Winter Frost (58 page)

   
"My bank manager?"

   
A cheerful nod from Frost. "I phoned him a few minutes ago. It might have been my imagination, but he didn't sound too pleased at being woken up from a sound sleep. Anyway, it seems you're overdrawn like mad, the bank want to repossess your house and your shop, and there's quite a few of your cheques bouncing like the Dambusters' bomb. He said you had a profitable little business there until you let your son start running it."

   
Conway stared, mouth agape, then, with an effort, pulled himself together. "This is all beyond me, Inspector. I'm going—"

   
"Sit down!" barked Frost.

   
Conway's shoulders slumped. He dropped down in the chair.

   
A tap at the door and a grim-faced Collier returned.

   
He whispered something to Frost whose lips tightened. "Thank you, Constable." He stared at Conway. "A fractured skull, extensive brain damage. They rate his chances as lower than fifty/fifty, but even if he does pull through, they doubt if he will ever be able to lead a normal life." He bent forward, his face nearly touching Conway's. "You bastard!"He spat out the words.

   
Conway jerked back as if he had been hit. "How dare you!" he spluttered.

   
"An insurance fiddle. I can smell them a mile off. A fake raid, then claim on the insurance. And thanks to your scam a bloody good police officer who was trying to protect your property has been ruined for life."

  
Conway flushed. "This is preposterous. You're making wild accusations without a shred of proof. I am not saying another word unless my solicitor is present."

   
"Good," said Frost, opening his folder. "You can show him this when he gets here." He pulled out a printed form and handed it over. "It's a search warrant . . . I took the liberty of getting one ready in advance. We're going to search your house."

   
"My house?" croaked Conway, the search warrant shaking as he tried to hold it steady.

   
Frost nodded. "Who knows, we might find a lot of the good stuff hidden away somewhere that you forgot to stick in your shop window."

   
The jeweller's face crumpled. He stared down at the scratched and scarred table top. "You've got to believe me, Inspector. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt."

   
Frost signalled for Collier to start up the cassette recorder, then gave Conway a warm, encouraging smile. "Tell us all about it," he said.

Frost watched Wells lock the cell door on Conway. "His son and two mates carried out the fake raid. We've sent a couple of cars to pick them up, so get the other two cells swilled out."

   
"Conway's son was behind it all, then?" asked Wells.

   
"Yes," agreed Frost. "Conway put him in charge of the shop. The worst mistake of his life. Sonny Boy's been selling off the stock to pay for his gambling and drug habits and replacing it with cheap swag, hoping no-one would notice. Conway was going to sell the business and had the buyer coming in next week to appraise the stock, so Sonny Boy had to come clean. They thought this would be a good way out of their troubles. Let this be a lesson to you, Bill—crime does not pay!"

   
"Not a wasted night after all, then?" said Wells as they walked back to the lobby.

   
"If you overlook the poor sod in hospital and the fact that our serial killer is still on the loose, then by my lousy standards it was an unqualified success."

   
In the lobby a worried-looking Burton was waiting for them. "Anyone seen Liz?" he asked.

   
"Detective Sergeant Maud, to you," snapped Wells. "And I haven't seen her. Try the ladies' toilets—she spends most of her time in there."

   
"She's probably in the incident room," called Frost as Burton hurried off. To Wells he said: "What's the world coming to? They get their leg over, then start calling senior officers by their first name." But on the way back to his office he found himself worrying. He couldn't recall seeing Liz since early on in the operation, and now he thought about it, she wasn't at the scene of the jewellery raid. He found Burton staring into an empty murder incident room.

   
"She might have gone straight home, son," he suggested. "Have you phoned her?"

   
"I've phoned: she doesn't answer."

   
"Let's ask Morgan where he dropped her."

   
The sound of raucous laughter from the rear doors heralded the return of Morgan with Jordan and Simms, all escorting three sullen men in handcuffs, the ram raiders. Simms was carrying the bags of fake jewellery. "We've got them, guv," announced Morgan triumphantly.

   
"Where's Inspector Maud?" asked Frost.

   
"No idea, guv. Isn't she here?"

   
"Would I be asking you if she was? You picked her up after the cab dropped her. Where did you take her?"

   
"I didn't pick her up, guv. I stopped following the cab when I chased after these three in the van." He pointed to the handcuffed men.

   
Frost stared. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You just left her?" Morgan nodded. Telling Jordan and Simms to get their prisoners charged, Frost dragged Morgan into the murder incident room. "You just flaming left her?" he repeated incredulously, an angry Burton looking on.

   
Morgan's head turned from one to the other, not understanding what the fuss was about. "I couldn't chase the van and follow the cab at the same time, guv. I told you I was going after the van. You didn't object."

   
"I didn't object," exploded Frost, "because I assumed you'd already picked her up. I didn't think you'd be so stupid as to abandon her."

   
"Sorry, guv," mumbled Morgan. "A misunderstanding. But it was a woman driver. Inspector Maud will be all right. She probably got them to drive her straight back home."

   
"I've phoned," Burton told him. "She doesn't answer."

   
"She could be in bed with a sleeping tablet," suggested Morgan hopefully.

   
"She could be in bed with a flaming serial rapist," snapped Frost. PC Simms was walking past the door.

   
Frost called him in. "Drive straight over to Inspector Maud's flat, kick the door in if necessary, but get inside, confirm she's there, and radio me immediately either way."

   
"Hold on," said Burton, digging into his pocket. "No need to kick the door down." He handed a key to Simms, then turned back to Frost. "She wouldn't have gone home without reporting back here."

   
"She might have got pissed off with us because Taffy didn't pick her up and thought, Sod them!" said Frost. But he wasn't even convincing himself. Doubt and self-guilt chewed away at his innards. Why the bloody hell didn't he check with Taffy that he had Liz on board when he phoned? He jabbed a finger at Morgan. "Phone the minicab firm . . . find out where they dropped her off."

   
A hot, liquid surge of relief as the phone rang. This had to be Liz. But it was Arthur Hanlon joyfully reporting from Conway's house. They had found most of the allegedly stolen jewellery and watches in the home safe. This didn't cheer Frost one bit. The ram raid wasn't important any more. "We've got a problem, Arthur." He told him about Liz and ordered him to get over to Sutton Street where Liz should have been dropped off by the minicab, in the slender hope she might still be impatiently waiting to be picked up by Morgan. "If she's not there, keep an eye out on the return trip. She might be walking back to the station." In high heels and a tom's outfit? What a bloody hope, but it had to be covered.

   
No sooner had he replaced the phone than it rang again and again his hopes soared. This had to be Liz. But it was Mullett.

   
"I understand we've got an injured policeman in hospital. Why wasn't I told?"

   
God, he should have told Mullett right away. "Sorry, Super—so much going on." He filled the Divisional Commander in, but didn't tell him about Liz. "They are operating on him now. We've got the men who did it."

   
"Hmph," grunted Mullett. "Keep me informed." Frost hung up as Morgan finished his call to the minicab firm, his expression telegraphing bad news. "They don't use women drivers at night, guv. They took the call and sent a man driver, but when he got to the pick-up point there was no-one there."

   
"Did you check the registration number of the cab that did pick her up?"

   
Morgan looked anywhere but at Frost. "It belongs to a VW Beetle sold as scrap six months ago."

   
Frost dropped in a chair and stared into space. "Bloody, bloody hell."

  
 A howl of rage as Burton, hearing the tail end of this, hurried over to them. "What are you saying?"

   
"It doesn't look good, son," Frost told him. "Unless Simms tells us she's tucked up in her flat, we've got to face the possibility that our serial killer has got her." The phone rang. Control. Simms had just radioed in. Liz wasn't in her flat and the tom's outfit wasn't back in the wardrobe . . . He broke the news to Burton.

   
Burton's face reddened with anger. "And that Welsh bastard just abandoned her?"

   
"I thought she'd be all right," muttered Morgan, stepping back quickly as Burton, swinging wild punches, lunged at him.

   
"You
thought
, you bloody Welsh sod? When have you ever thought in your life?"

   
"Pack it in!" Frost pushed himself between the two men, forcing them apart. "I'm as much to blame as Morgan," he told Burton. "I was in charge so I'm even more bloody guilty. If you want to beat me to a pulp, son, fair enough, but let's find her first."

   
"Find her?" snarled Burton, still glaring daggers at Morgan. "Find her dead body, you mean?"

   
Frost poked a cigarette in his mouth and lit up, a delaying tactic to give him time to think. They hadn't the faintest idea where she was so where the hell did they start looking? All they had to go on was the minicab, a black Ford. He opened the door and shouted to Bill Wells: "I want as many cars as we can get to go out on the road and look for this Ford. The fake registration plates have probably been dumped by now, so let them stop any minicab, any vehicle in fact: car, van, articulated lorry, I don't care what colour or make, and search it. I want everyone in on this, off-duty men as well."

   
"I'll need authority," said Wells stubbornly. "Sod authority. I'll get the authority and if I can't get it, I'll carry the can."

   
"And you'll have to let Mr. Mullett know." Frost snatched up the phone. "I'm letting him know now. Just do what I bloody ask." As he waited for Mullett to answer he yelled for Burton and Morgan to phone all the minicab and taxi firms and find out if any of their drivers had noticed a maverick cab in the area and, if so, where it was heading. The ringing tone went on in his ear. "Come on, come on," he muttered. "It's only four o'clock in the morning, you can't be in bed yet." At last a disgruntled, still drowsy Divisional Commander answered the phone. It took some time for the import of what Frost was saying to sink in and when it did, Mullett was wide awake.

   "What are you trying to tell me?" Mullett's voice soared to a screech.

   
Frost pulled the phone away from his ear and let the sizzle of accusation and fury crackle round the incident room. When the noise stopped for a while, he tentatively returned the phone to his ear in case the superintendent was simply pausing for breath, but he seemed to have finished his initial tirade.

   
"Couldn't agree with you more, Super," said Frost. "A proper balls-up. I presume I have your full authority to do whatever is necessary to locate and rescue Detective Sergeant Maud?"

   
"How much is this going to cost?" shrilled Mullett.

   
"Cost?" echoed Frost incredulously. "What the hell does the cost matter? A police officer's life is at stake."

   
"I've got to get sanction from County and the first question they will ask is 'How much?' "

   
"£2,300," said Frost, plucking a figure from the air. "Might be less if we're lucky." And a bleeding sight more if we're not, he told himself.

   
"Right," said Mullett, seemingly content now that he had a figure. "Hold fire. I'll get back to you."

   
Frost hung up quickly. Sod holding fire. "All agreed," he told Wells. "I've got carte blanche to do whatever is necessary. Oh, and get someone to keep checking her flat. We'd look proper prats if we had the helicopters and the dogs out and she'd only popped out for some fish and chips."

   
But he knew she wouldn't be back. He knew the rapist had got her and his face creased with pain at the mental picture of Liz, naked, tied to a bed, while the sadistic bastard stubbed fags out all over her. Smoke from the cigarette in his mouth drifted up his nose. It tasted foul. He stubbed it out on the polished surface of the desk. Don't worry, we'll be following you every inch of the way, he had promised. God, he'd made some balls-ups in his time, but this . . .

   
Wells returned, only to be sent out again as Frost thought of something else. "Get on to the other Divisions. I want all their off-duty men standing by in case we have to do a house-to-house."

   
Wells hesitated. "Are you sure Mullett's agreed to this?"

   
Frost gave the sergeant his most reassuring and sincere smile. "When have I ever lied to you, Bill?" he asked.