Winter Frost (20 page)

   
Frost lit up a cigarette and parted the curtains to the sash window to look down on the small back yard where a uniformed officer, his torch cutting through the darkness, was prodding amongst the long, uncut grass. He shuddered at the feeling he had had so many times before. A cold, empty room. The room of a child who was not coming back.

   
Morgan pulled out the bed to make certain there was nothing underneath, then opened up the wardrobe where a few items of child's clothing swung from hangers. On the floor of the wardrobe were some down-at-heel shoes and a pile of well-read children's books.

   
Frost went through the chest of drawers. More clothes, all neatly folded, balled pairs of socks, handkerchiefs, knickers, everything he would expect to find. A nagging buzzing at the back of his brain was telling him he was missing something, but he couldn't think what it was.

   
Morgan had dragged the wardrobe away from the wall. "Guv, look at this." Hidden behind the wardrobe were some expensive children's annuals. They looked brand new. "Get Fanny up here," he told Morgan.

   
The woman came up and leant, arms folded, against the door frame. "Found her in the wardrobe, have you?"

   
Touching them only by the edges, Frost held up the books. "Did you buy her these?"

   
She fanned away cigarette smoke and squinted at them. "No, I didn't. Where did they come from?"

   
"Stuck behind the wardrobe."

   
"The little moo—she must have nicked them."

   
"Perhaps," said Frost, laying the books carefully on the bed. He snapped his fingers, suddenly realizing what it was that had been worrying him. He flung open the wardrobe door and waved a hand at the hangers. "You said she usually wore this greeny-blue dress . . . Is it any of these?"

   
She stared at the row of coats and cardigans and sniffed disdainfully. "Do they look like flaming blue dresses?"

   
"When she came back from school the day before yesterday, was she wearing the blue dress then?"

   
"Of course she was."

   
"You actually saw her with it on?"

   
"Yes. Why are you asking?"

   
"Because it's not here," said Frost, "that's why." She didn't understand what the hell he was talking about, but sod her. "Where would she have put it if it wanted washing?"

   
"In the linen basket next to the washing machine."

   
"Go with her and see if it's there," Frost told Morgan. He sat on the bed and waited, but he guessed what the answer would be. He looked round the room, bed made, pyjamas folded . . . The poor kid must have done all that herself, certainly not that slut of a mother. A thudding up the stairs as Morgan returned.

   
"Not there, guv."

   
Frost yelled out to his team. "Look out for a kiddy's blue dress . . . If you find any items of kid's clothing, I want to see them."

   
He sat on the bed in the cold, scarf tight round his neck, and smoked some more, getting up to flick the ash out of the window, not wanting to mess up the kid's neat and tidy little room.

   At last, dirty and dishevelled, the team filed in. "The kid's not here, and no sign of any clothes," announced Jordan.

   
Frost nodded. He expected nothing else. "Someone's got her, and I've a nasty feeling in my water it's the same bastard who got Vicky." He jerked a thumb at the books on the bed. "Put them in an evidence bag. I want them checked for prints. She might have nicked them, but on the other hand some nice kind dirty bastard of a man might have given them to her as a little present . . . 'and don't tell your mum, love' . . .If she left for school wearing a blue dress and turned up in a red one, she must have stopped off on the way to change clothes, perhaps at the house of the nice kind man who gave her the books." He felt himself go cold as he said it. "My gut feeling is she's dead, but let's hope my track record holds and I'm wrong. Let's get a search going. It's freezing out there, so the sooner we start, the better."

   
He clicked on his mobile phone and called the station. "I want every available man in on this search, Bill—off-duty men as well."

   
"Have you cleared it with Mullett?" asked Wells.

  
"I'll clear it with him," said Frost. "And get the underwater team to stand by. We'll start dragging the canal tomorrow."

   
The search was already under way as he drove back to the station. He could see the beams of torches cutting through the dark of Denton Woods. "Shouldn't we start dragging the canal tonight?" Morgan asked.

   
"If she's in the canal, she's dead," said Frost bluntly. "I'm never in a hurry to find a kid's dead body." He turned the heater up. It was cold in the car, but a damn sight colder out in the open. If the kid was out there . . . in the dark . . .

   
As they drove past King Street he noticed there were very few toms out. Not the cold that was keeping them in. They had heard about the body found the previous night. Too many bloody cases, too few men and too little time.

   
"Guv . . ." Morgan was dragging him from his reverie. "Radio, guv."

   
It was Bill Wells. "Jack . . . Just had a phone call. A man reckons his eleven-year-old son has gone missing. The kid goes to the same school as the two missing girls!"

   Shit, thought Frost. It never rains but it bleeding buckets down. He took the address. "We're on our way . . ."           

The door was opened by WPG June Purdy, a bouncy little brunette in her mid-twenties. Frost was glad Morgan wasn't with him. The DC would have been panting all over her like a dog on heat. He wouldn't mind doing a bit of panting himself, but this wasn't the time. "Fill me in, love," he asked.

   
"Eleven-year-old Tony Scotney. Went to school today as usual, never came home for his tea, and they haven't seen him since." She was not one to waste words.

   
Frost rammed a cigarette in his mouth. "Why didn't they report it earlier?"

   
"They suspected he'd sneaked off to the cinema straight from school . . . he's done it before, apparently."

   
She led Frost into the living-room where the father, dark-haired, early forties, a permanent frown creasing his forehead, was pacing up and down. The mother, a few years younger, sat huddled up in an armchair, biting her lip to stop the tears and drumming her fingers incessantly.

   
"For God's sake, stop that," snapped her husband. He looked up anxiously as Frost came in. "Any news?"

   
"We're still looking," said Frost. He hadn't organized a separate search, but the teams searching for the girl had been alerted. "We need a photograph."

   
Silently, the mother handed over a photograph taken at the school around the same time as that of the missing Jenny Brewer. A boy, dark-haired like his father with a hint of devilment in his eyes. He stuffed it in his pocket. No-one was inviting him to sit, so he plonked himself down in a chair near the fire and loosened his scarf. "I understand Tony's done this son of thing before?"

   
"He's never stayed out this late," said the woman.

   
"The little sod," shouted his father. "I'll wring his bloody neck." He stopped as worry overcame anger, then took his wife's hand and patted it gently.

   
"When did you last see Tony?" asked Frost.

   
The mother answered him. "Lunchtime. He wanted to see the new Walt Disney at the Regal, but he was rude to me, so I said no. He started shouting at me and stamped off."

   
"You've checked with his friends?"

   
"The first thing I did," said the father. "He left them after school and told them he was going to see the film."

   
"Would he have had the money to go?"

   
The mother shook her head. "I wouldn't give it to him. In the past he would have taken it from my purse when I wasn't looking, but now I don't give him the chance . . . I always keep it with me."

   
"You're sure there was nothing missing from your purse today?"

   
"Positive. There were only notes in it and they're still all there."

   
"You checked with the cinema?"

   
"Of course I did," snapped the father. "Went with the manager and we looked everywhere . . . he wasn't there." He stared at the floor and shook his head. "The little sod. If he's doing this just to teach us a lesson, I'll . . ." He left the sentence hanging and sprang to his feet, glaring at Frost. "Questions, questions, questions. You won't find him with bloody questions. I'm going out to look for him." He barged out and they heard the front door slam.

   
"I'm sorry he's so rude," said his wife. "He's worried sick."

   
Frost nodded sympathetically. He was bloody worried too. Two kids missing the same day. A paedophile gang operating in Denton? God, he hoped not. He shuddered at the thought, but kept his voice casual, trying to think of words to reassure her. "We deal with missing children all the time, Mrs. Scotney. The parents worry themselves sick, then nine times out of ten the kid comes swaggering back, as bold as brass."

   
"But why would he stay out so late?"

   
"Perhaps he's afraid of what his father might do to him?" suggested Frost.

   
She shook her head and sniffed back her tears. "His father's all talk . . . he threatens, but doesn't do anything. I sometimes think it would be better if—" The phone cut her short. With a gasp of hope, she snatched it up. "Yes . . . ?" Her face fell. "No, mother, still no news . . . Please stay off the line." She hung up. Her shoulders shook. She was crying.

   
Frost squeezed her shoulder. "Don't worry, love. Tony's going to be all right, just you wait and see." Empty words. How the hell did he know? But she knuckled away her tears and smiled bravely as if she believed him

   He pulled the WPG to one side and lowered his voice. "Stay with her, and while you're here, give the place a thorough going-over. The little sod could well be hiding somewhere just to pay them back."

   
He let himself out. A heavy clammy mist was forming. Just the thing for a night bloody search. As he climbed in the car and turned up the heat, his radio buzzed. Bill Wells from the station. "Didn't want to call you while you were in the house, Jack, in case the parents overheard. We think we've found the boy."

   
Frost's stomach tightened into a hard knot. The sergeant's tone made it clear this was bad news. "You think we've found him?"

   
"Kid answering his description taken to Denton Hospital. Victim of a hit and run . . ."

   
"Shit! Where did it happen?"

   
"The slip road running along Denton Woods."

   
"Denton Woods? What the hell was he doing there?"

   
"No idea. We had a call from a motorist, wouldn't give his name. He told us where to find him. Said the kid ran straight out in front of his car, didn't give him a chance."

   
"And how is the boy?"

   
"He's in intensive care, Jack. They don't expect him to pull through." Wells paused. "Someone's got to break the news to the parents."

   
Frost looked back at the house. He didn't want to go back in there with this sort of news. "A road accident? Traffic should do it."

   
"With the search for the girl, we're thin on the ground, Jack—and you are on the spot."

   
"Yes. Always in the right place at the wrong bleeding time."

   
"Then you'll do it?"

   
"Yes, anything for a laugh."

   
He took one last drag on his cigarette, pitched it out into the darkness, then went back to the house and jammed his thumb in the doorbell.

PC Jordan bumped the area car along the pot-holed short cut which would take them out of the woods and back on to the main road. He and Simms should have had their meal break half an hour ago but this hit and run accident had held them up. The mist was thickening and visibility shrinking fast. Simms had his head stuck out of the side window to ensure they didn't end up in the ditch running alongside the lane. Suddenly he pulled in his head. "Stop the car!"

   
Jordan braked. "What is it?"

   
"A car, no lights, parked among the bushes."

   
Jordan groaned. "Top bleeding marks for observation." His stomach was rumbling, begging for food. "All right, but let's make it quick. I'm starving."

   
They climbed out and walked back to a dark grey BMW, not more than a year old. The doors were locked and no sign of the driver. Simms felt the bonnet. "It's not been here long."

   
"Joy-rider?" suggested Jordan.

   
"Joy-riders don't lock the bleeding thing up when they leave it. Better check it out." While Jordan radioed Control Simms shone his torch inside. A mobile phone on the passenger seat next to a briefcase, nothing else.

   
"Not reported stolen," said Jordan, giving the tires a perfunctory kick. "Can we go and get something to eat now?"

   
"The owner probably doesn't know it's missing yet," said Simms. "You don't abandon an expensive motor like this in the middle of the woods."