R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"But this is preposterous," spluttered Finch. "I found the bag simply by chance."

Frost nodded sympathetically. "Of course you did, sir. But he's going to say you've got the boy hidden away. What I'd like to do with your permission of course is do a token search of the premises, so we can refute his allegations right from the start."

"Do you have a warrant?"

"It hardly justifies a warrant, sir. I'm not really taking it seriously. I can get one if you like, but it won't take more than a couple of minutes." He opened a door and clicked on the light. "Is this the lounge?" He peeked inside. "Well, he's obviously not in here." He pulled the door shut. "I'd better see the kitchen in case you've got him hidden in the bread bin."

A knock at the front door. The dog went ha ring up the passage, barking again. Jordan stood on the doorstep. "The station have radioed through. They've moved the time of the identity parade they want us there now."

"Damn!" said Frost. "I want to get this finished. Can it wait five minutes?"

"Sorry, sir," said Jordan, 'but they say it's got to be now. They've got everyone lined up."

Frost turned to Finch who was trying to calm the dog. "Do you think you could go with the officer, sir? I'll finish off here and follow on in a couple of minutes."

Finch hesitated, then shrugged and hurried out to the car. "Don't forget to close the front door."

"I won't, sir. Don't worry."

He watched Finch, followed by the dog, climb into the back seat of the area car. As soon as it turned the corner he was whispering urgently into his radio. "He's gone. Let's have you!"

Two cars that had been waiting round the corner disgorged eight men, mostly from Forensic, who quietly entered the house.

He gave them a quick briefing. "Be bloody thorough, but put everything back where you found it, because Finch mustn't know. We are looking for anything that could prove the kid was here… hairs, fibers, blood. And look for a cassette recorder, a dot matrix printer, bottles that could have contained chloroform. If you find the kid, tied to a chair, watching the telly, I'd even settle for that."

They went about their task with practised efficiency while he mooched about, opening and closing cupboard doors, trying not to get in anyone's way. Finch was a very methodical man with everything in its proper place and this made the search relatively simple.

On the wall of the living-room was a framed photograph of a younger Finch and a fair-haired woman taken at a dance of some sort. Frost studied it. They both looked very happy.

"Sir!" Burton was calling from the hall where he had found a door under the stairs. His torch revealed stone steps leading to a cellar which exuded a musty smell of long disuse. "There's nothing there," said Frost, 'but look anyway." He stayed at the top, watching half-heartedly as Burton slowly descended, his torch beam bouncing off heaps of stored junk. Jordan was called in to help and together they shifted as much as was necessary to ascertain there was no child, alive or dead, hidden there. Carefully, they moved everything back to where it was. Burton's foot kicked a blue fluted bottle which rolled across the stone floor. Burton pulled out the stopper and sniffed it hopefully. It was turpentine substitute.

"Jack!" Arthur Hanlon calling him from a first-floor room. He thudded up the stairs.

One of the bedrooms had been converted into a small office and Arthur Hanlon was excitedly indicating an Amstrad word processor on a wooden desk with a dot matrix printer alongside it. Hopes were quickly dashed by Harding who pointed out it was a nine pin machine and the ransom demand had been printed out by a twenty-four pin model.

Frost mouthed a silent expletive and looked through some of the print-outs at the side of the machine. Stock records and account details. The wastepaper bin had been recently emptied and contained only a torn window envelope. He peeked through the curtains to the darkened street below. Just inside the front gate a rubbish sack awaited its morning collection by the refuse van. Frost pointed it out to Hanlon. "Get someone to pick it up and take it to the station." He pulled a desk drawer open. Neat clipped stacks of bills and statements. A quick riffle through, but nothing of interest.

He was hindering Hanlon, so went downstairs to the kitchen where two men from Forensic, on their hands and knees, were painstakingly checking for prints and fibres. "Mainly dog hairs so far," they told him.

"Probably from the dog," said Frost, ever anxious to help.

The kitchen table bore further testimony to Finch's methodical habits. One cup, one saucer and one spoon laid out alongside a cereal bowl and a bread and butter plate, all ready for the next morning's breakfast. "I bet there's one senna pod and one sheet of toilet paper in the loo," grunted Frost, who was never impressed by neatness.

He consulted his watch. Nearly ten minutes had passed since Finch had left. "I'd better get down to the station before he gets suspicious. Let me know the minute you find anything, but please, put everything back exactly where you found it."

Finch was becoming impatient. He knocked back the dregs of the cup of tea Liz had brought him and gave the custard cream to his dog. "I thought it was all ready."

"Last-minute hitch," Liz told him, and was so relieved when Frost walked in.

"Sorry I'm late," said Frost. "Got another call on the way back. Have you identified him yet?"

"It still hasn't started," snapped Finch. "I'm not very impressed at police efficiency."

"Go and see what the delay is," Frost said to Liz.

"Did you find anything?" said Finch.

"Eh?" said Frost vaguely, as if he didn't know what Finch was on about.

"The search."

"Oh, that?" He gave a short laugh. "I found six boys in the fridge, but none of them was the one we wanted." He was relieved when Finch grinned back. "I shut the front door as you asked."

Liz returned. "Hudson has signed a statement admitting taking the money and assaulting Mr. Finch," she said. "So there's no need for an identity parade."

"What about the kidnapping?" asked Frost.

"He strongly denies that."

"Let's see if he still denies it after I've finished with him," said Frost, grimly. "Get Mr. Finch to formally identify the travel bag. It's in the Exhibits Stores."

"Won't take long, sir," said Liz, leading Finch out. As soon as he had gone, Frost was on the radio to Burton at the house.

"We've found nothing that would tie him to the kidnapping and nothing that would suggest the boy was ever in the house," reported Burton.

"The car… did you check his car?"

"Forensic gave it a proper going over nothing."

"Right." It was a sod, but what the hell. He'd have to think out his next move. "Get out of there. He'll be back soon."

Cassidy walked in on the tail end of the conversation, taking secret delight at Frost's downcast expression. "Doesn't look as if your theory was right then, inspector."

"I'm not wrong on this one," said Frost stubbornly. He bent to pat the dog which was asleep under the table. "It's your bloody master, Fido, and I'm going to get the bastard." The dog opened one eye and licked his hand.

Finch returned. "All right for me to go now?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you very much for your help. Our lady sergeant will drive you back." Frost tried to sound as if his mind was on other, more important, matters.

Mullett waylaid him on his way to the incident room. "Frost!" He sounded angry. Very angry. He had been sitting in his office, the phone in the centre of his desk, ready to ring the Chief Constable with the good news. "The Denton team have done it again, sir," he would announce. "No, no," he would add modestly after the Chief had congratulated him. "I can't claim all the credit." But his speech would remain unspoken. He had seen Finch come and long faces all round but no-one had bothered to tell him what had happened.