R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

Frost looked out again at the atrocious weather. He could sympathize. Soaking wet, stumbling through sodden undergrowth in the dark, brambles snagging and slashing, visibility down to a few feet. They'd have to stumble over the poor little sod to locate him. Hardly any chance of finding him in those conditions, but no chance at all if they packed it in. "Tell them to give it another couple of hours," he told Hanlon, completely forgetting Mullett's limit of two. "Tell them I am sure the kid is there." But don't tell them I'm equally sure the poor little bugger is dead, he muttered after he had hung up.

He steeled himself to phone Forensic. Let's get the bad news over. Harding answered the phone. He was most apologetic.

"That house has been cleaned so thoroughly, we've found nothing that would help, but there were a few fibres that could have come from the child's clothing."

Frost gripped the phone tightly. His luck had changed at last. "Then we've got him."

"I'm afraid not, inspector. The fibres mean nothing on their own. Find the child and from his clothing we can prove he's been in the house… but we need the child."

"If I had the child I wouldn't bleeding need you," growled Frost.

"We can't find what isn't there, inspector."

He banged the phone down, but Harding was right. Finch was being too clever for all of them. He had stripped Dean of his clothing to avoid leaving any clues and had probably done the same with Bobby.

"How is it going, Frost?"

Bloody hell! Bang on cue when things were going wrong, there was Mullett ready to twist the knife in the wound.

"Not too brilliant," he replied. "Without proof it looks as if the bastard is going to get away with it."

"Have you heard from Forensic yet?"

"Yes. They haven't come up with a flaming thing."

Mullett stared at Frost, his lips tightening. This, of course, was all Frost's fault. "So tonight's expensive exercise has achieved precisely nothing. In fact you've achieved nothing right from the moment you took on this case."

Frost smiled sweetly. "Thank you, super. You have the God-sent gift of stopping me from feeling big-headed." He barged past him out of the office. He'd had all he could stomach of Mullett for one night.

Back to the interview room for another crack at Finch, but he found Liz there on her own, patting the dog. "Toilet break for Mr. Finch," she explained.

"Let's hope the seat falls down on his dick," he grunted. He sat down and immediately the dog leapt up on his lap. He patted it and it licked his hand. "Friendly little sod, isn't he?" His eyes narrowed. He wondered if the dog had been friendly with the boy. If it had got on the boy's lap… nuzzled against him, licked him… could some hairs from the boy have got on to the dog? He scooped the animal up and dashed off to the incident room where he phoned Harding, catching him as he was just ready to go home.

"Worth a try, inspector," agreed Harding. "Extra overtime, of course."

"Of course," said Frost. An area car was called in to rush the dog off to the laboratory.

Finch, escorted by Burton, was led back into the interview room. He looked around. "Where's the dog?"

"He's helping us with our enquiries," Frost told him.

Finch stood up. "I want him here now!"

"Sit down," snapped Frost. He shook a cigarette from the packet and offered one to Finch who waved it away in annoyance.

Frost lit up and grinned. "Friendly little dog, isn't he? Did he jump up to the kid… was he the only friend the poor little sod had?"

"I've already told you '

"That you don't know anything about the kid. Well, you've been bloody clever with your sweeping and scrubbing and vacuuming, but I bet you didn't give Rin Tin Tin a bath. Our Forensic Lab are checking the dog over now. Want to bet they find the odd hair or two from the kid… the poor little kid whose finger you chopped off? Come on I'll give you ten to one we find something."

The briefest flicker of concern blinked on Finch's face, but was quickly suppressed. He stared at Frost, expressionless. "You won't find anything, because I know nothing about the kidnapping. I have already made a statement to that effect. I have no intention of saying the same thing over and over again. Unless you intend to charge me, I take it I am free to go?"

"Give my colleague another statement explaining your movements tonight," said Frost. "We'll get it typed up and you can sign it… but it might be best to wait until we get the results from the dog first in case you want to change it to a confession."

If this was meant to ruffle Finch, it failed. I'd hate to play poker with you, thought Frost, making his way back to the incident room.

Burton sat by the old Underwood manual typewriter on the end desk in the incident room pecking out the statement for Finch to sign. Frost had told him to take his time so they could hold on to Finch until the results from Forensic came through. Burton didn't need telling. He was a very slow typist at the best of times and this snail's progress was his top speed. Frost came in and looked hopefully at Hanlon who had just put down the phone.

"They're still looking, Jack… It's the wrong sort of weather for a search."

"It's the wrong sort of weather to be on holiday, but that's where I ought to flaming well be, not here." He hurled himself down into a chair and realized one of their party was missing. "Anyone seen Mr. Cassidy?"

"No, thank God," muttered Burton.

The external phone rang. Hanlon answered it, listening, then putting his hand over the mouthpiece. "For you, Jack Forensic'

He took the phone, pausing before he raised it to his ear. He didn't think he could take much more bad news without something to cheer him up, like Mullett falling over and breaking his neck. "Frost."

"We've taken samples from the dog's fur," reported the lab technician flatly. "We've found three hairs that could have come from a young boy…" Frost's elation flared, but was instantly doused.".. but they do not come from Bobby Kirby. Sorry, inspector."

He held the phone and stared blankly as waves of despair washed over him. Then his head snapped up. They'd only tried to match it with Bobby. "The other boy Dean the dead boy. See if they come from him," he roared into the mouthpiece. "No don't ring back. I'll hold."

The phone at the other end went down with a bang and he could hear mutterings and echoing footsteps and then silence. He thought they had forgotten him and started whistling into the mouthpiece. Someone picked up the phone, said, "Be with you in a minute," and immediately put it down again.

He hunched up a shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he fished out his cigarette packet. Before he could light up, Harding was back. This time he wasn't apologetic. He was downright jubilant. "You were right, inspector. Those hairs come from the dead boy, Dean Anderson."

It was so long since he had heard good news, he didn't know how to take it. "Are you sure? Lie to me if you're not… but please say you're sure."

"Positive. Absolutely positive."

A hot surge of relief flooded his body. "You're not so bloody useless as I thought." He spun round in his chair and yelled in triumph. "We've got the bastard! We've got him!"

He bumped into Mullett, nearly spinning him round, as he sprinted down the corridor to the interview room. "You look absolutely ravishing tonight, super," he cooed to a puzzled and gaping superintendent. "We've got the bastard!" he explained. "I'm going to charge him now."

Finch was sitting, looking bored, as he waited to sign his statement, when Frost burst in. Right, thought Frost, now we wipe the smile off your face, you supercilious sneering sod.

He crashed down in the chair opposite Finch and leaned forward. "It's the end of the line, you sod. Man's best friend has let you down. There are hairs from the dead boy all over it."