Winter Frost (26 page)

   
Mullett stood up and beckoned him over. "My office, Frost, now!"

Mullett repositioned his blotting pad to dead centre, then pulled the in-tray towards him. There seemed to be an awful lot of overtime claim forms for him to sign. He was tugging the cap from his Parker pen when there was a half-hearted knock at the door and in slouched Frost who flopped into a chair before being asked. "Please sit down," said Mullett in his witheringly sarcastic tone which was completely lost on Frost.

   
"Thanks, Super. You wanted to see me?" He looked at his watch. "If you could make it snappy, I've got a suspect to pull."

   
"I'll take as long as it takes," snapped Mullett. He jabbed a finger. "Look at you! A disgrace. When you walked into that briefing meeting I didn't know where to put my face. Those clothes look as if they've been slept in."

   
"Top marks for observation, Super," said Frost. "They have been slept in. I was up until six this morning following a lead on the girl. I had to kip down in the office."

   
"That wouldn't have stopped you from shaving," barked Mullett.

   
Frost rubbed his chin. Damn. He'd forgotten to shave. "Bloody electric razor conked out. I'll borrow one as soon as I get back to the office." He began to ease himself out of the chair. "So if that's all. Super . . . ?"

   
Mullett flapped a hand to wave him back. "That is not all, Inspector." He began totalling up the hours on the overtime claims when he noticed the thick wad of more overtime forms underneath. His mouth sagged open. "What are these?" He waved the offending forms at Frost. "Eight off-duty men called in last night, four hours' overtime
each?
I authorized ten hours total."

   
"Oh, sorry about that, Super," began Frost. "I was going to tell you about that—"

   "
You don't tell me about overtime, Frost," cut in Mullett. "You ask . . ." His voice tailed off. He had now spotted the indent for the underwater search team. "What is this? What is this?" His voice had risen an octave. "Do you know how much they charge per hour . . . ?" he spluttered.

   
"No—but it will be on the invoice," said Frost, trying to be helpful. He filled Mullett in on the events of the night before, dragging a couple of the photographs they had found and passing them over. As he finished, Mullett stared at him in goggle-eyed disbelief, his Parker pen a blur as it sped over his blotter, doing sums to work out the total expenditure then staring aghast at the final figure. "How am I going to clear this with County? Even I haven't the authority to sanction an operation of this size." He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hold you responsible, Frost. I won't accept any of the blame."

   
"Then I'll take all the bloody blame for a change," snapped Frost. "You don't count costs when a kid's life is at stake."

   
"But a child's life wasn't at stake, was it? One splash and you jump to conclusions. All you got was some lewd photographs which would still have been there in the morning and could have been retrieved without any overtime . . ."

   "Last night I didn't have the benefit of your flaming hindsight," said Frost angrily.

   
"Don't adopt that tone with me, Frost," snarled a red-faced Mullett, equally angry. "The only thing that might get you off the hook is a result."

   
"I'll get you a result," said Frost, standing up. "I'm bringing Weaver in, then I'm getting Forensic to go over his place inch by inch."

   
"And if you find nothing? What have you got? All this unauthorized expenditure for a few pornographic photographs."

   
"We'll nail him," said Frost, moving to the door and trying to convince himself. "And if we're lucky we'll nail him for both kids . . . two for the price of one. How's that for a bargain?"

   
He closed the door firmly behind him. It was a good exit line, but could he possibly pull it off?

The search warrant was waiting for him on his desk. He stuffed it in his pocket and was giving his chin a quick going-over with the electric razor when the door creaked open and a death-warmed-up DC Morgan staggered in, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed, clothing soiled and crumpled and reeking of stale spirits and vomit. "Good morning, vicar," said Frost.

   
A sickly grin from Morgan. He flopped into a chair, wincing at the pain from his throbbing head.

   
"So what happened last night?" Frost asked.

   
The act of furrowing his brow in an effort to remember made Morgan wince again. "It's all a bit vague, guv. There was this young lady and we had a drink . . ."

   
"Another bit of crumpet?" said Frost. "You can't leave them alone, can you?"

   
"It's difficult to say no when they waggle it under your nose, guv." He winced yet again as his fingers touched his forehead and found the gash. "I remember getting into the car and driving off, but it gets a bit hazy after that." He listened, looking more and more shamefaced as Frost quickly filled him in.

   
"It must have been those painkillers from the dentist . . . they make you drowsy."

   
"Only if you're well pissed to start with," said Frost, pulling on his mac. "Get off home and clean yourself up before Mullett sees you. He's already given me a bollocking for looking like a tramp and I'm Beau Brummell compared to you. Stay away from the station. Report to Sergeant Hanlon and join the search for the missing kid."

   
"Right, guv . . . sorry, guv . . . owe you one, guv." He sidled out as PC Jordan came in.

   
"Was that a tramp or Taffy Morgan?" he asked.

   
"Both," grunted Frost. "SOCO and Forensic ready?"

   
"In the van and waiting."

   
"Right," said Frost. "Let's pay our respects to Mr. Weaver."

"A search warrant?" blinked Weaver, staring at the document Frost had thrust into his hand. He had been roused from his bed by their hammerings and was still tying the cord round a grey dressing-gown. "But this isn't necessary, Inspector. I told you yesterday, you can search where you like."

   
"You are too kind, sir. I wish all citizens were as decent and co-operative as you." Frost jerked a thumb to his team. "Start with the upstairs rooms."

   
Weaver watched in dismay as Forensic and Rawlings, the Scenes of Crime Officer, thundered up the stairs. "It's a mess up there, I'm afraid."

   
"Don't worry yourself," beamed Frost amiably. "It'll be a lot more of a bleeding mess when they've finished." He took Weaver by the arm and led him to the small kitchen where PC Jordan was opening and shutting drawers. "We can talk in here, sir." He noticed a bag of boiled sweets on the table. Sherbet limes. He hadn't had sherbet limes since he was a kid. "Are these yours, sir?"

   
"Yes," snapped Weaver, snatching the bag from him. "They're mine. I don't use them to lure young children in here, if that's what you're implying."

   
"I wasn't implying any such thing, sir," said Frost. "I was hoping you'd offer me one." He pushed Weaver into a chair then pulled a wad of photographs from his pocket and began to deal them out on the table, like a hand of cards. As each photograph was laid down, Weaver flinched. "I believe these are yours, sir?"

   
Weaver shrank away as if he wanted nothing to do with them. "Not mine, Inspector—definitely not mine."

   
Frost looked across to Jordan in mock exasperation. "We've boobed again, Constable. These aren't the gentleman's photographs." He turned back to Weaver. "I can't apologize enough, sir, so if you'll just explain why your fingerprints are all over them and how it was you were seen dumping them in the canal last night, we'll say no more about it." He folded his arms and waited.

   
Weaver had gone the colour of chalk. He hung his head and mumbled to the table top. "All right, Inspector. Yes, they are mine. To my deep shame I get pleasure from studying photographs of children . . ."

   
"Naked children," corrected Frost.

   
"Yes. It sounds bad, but it's harmless. I just like to look at photographs, that's all. After you called here yesterday I was concerned you would find them and get the wrong idea, so I decided to get rid of them."

   
"Did you take any of them yourself, sir?"

   
A quick shake of the head. "Oh dear me, no. I bought them."

   
"From a man in a pub you'd never seen before?"

   
Weaver gave a thin smile. "Something like that. I paid cash. I don't know his name."

   
Frost nodded as if he accepted this. "Fair enough, sir. But something puzzles me. If I liked to dribble over photographs of bare young flesh, like you, I don't think I'd turn away a seven-year-old girl who knocks at my door and begs to be photographed. I'd have her stripped off and my Box Brownie out before you could say 'Cheese'."

   
Weaver flushed angrily. "You can believe what you like, Inspector, but I told you exactly what happened. She never came into the house." The sound of nails wrenched from wood coming from above made him start. "What is that?"

   
"That's the floorboards coming up—in case you forgot to tell us about the body."

   
Weaver smiled. "You can tear the place apart, Inspector. There is no body here."

   
"It doesn't have to be a body," Frost told him. "We'll settle for a single hair, a shred of clothing. DNA can do the rest."

   
The mention of DNA had the same effect on Weaver as it had on Bernie Green. He began twitching in agitation. "DNA?"

   
"One hair, that's all they need, sir—they'll be disappointed if they find a body. They get paid extra for doing DNA tests."

   
Weaver pulled the dressing-gown tighter around him. He was shaking, but not from the cold. "There's something I should tell you."

   
"My ear-hole is at your disposal, sir." Frost sat in the chair opposite him and pulled out a cigarette, but remembering Weaver's asthma, reluctantly shoved it back in the packet.

   
"I'm afraid I didn't quite tell you the truth . . ." He paused. Frost said nothing. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Weaver's tongue moistened dry lips. "I did let her in. It was foolish of me, but she seemed such a sweet little girl. I did take her photograph—fully clothed, of course—and then she left. Even though it was innocent and harmless, when I learnt she was missing, I panicked and threw the photographs away."

   
"And the film?"

   
"I threw that away as well."

   
Frost stared hard at him. Weaver wouldn't meet his I gaze. "And what about the other little girl, Vicky Stuart?"

   
"I know nothing about her. I've never seen her. It was just Jenny, I swear it."

   
"Inspector!" PC Simms was calling from the top of I the stairs. "Would you come up and have a look at this, please."

   
Frost thudded up the stairs. Simms, in Weaver's bedroom, had pulled the wardrobe away from the wall. Sellotaped to the back was a large manila envelope. Frost felt it. There seemed to be photographs inside. He yelled for Weaver to be brought up. "Any idea what this contains, sir?"

   
Weaver collapsed on the bed and buried his face in his hands. Frost removed the envelope and shook out the contents. A series of black and white photographs of a young girl, some semi-clothed, others in the nude. The girl was Jenny Brewer.

   
Frost rammed the photographs in Weaver's face. "You couldn't bear to part with them, could you? All| right, you bastard, where is she? What have you done to her?"

   
Weaver flinched and sniffed back tears. "I've done nothing with her. She was alive when she left I here."

   
"You're lying," snarled Frost. "You lie until you're found out, and then you lie some more to cover up your lies. Where is she?"

   
Weaver shook his head, knuckling his eyes.

   
"Charles Edward Weaver," intoned Frost, "I'm arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the disappearance of Jenny Brewer . . ." He tailed off. He I never could remember the words of the new caution and had to step back so Simms could finish it off for him.

   
"This is a nightmare," blubbed Weaver. "I'm innocent."

   
"Take the innocent bastard away," said Frost.

The cleaners had given the interview room a flick over. Its permanent smell of sweat, old socks and stale cigarette smoke was now tinged with pine disinfectant. Frost squeaked a chair across the brown lino and plonked himself down opposite Weaver. As he waited while Simms set up the cassette recorder, he rammed a cigarette in his mouth and lit up without thinking. One puff before Weaver was coughing, spluttering and flapping his hand to clear away the smoke. "Please, Inspector—my asthma."

   
Frost pinched out the cigarette and dropped it back in the packet. "Sorry. Tell me about Jenny."

   
"She saw me in the street with my camera and wanted her photograph taken . . ."

   
"When was this?"

   
"A few weeks ago. I told her no, but she kept knocking at my door. In the end, I let her in."

   
"Why?"

   
"She looked so pitiful. I felt sorry for her. I didn't intend taking those photographs. It just happened."