R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Sorry, inspector," said Jordan.

Burton and Liz returned, tired and unhappy. "Sorry, inspector," said Liz. "I don't know where else we can look."

Frost stood up. "You and Burton, come with me."

"Where are we going?" she asked,

"To Finch's house. Let's go over the place again."

"But we didn't find anything before."

"Then let's hope we bloody well find something this time."

The dog began barking again the minute they walked up the path. They could hear it scratching furiously at the kitchen door, trying to get out. Frost rang the bell and hammered on the door, just in case. He waited a couple of seconds then gave the nod to Burton, who moved forward with the heavy hammer. Two blows were enough. The door shuddered and screws squealed as they were wrenched from the woodwork. Burton kicked it open and they entered the house. The dog was barking itself into a state of hysteria and Frost had to raise his voice to make himself heard.

"This is make or break," Frost told his team. "Strip the place bare, peel the bleeding wallpaper off if you have to, but find me something that leads us to the kid."

He left them to it and wandered out to the Metro in the drive. Burton, with the help of an enormous bunch of keys borrowed from Traffic, had got the door open and was sitting in the front seat, going through the contents of the glove compartment. Car handbook, road map, old parking tickets… Frost took the road map, which was of Denton and the surrounding area. His pulse quickened when he saw a section carefully ringed, but it was simply showing the location of the caravan that Felford Division were keeping an eye on. Burton rummaged through the dash compartments. They yielded nothing. Frost left him to it and returned to the house and the barking dog. He told Collier to try and get the animal to keep quiet.

Collier wasn't too happy about this. It was yapping non-stop and scratching frenziedly at the door, sounding ready to tear the intruders' throats out. Gingerly, he opened the kitchen door inch by inch. The barking stopped. Collier froze. A danger signal. He had been told that when the barking stopped, the animal attacked. The dog waddled towards him, growling menacingly, then leapt up and licked his hand. He gave it a pat, and fed it some tinned dog food from the larder. It gulped the food down, then went off to sleep oblivious to the houseful of strangers. "Bloody good house dog," commented Frost.

In the lounge Jordan was on his knees by the magazine rack, taking each magazine out in turn, shaking it, then leafing through the pages. Frost wanted to tell him not to bother Finch wasn't going to hide the boy's location in a magazine but he didn't want to discourage enthusiasm, no matter how misplaced.

Everyone was bustling with their own search areas. No need now to put everything back exactly as it was. Upstairs, in Finch's office, Burton was studying the items on the cork-based pin board taking each off and checking the backs. Nothing very exciting. A few business cards… a hand-written list of his premium bonds, a picture postcard from Spain… the telephone number of a plumber. In the bedroom Liz was going through the pockets of all the clothes in the wardrobe.

Frost was in the lounge. On a coffee table was an answer phone its little green light flashing to signal that a message had been left. He played it through… it was a call from a firm asking if Finch could do their accounts a week earner than planned. He switched it off. The phone had several numbers stored in its memory so he tried them all, only to get other people's answer phones They were all to do with Finch's accounting business. The man didn't seem to have much of a private life.

Bill Wells called him on the radio. "We've just had a complaint from the woman who lives next door. She says there's a gang of scruffs in Finch's house acting suspiciously."

"OK," said Frost. "I'll see to her." Everyone else was busy, so he ambled over to the next house himself and charmed his way into a cup of tea.

"Knock the dog off the chair," said the little grey-haired woman, pouring hot water into a cup and adding a tea-bag. As soon as Frost sat down, the animal, a fat, snuffling bulldog, was up on his lap dribbling all over his trousers.

"You're honoured," said the woman. "He doesn't take to everyone." She added milk and passed the cup, with its floating tea-bag, to Frost. "Why are the police here?" she asked. "Mr. Finch isn't in any sort of trouble, is he?" She said it as if she hoped he was.

"Good Lord no!" said Frost. "He kindly gave us permission to search his house in case we overlooked something." He didn't elaborate further.

"I saw him go out earlier," said the woman, 'but I didn't see him come back… and I usually notice."

I bet you do, you nosy cow, thought Frost. "Any idea where he might be?"

She shook her head. "Hardly know anything about him. I used to chat with his wife, but that stopped when she died."

"Yes, I suppose it would," said Frost.

"Killed herself," she said confidentially. "He never got over it." Frost nodded sympathetically, then his nose began to twitch. A most foul aroma. He hated to suspect the woman, but the dog was looking very innocent.

"Oh dear," said the woman, catching a whiff. "He's not being naughty, is he? He suffers from the odd touch of flatulence."

"He's not selfish. He shares it around," said Frost. He lifted the dog off and stood up. "I'd better make a move." The woman followed him to the front door where he bent and gave the dog a pat to show he bore it no grudge. "How does he get on with Mr. Finch's Jack Russell?"

"That's not Mr. Finch's dog," she said. "He's looking after it for someone while they're on holiday."

He gave her a wave and returned to Finch's house. A glum-faced team awaited him. "Nothing," reported Burton. "Not a damn thing."

He sat on one of the bottom stairs and fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette to give him time to think. This was his last hope. There just had to be something here.

"I hate to say it," said Burton, 'but it could be you've made a mistake about Finch."

He shook his head. "It's him," he said, stubbornly. He was at his lowest ebb. The investigation had come to a dead end, it was peeing with rain and a seven-year-old was out there somewhere and he hadn't the slightest hope of doing anything about it.

"It's all a mess here," said Liz. "Shall we tidy up?"

"No," he said. "Leave it… Let's all go to the pub and get pissed."

From the kitchen a salvo of barks. Something must have disturbed the dog. Frost stopped dead. The barking triggered the memory of what the next-door neighbour had said, something that didn't seem important at the time. "It's not his dog!" he exclaimed. "It's not Finch's bloody dog!"

They looked at him as if he was mad. "Have I missed something?" asked Liz.

"No, but I nearly did," said Frost, beckoning to Burton. "Up on that pin board in his office there's a holiday postcard from Spain. Go and get it."

With a puzzled shrug to the others, Burton galloped up the stairs and brought down the card which he handed to Frost. A highly coloured beach scene with towering hotel blocks in the background. He turned it over and read the message." "Dear Henry: Very hot here. We pity you shivering in Denton. Yes, please pay the phone bill for us and I'll settle up when we get back next week. Ethel and Wilf."

He looked up at them expectantly, only to be greeted by a wall of blank stares. "Flaming hell!" he moaned. "I'm supposed to be the dim one." He jabbed his finger on the card."… please pay the phone bill for us…" Doesn't that suggest anything?"

They looked at each other, eyebrows raised in bewilderment. "It means they want him to pay their phone bill," said Jordan as if answering a stupid, self-evident question.