Winter Frost (36 page)

   Frost retrieved the progress report from the depths of his in-tray and gave it a cursory glance. It demanded full details of daily progress: man-hours, overtime, expenses . . . A footnote stated, 'If not enough room, use a second sheet.' "There's plenty room," muttered Frost, scrawling 'Some progress made' right across the sheet and chucking it in his in-tray.

   
The phone rang. Forensic. "We've got a positive latch on those animal hair samples, Inspector."

   
"And people say you're bloody useless," said Frost, "terrific." He gave the thumbs-up sign to Morgan as he reached for his pen. "Shoot!"

   
"The dog hairs from the girl's clothing definitely match sample number three."

   
Frost glanced at the Forensic Test Request form, left by Hanlon. He frowned. "Wait a minute. You mean sample two—sample three came from one of Vicky's school friends' dogs."

   
"That's right. That's the one that matched."

   
"But what about sample two?"

   
"Nothing like it, entirely different."

   
"You're not looking properly—I want a second flaming opinion."

   
"We've checked and double-checked, Inspector, as we always do. The confirmation report is on its way."

   
"I can hardly bleeding wait." He banged the phone down with a snort of rage. "They're useless," he wailed. "Never tell you what you want to know . . . only things that sod up your case." 

   
"So it's not Plummer's dog?" asked Morgan.

   
"You've got a rapier-sharp mind, Taffy. No, it came from the dog of one of her school friends." He rammed a cigarette in his mouth with such force it bent double. "Damn."

   
"Never mind, guv. It may not be Plummer's dog, but it still doesn't let him off the hook."

   
"We've found nothing in his house to tie him in with Weaver. No sweets, no photographs of nude kids, not a flaming thing we can use. We're going to have to let him go."

   
The internal phone buzzed. Frost signalled for Morgan to answer it.

   
The DC listened, then quickly slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. "Mr. Mullett, guv. Wants to know if we've got the lab report on the dog hairs."

   
"That flaming git always senses when things are going wrong," moaned Frost. "Tell him no—they're not in yet." He repaired his cigarette with a bit of stamp edging and lit up. The other phone rang. Bill Wells to tell him that Plummer's solicitor had spent some time with him and they now wanted to see the inspector.

   
"Knickers!" moaned Frost. "This is where I get sued for wrongful arrest. A policeman's lot is not a happy one."

Plummer's solicitor was a thin, sour-looking individual, who looked even sourer when Frost and Morgan came into the interview room. As they sat down, he unzipped his briefcase, took out a sheet of paper covered in neat handwriting and passed it across to Plummer who read it through then addressed the inspector. "I imagine you now have the laboratory results on the dog's hairs?"

   
Frost nodded. He was about to take the test result from the folder when Plummer suddenly buried his head in his hands and began sobbing. The solicitor looked embarrassed and stared at the wall. Frost looked puzzled, but remained silent and waited. It was usually a good sign when they started blubbing.

   
At last Plummer sniffed back the tears and shook his head in self-reproach. "I lied to you, Inspector. I had no idea my dog had gone anywhere near that poor child's body."

   
Frost kept his face impassive. What the hell was the man babbling on about? "Oh."

   
"To my eternal shame, I was not telling the truth when I said I had never seen that poor child's body before today. On the advice of my solicitor I have prepared a written statement." He slid the sheet of paper across the table to Frost. "I knew the body was there. I saw it yesterday when I was out with my dog. The dog found it and started barking. When I saw her . . ." He shook his head to try and erase the memory. "I was going to report my discovery right away, then I recalled how you had mocked and scorned my gifts in the past and decided to prove you wrong."

   
"And to get five thousand quid from the papers for your exclusive story?"

   
The solicitor looked surprised. Plummer hadn't told him about this.

   
Plummer hung his head. "I wouldn't have kept it, Inspector. My conscience wouldn't have let me."

   
"Neither would the judge in the fraud case," said Frost. He glanced down at Plummer's statement. "So you found the body yesterday and you wasted twenty-four hours before you decided to tell the police?"

   
The solicitor thought this a good moment to intervene. "Naturally my client withdraws any claims he may have against you for wrongful arrest."

   
"Very generous of him," sniffed Frost, basking in the unfamiliar role of the aggrieved party.

   
"My client further realizes that he could be accused of wasting police time and hampering an inquiry, but in view of his frankness, we hope you will take a more lenient view."

   
"He was only frank because we found out he was a bleeding liar," said Frost. "But he's fortunate that we're too busy to sod about with minor crimes. We might need to question him further, but for the moment, he can go."

Mullett was smouldering with rage at being let down yet again by Frost after he had told County that an arrest was imminent. "So not a single thing to tie him in with Weaver: no pornographic pictures, nothing to suggest he is a paedophile and no matching notepad or envelopes?"

   
"You forgot the sweets," said Frost. "We didn't find them either."

   
Mullett's lips tightened. "So where exactly do we stand with the child killings now?"

   
"Nowhere."

   
"Precisely." Mullett took off his glasses and polished them carefully. "It isn't good enough, Frost, it just isn't good enough." He waved a sheet of figures. "All the overtime, all the man-hours, and for what?"

   
"I think 'for sod all' are the words you're searching for," said Frost. Why must the man rant on and on about the bleeding obvious? "I know it's cost us a lot of money to get nowhere. We didn't find the bodies earlier because they weren't there. One was stored with the fish fingers somewhere and God knows where the other one has been. We've checked and double-checked, followed up all leads—"

   
He was stopped in mid-flow as the phone rang and Mullett held up a hand for silence. "It might be County," he murmured, adjusting his tie in case it was. It wasn't County.

   
"Charles! Hello . . . Long time no speak . . ."

   
As Mullett listened, he frowned and reached for his Parker fountain pen. "Who . . . ?" He scribbled a name down on his notepad and carefully ringed it round. "As a matter of fact, Charles, we were just about to send for it, but you've beaten us to the punch. We look forward to receiving the file. How's Mildred? Good . . ." He hung up and stared grimly at Frost,—drumming his fingers on the desk top. "You say you've followed up every lead?"

   
"Yes," said Frost guardedly, sensing that the sod knew something he didn't.

   
"That phone call, Frost, was my opposite number in Greyford Division—Superintendent Hilton."

   
"Good old Charlie," said Frost. "Mildred all right?"

   
Mullett ignored this. "He says he is sending us their file on Dennis Hadleigh—he was surprised we hadn't asked for it earlier."

   
"Dennis Hadleigh?" asked Frost, his mind racing. Who the hell was Dennis Hadleigh? The name rang a bell, but . . . Then he remembered. Hadleigh was Mary Brewer's live-in boyfriend, the man who was supposed to have knocked Jenny about. "What file? I never even knew he had a record."

   
"You didn't know, Frost, because you didn't damn well check. I had to lie and pretend we knew all about it. For your information, Hadleigh used to live in Greyford. He was arrested two years ago for sexually abusing an under-aged girl, the eleven-year-old daughter of the woman he was then living with."

   
"Oh!" said Frost weakly.

   
"You didn't check on the boyfriend?"

   
"I was going to, but as soon as Weaver entered the frame we didn't look any further."

   
"A typically blinkered approach," sniffed Mullett. "You concentrate all your resources on the wrong man and let the real killer go free. Pick him up now. With luck we could clear this up by tonight."

   
Luck, thought Frost, what's happened to my bleeding luck? He pushed himself wearily out of the chair. Mullett had got him this time. The flaming boyfriend. He'd never given him another thought. "When should the file get here?"

   
"Later this evening, but don't wait for it. The arrest of the right person would make a welcome change."

   
Frost grunted his agreement. He was so disheartened, he closed the door quietly, leaving Mullett, teeth gritted, waiting for the slam that never came.

Dennis Hadleigh was in his mid-twenties. He rippled with muscles and as he folded his arms to stare disdainfully at Frost, the sleeves of his jacket shot back to reveal a mass of tattoos. He scowled. "Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

   
"I think you know what this is about," snapped Frost, poking a cigarette in his mouth and scratching a match across the table top.

   
"Pretend I don't," said Hadleigh. "Tell me."

  
"You are kindly helping us with our inquiries into the death of Jenny Brewer."

   "You didn't have to drag me down here to get me to that. I'm as anxious to catch the toe-rag who did it as you are. I take it he isn't the bloke who topped himself?"

   Frost took a deep drag and balanced the cigarette on the matchbox. "We thought we'd try looking a lot nearer home!" He flickered a smile. "Why did you do it?"

   
Hadleigh gaped. "You think I did it? You think I killed and raped a seven-year-old kid?"

   
"Why not? You like them young, don't you . . . young, choice, unsullied?"

   
Hadleigh bent across the table. "Yes, as it happens I do like them young, choice and unsullied, but not that bloody young."

   
"You've done it before, though, haven't you?" asked Frost.

   
The suspect leant back in his chair and nodded wryly. "You mean Samantha—young, choice, unsullied Samantha?"

   
"Yes," agreed Frost, trying to sound as if he had all the facts. He wished he had the bloody file in front of him. He hadn't the faintest idea what the girl's name was. "Samantha, your girlfriend's daughter, just Jenny."

   
"Nothing like Jenny. Jenny was seven years old, for Pete's sake!"

   
"And Samantha was eleven."

   
"A couple of weeks short of her twelfth birthday."

   
"And one more candle on the cake made all the difference?"

   
Hadleigh gave a sour smile. "You don't know the facts, do you?" 

   
"We've got that treat to come," Frost told him the file's on the way over. "Suppose you fill us in with all the hot, intimate details. Did you welt her the way you welted Jenny?"

   
The smile vanished. Hadleigh reached inside his jacket and pulled out a worn leather wallet which he thumbed through until he found a small coloured photograph. He flicked it across the table. "That is Jenny. Her mother didn't give a toss about her. Jenny was no bleeding angel, but you couldn't help liking the kid. In spite of everything she always came up with a smile."

   
"The poor little cow didn't have a smile on her face when I found her," said Frost.

   
Hadleigh said nothing. He leafed through the wallet again and found another photograph which he slid over to Frost, face down. Frost flipped it over and could feel Morgan's hot breath on the back of his neck as he picked it up to study it. A long-haired blonde, stripped to the waist, hands cupping large prominent breasts as she lay back on a cushion and pouted at the camera.

   
"That," said Hadleigh, jabbing a finger, "is sweet, innocent, eleven-year-old Samantha. She took the photograph herself with an automatic camera. If that was offered to you on a plate, would you turn your nose up at it?"

   
Give me her bleeding address, thought Frost. Aloud he said: "She was still under age."

   
"Under age or not, she'd had it away with half the boys in her class. She couldn't get enough of it. Flaming hell, I'm only flesh and bleeding blood. She calls me up into her bedroom—says she couldn't get the telly to work. When I goes in, there she is, stark bloody naked. You may not believe this, but I did try to push her away—not very hard, but I tried."

   
"So she overpowered you you and had her way with you?"

   
Another wry grin. "No such flaming luck. Her mother came in before anything happened and yelled 'Rape' then she called the police and before I know what's happened I was handcuffed and off to the nick."

   
"Then what?"

   
"Lucky for me Samantha didn't want any trouble. She said I came into the room without knocking and she was getting undressed. I was fully clothed, nothing had happened, so the charge had to be dropped, much to the disappointment of the Old Bill."