Winter Frost (25 page)

   
Collier climbed out, shivering as the damp insinuated its way through his greatcoat. The mist was clinging tenaciously to the canal making visibility almost nil and he had to inch blindly towards Weaver's car, keeping well away from the edge of the tow path. He could hear the water, but couldn't see it. A car door opened and slammed shut. Weaver was getting out. A pause, then a splash. Something heavy thrown into the canal. Collier strained his eyes and could just make out the outline of a man, staring down into the water. It was Weaver, who turned and went back to his car. Collier hurried back to his own vehicle and radioed Frost. "He's chucked something in the canal."

   
"Did you see what it was?"

   
"No, quite a splash though. Hold on." Collier could hear an engine starting up. "I think he's driving off. Do I follow?"

   
"Yes." But Frost instantly changed his mind. "No. Stay there." The boot, thought Frost despairingly. The bloody boot. He could have had the kid's body in the boot and we never searched the flaming car. The bugger sat there wearing a driving coat and we never thought to search his bloody motor!

   
Headlights from the Metro flared in the windscreen as Weaver drove past. "He just passed me."

   
"Let him go. Get down to the canal and try and find out what he chucked in—it might be the kid. I'll get some more bodies and we'll join you." He radioed through to the station for the underwater emergency team.

   
"Has Mullett agreed this?" queried Wells.

   
"Sod Mullett, the kid could be drowning. Just do it, Bill, I'll square things with Mullett. And I need more men—all you can spare. The canal's going to be a sod to search in this weather."

   
"They're all off duty, Jack. It'll mean extra overtime. Mr. Mullett said—"

   
"Just bloody do it, Bill. I'll take the can—and tell all patrols to look out for Weaver's green Metro. I want to know where it goes."

   
"Registration number?"

   
"I don't know, but there can't be many green Metros about at this hour of the morning." He wound his scarf round his neck, steeled himself for the dash out into the cold and headed for his car.

The worsening visibility caused him to miss the turn-off and he had to waste valuable minutes backtracking and trying again. Bumping down the unmade road leading to the tow path he could just make out the flashing blue light of an area car which had got there before him. A burble of voices led him to some four or five men all thick-coated against the cold, poking and prodding the canal water with long sticks. Two cars were parked on the tow path, their headlamps trying weakly to push through the mist and give the searchers some light. Thick fog, like dirty clumps of cotton wool, rolled along the surface of the canal making it near impossible to make out where the tow path ended and the water began.

   
Frost grabbed Collier's arm. "How's it going?"

   
"Not too well, Inspector. I never saw where he dropped it, I only heard the splash, and he might have dropped it near the bank or thrown it right in the centre. It's far too deep for anyone to wade in at this point." He shook his head in self-reproach. "I should have got closer. If it was the girl and she was alive when she went in, she'll be long dead by now."

   
"We can only do our bloody best, son," slashed Frost. "We're not miracle men." The whining growl of approaching vehicles. The underwater search team. "About bloody time," muttered Frost.

   
Within minutes floodlights were erected and a portable generator was chugging away. The team began donning frogmen suits as the duffel-coated sergeant in charge got his instructions from Frost. "What are we looking for, Inspector?"

   
"A man who we suspect has abducted a seven-year-old kid has chucked something in the canal. It could be the kid."

   
"When and where was it dumped?"

   
Frost shrugged. "In this general area somewhere. The officer heard the splash, but didn't see anything. This was about an hour ago."

   
The sergeant stared down into the smoking murk of the canal. "No-one's going to live an hour in that." He left the inspector and went over to his team. Frost called his own men over and ordered them to start a systematic search along the bank now that the area was floodlit. He mooched up and down, smoking cigarettes that tasted foul and occasionally kicking at a clump of grass to relieve his feelings.

   
His radio called him. Charlie Alpha, the other area car, had spotted Weaver and had followed him back to his house.

   
"He's inside now, Inspector."

   
"Stay and watch," ordered Frost.

   
"We're supposed to be on patrol. How long do we wait?"

   
"All flaming night if necessary. If he makes a move outside, follow him and let me know."

   
From the canal came the creak of oars, then a soft splash as the frogmen plunged in. The duffel-coated sergeant joined Frost. "This little lot is going to cost a bomb," he said. "I hope your super's prepared for it."

   
Frost gave a non-committal grunt. God, he dreaded telling Mullett tomorrow. It would be all his fault, especially if it came to sod all.

  
A splash as a frogman's arm came up and waved frantically. "He's found something," said the sergeant, moving forward.

   
Frost's heart thudded madly. Was it the girl? He almost wanted it to be the girl so the exercise wouldn't be in vain and Mullett wouldn't be able to give him a bollocking in the morning. He shook his head, ashamed of himself. Don't let it be the kid, please . . . let it be junk, rags, that bloody commode . . . I want the kid to be alive.

   
It was a small suitcase, tied securely with cord. The metal catches were shiny so it hadn't been in the water long. It was far too small to hold a child's body. They rowed it over to Frost and everyone crowded round to watch as he cut the cord and forced open the catches with his penknife. Inside was a black bin liner, folded over and sealed with plastic tape. Frost ripped it open, taking out first a house brick which had been included to make certain the case sank and then a large wad of brown manila envelopes held together with elastic bands. He pulled out one of the envelopes and opened it. Photographs. Lots of photographs, some black and white, some colour, all of children—small children—mostly in the nude, all obscene. Frost nodded significantly then turned to Collier. "You only heard one splash?"

   
Collier nodded.

   
"Shall we stop looking?" asked the sergeant.

   
"No." Frost shook his head. "These bastards tend to use the same hiding place. He could have dumped the girl earlier. Give it a good going-over." He straightened up and stuffed the envelopes and the bin liner back in the case. "I'm going back to the station to check these and see if we recognize any of the kids. If Vicky or Jenny are in there, we've got him."

The photographs were spread out before him on his desk when Bill Wells came in to report that the search had yielded nothing.

   
"Send them all home," said Frost, pushing his packet of cigarettes over. "Not a lot of joy with the photographs. No-one I recognize and none of them are our missing kids. We'll circulate them in case other Divisions can come up with something."

   
Wells picked one up and studied it. A naked girl on a bed, legs spread-eagled. She couldn't have been more than nine. "You reckon Weaver took this?"

   
Frost shrugged. "He took some of them, but these sods share their goodies around. We'll get some fingerprints off them so we can prove he handled them." He yawned and rubbed his eyes. "I'm too bloody tired to pull him in for questioning now. First thing tomorrow." He checked his watch. Twenty past six. "I mean first thing today . . . we get a search warrant, arrest him, and go over his place brick by brick." He pushed the photographs back in the envelopes and heaved himself up. "I'm off home for some kip."

   
"You've got to be back by eight to brief the search party," Wells reminded him.

   
Frost slumped down again. "Sod it. Right. I'll kip down in the office. Give us a shout at half past seven—tea, toast, and the full English breakfast."

   
"And what morning papers would you like?" asked Wells sarcastically.

   
"The
Financial Times
and the
Beano
," replied Frost.

Police Superintendent Mullett spun the wheel and coasted his repaired Rover past the lines of vans and cars of the search party and slid neatly into his allotted parking space. He was pleased to note that the overnight mist had cleared considerably, having had visions of a fog-bound search party, sitting in the canteen drinking tea, waiting for the weather to improve while the cost of the exercise mounted and mounted. Many months to go before the end of the financial year and already his overtime budget was getting dangerously close to its permitted figure. Frost was notoriously poor with his paperwork, so Mullett would have to remind him not to round times up to the nearest hour or half-hour just to make the calculations easier. With so many men, even a few minutes would multiply out to quite a large sum.

   
He nodded a brisk greeting to Station Sergeant Wells who was bringing the incident books up to date. "Good morning, Sergeant. Where's the search party?" He had decided he would give the troops a few well-chosen words of encouragement before they went out, dropping very heavy hints that time was money and everything had to be paid for.

   
Wells, dead tired, stumbled to his feet. "Morning, sir. They're in the briefing room."

   Mullett frowned. The man looked half asleep. He was a disgrace. What sort of an image was this to present to the public? "You're looking very jaded this morning, Sergeant?"

   
"Sorry, sir. I've been on duty all night and I've had to extend my shift—there's no-one to relieve me." He gave a brave, modest little smile, waiting for a few words of sympathetic praise from his Divisional Commander. He waited in vain.

   
"No relief? Then you should organize things better," Mullett told him. "And even if you feel tired, try not to show it. The public don't want to know your problems."

   
"Yes, sir . . . sorry, sir," mumbled Wells, boiling with barely suppressed rage. It was Mullett's fault there was no-one to relieve him. Half the force had been seconded to County for this flaming drugs operation.

   
Mullett consulted his wrist-watch. "Cup of coffee in half an hour," he called over his shoulder as he made his way up the corridor.

   
He strode into the briefing room, pleased at the way all leapt respectfully to their feet. He waved them down, his mouth smiling while his eyes travelled the room working out how much of a dent this little lot would make to his planned budget for the year. There were some faces he didn't recognize—men and women from other Divisions who had been drafted in. He found himself an empty seat near the front and checked his watch. Ten past eight. He frowned. Frost, who should have started the briefing at eight o'clock sharp, had not yet made an appearance and a roomful of people on full pay were just sitting and waiting. He turned his head. "Does anyone know where Inspector Frost—"

   
Before he could finish his sentence the door banged open and Frost, carrying a bacon roll perched on top of a mug of tea, bounced in. Mullett screwed his face up in annoyance. The man was a mess—unshaven, clothes crumpled and he hadn't even bothered to run a comb through his hair. What an example to show other Divisions. As Frost passed Mullett he flicked a hand. "Don't bother to get up, Super."

   
Mullett, who hadn't the slightest intention of getting to his feet, didn't join in the general laughter, but glowered and pointedly studied his watch.

   
Frost dumped his bacon roll on the desk and took a swig at the tea. He beamed at the assembly. "This bloke is crossing the desert when he sees this naked tart buried up to her neck in the sand . . ."

   
Mullett raised his eyes to the ceiling and groaned.

   
This was neither the time nor the place for one of Frost's dubious jokes.

   
"Stark flaming naked. Just her head showing. She says, 'Please help me. I wouldn't submit to the Sultan's sexual demands so he did this to me. Please dig me out.' 'If I do,' says the bloke, 'what's in it for me?' She says, 'About four pounds of wet sand.' " Frost led the laughter. No-one laughed louder at his jokes than he did himself. Mullett, who didn't understand it, forced a smile to show he was one of the lads.

   
When the laughter subsided, Frost took another swig of tea and now looked serious. "Right, that's probably the last laugh you're going to have today." He turned to the wall board. "We're looking for this kid." He tapped the large photograph. "Jenny Brewer, seven years old, left school two days ago, hasn't been I seen since. It's bleeding cold out there and if she's still alive, the sooner we find her the better, but my gut feeling is that if we find her, we find a body, so it's not going to be a bag of laughs. The good news is we have a suspect who might be able to save us all a lot of time by telling us what he's done with her." He switched his gaze to the window. "The mist has cleared up quite a bit now, but according to the clever sods in the Met Office, it's going to get thicker and thicker, so unless Mr. Mullett wants to hold things up with some encouraging words . . ." He turned, eyebrows raised in query, to the Divisional Commander who flushed, forced a smile, mentally conveying his 'Time is Money' speech to the waste bin, and shook his head. "OK," said Frost, "then off you go, and good luck."