to half the female population of Denton. Unless he's got a garage, the Honda could be parked out in the street, so go over every bloody street and back alley. Find the bastard. But remember, as much as we want him, more importantly we want to find the kid. If we spot him, don't pick him up… follow and keep me informed. Off you go…"