R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

Burton had to clear his throat to attract Frost's attention. "Mr. Cassidy sounded a bit upset?" He tried hard to keep the pleasure out of his voice.

"You noticed it too?" said Frost in mock surprise. "I thought it was just me. What can I do for you?"

"You told us to keep an eye on Ian Grafton's place."

Frost frowned. "Then I'm sure I had a good reason for it but who the hell is Ian Grafton?"

"The bloke who took Tracey Neal to the bank when Carol Stanfield was abducted."

"Ah the bloke with the pigtail. What about him?"

"A lot of expensive hi-fi equipment was delivered there this morning. Nine hundred and ninety-five quid's worth."

He now had Frost's full attention. "Right check with the shop. Find out how he paid for it."

"I did," said Burton, sounding hurt. It was the first thing he had done. "Cash. Spot cash."

Frost unhitched his scarf from the hat-stand. "I think he's worth another visit, son."

"What now?" asked Burton.

Frost paused. His mind was still on Snell and the three dead kiddies. "No. There's something I want to do first. That security guard who said Grover and his mate never left the store. I want to talk to him."

"But that's Mr. Cassidy's case," Burton pointed out. "Didn't he just say '

Frost's hand flashed up to cut him short. "I didn't quite catch what Mr. Cassidy said, son. He was shouting so much. But I'll check with him when we get back."

The security guard, Paul Milton, lived in a small, three-bed roomed terraced house on the far side of the golf course. If it wasn't for the swirl of damp mist clinging to the green, the bungalow where the tragedy took place could just about be seen, from his upstairs window. Milton's wife, a six-month-old baby in her arms, let them in. "He's just gone up to bed," she told them. "He's on nights this week."

They followed her into the dining-room where a chubby boy of two was sitting in a high chair chewing solemnly on a slice of bread and jam.

"We would like to see him," smiled Frost. "It won't take a minute."

"Paul!" she yelled, as she plonked herself down next to the high chair and started shovelling Heinz baby food down the infant's throat.

"What is it now?" replied an irritated voice from above. "I've only just this bloody minute gone up."

"Police!"

"What do they bloody want?"

"If you bloody come down you'll find out."

Paul Milton, tucking his shirt inside his trousers, staggered into the room. He was bleary-eyed and unshaven. "I should be asleep," he moaned to Frost. "I'm on duty tonight." He sat in a chair next to his wife. "What can I do for… Shit!" The expletive because the baby had spat a mouthful of food all over him. The little boy in the high chair dropped his bread and jam on the floor and started to cry. "It's like a flaming madhouse in here," he yelled as his wife placidly retrieved the slice of bread, picked off the worst of the fluff and returned it to the child. He stood up and buttoned his shirt collar. "We'll go in the lounge."

He led them out into the passage, but as his hand reached for the door handle to the lounge, he hesitated and did a U turn. "Perhaps the kitchen would be better."

But nothing could have been worse than the kitchen which was a tip, even by Frost's low standards. Unwashed plates and saucepans piled high on the draining board, bits of food on the floor alongside a long-unemptied cat's litter tray. A nappy bucket, filled to overflowing, was parked alongside the washing machine. Milton shook a chair to dislodge a heap of mucky bibs and nappies and waved a hand for Frost to sit. The invitation was hastily declined, as was the offer of a cup of tea

Frost lit up a cigarette. He wasn't sure if it was the cat's litter tray or the nappy bucket that was getting to him, but hoped his cigarette smoke might improve the atmosphere. "Couple of questions to ask you, Air Milton. I know you've covered all this ground already, but I just want to be absolutely sure. It's about Mark Graver."

Milton sighed and shook his head in sad disbelief. "Those poor kids. His wife must have been right round the bend." He pulled a face at the howls from the dining-room. "I often feel like wringing my own kids' necks, but I'd never actually do it."

Frost gritted his teeth against the noise. "If you feel like doing it now, Mr. Milton, don't let us stop you." He consulted his notes. "Grover told one of my officers that he and Phil Collard arrived at the store around eight to do the carpet and didn't leave until around ten to two in the morning. Is that correct?"

He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. "Quite correct."

"Any chance either of them could have left the building without you knowing?"

"No way. It's all electronically controlled. I'd have to operate the switch."

"They were working on the top floor. Where were you?"

"Either in my cubicle by the back entrance, or doing my rounds. I have to cover every floor at half-hourly intervals and click a key into time locks."

"While you were on your rounds, could they have got out?"

"Not without setting off the alarms when the door opened and they'd have to have the master key and that was with me all the time. If they wanted to go out, they only had to ask it's not a flaming prison."

"And they didn't ask?"

"No." Another yawn.

Frost accepted this gloomily. He was convinced Mark Grover had found a way to leave the store without anyone knowing, but he couldn't see how he could prove it. "Thanks for your trouble, Mr. Milton. We'll let you get some sleep."

At the door to the lounge he stopped. Why didn't Milton want to take them in there? What was he hiding? Stuff nicked from the store perhaps? He reached for the door handle. "Is this the way out?" he asked innocently.

"No, — not in there," called Milton, running forward, but he was too late. Frost was already insider

The strong aroma of expensive new wool filled the room, a smell Frost had noted earlier in Bonley's department store. Woollen carpeting. He switched on the light. And there it was, on the floor, red, blue and expensive, stretching from wall to wall. The pattern was very familiar. It was the design for Bonley's new restaurant, an exclusive design, specially made and imported for them.

"I spy," said Frost, 'with my little eye, something that has been nicked."

"An odd remnant that was left over," spluttered Milton. "It would only have gone to waste."

Frost sat down on the settee and prodded the carpet's springiness with his foot. "Tell me about it."

"Someone must have made a mistake with the measurements because there was this great chunk of carpet left over… so me and the fitters had half each."

"How did it manage to find its way from the store to here?"

Milton shuffled his feet and wouldn't meet Frost's eye. "They dropped it in for me."

"So Grover and Collard did leave the store that night?"

"Well yes. But not for long… hour or so at the most."

"And you lied to us?"

"A white lie. I'm supposed to be the security guard. If Bonley's ever found out I was party to sneaking out a thousand quid's worth of top quality carpeting, I'd have been for the high jump."

"You still might be for the flaming high jump. We're investigating a murder and you are making false statements to the police. Unless you want to get deeper into the mire than you already are, you'd better tell me everything… right from the start… and the bloody truth this time."

"All right. They turned up just after eight, like I said, and they worked like the clappers didn't even stop for anything to eat. By midnight they were well on the way to finishing and they find there's a dirty great chunk of carpeting left over… worth around a thousand quid, so

Mark Grover reckoned. We made a deal. They'd lay it in my lounge for me and they'd keep the rest. Just before midnight I let them out. They dropped off my bit and took their own piece. They were back again around half-past one and finished off at the store… Yesterday afternoon the fat one Phil Collard called here to lay it for me. He stressed we should all keep our mouths shut about the other night, in case we got found out."