Winter Frost

Frost felt the slightest flicker of doubt as to Weaver's guilt, but his gut feeling shook this off. The sod was as guilty as sin. He drove through the red light area, realizing that until they found the girl, they didn't have the resources to do much, if anything, about the serial killer. Sod Mullett and his generosity in giving away half the bloody station staff to County.

Sergeant Bill Wells slammed shut the door to Weaver's cell then chalked the time on the small blackboard outside. 'You can't hold him much longer without charging him, Jack,' he told Frost.

Frost nodded gloomily. 'We need a body. I can't charge him with murder unless we find the kid.' He followed Wells back to the front desk where the internal phone was ringing. Wells answered it. 'Mr Mullett is getting edgy at the build-up of overtime, Jack. Wants an itemized breakdown of the possible total sum involved on a day by day basis.'

'I'll have a bleeding breakdown if he doesn't get off my back,' said Frost, edging towards the door. 'Tell him I've just gone out, and I may be some little time.' The outside phone rang. He waited as Wells answered it in case it was one of the search teams.

'It's that old boy who was injured in the armed raid, Jack. Says he's received some money in the post.. reckons it's from the bloke who shot him.'

'Right,' said Frost, glad of a legitimate excuse to go out. 'I might not be back until after Mr Mullett's gone home…'

The old boy, Herbert Daniels, his leg heavily bandaged and reeking of hospital antiseptic, opened the front door as far as the security chain would permit and stared at Frost's warrant card. 'You're not the woman policeman.'

'You're too bleeding observant,' said Frost. 'Can I come in?'

He followed Daniels into a tiny living-room where a huge coal fire roared away. The room was like a tropical greenhouse and Frost was soon unwinding his scarf and shucking off his mac. He pulled a chair further away from the fire and sat down. 'Understand you've had some money, Mr Daniels?'

Daniels handed Frost a padded envelope. 'Came yesterday morning.' Inside was a wad of used banknotes, some speckled with white paint. 'Five hundred quid in there,' Daniels told him. 'I counted it — and there's a message.'

A folded sheet of paper with handwritten block capitals read: 'SORRY. WE DIDN'T MEAN ANYONE TO GET HURT.'

'Sorry!' snorted Daniels. 'They shoot your bloody leg off and say sorry… hanging and bleeding flogging, that's what they want.'

'But preferably not in that order,' murmured Frost. He was studying the address on the envelope, also handwritten in capitals, 'HERBERT GEORGE DANIELS, 2 CLOSE COURT, DENTON'. He looked across at the old boy who was carefully arranging his injured leg on a stool. 'How long have you lived in Denton, Mr Daniels?'

'Just over a month. Came here from Leeds when my wife died. I wish I hadn't now — nutcases with bloody guns. Wouldn't have happened in my day — we had the death penalty then.'

'Do you have any friends in Demon?'

'Years ago, but they're all dead now.'

'Relatives?'

'My son's in Australia, there's no-one else.'

'I see.' Frost chewed on his knuckle. 'Have you joined any organizations or clubs since you've been in Demon?'

'The Denton Senior Citizens' Club. I go there a couple of days a week for a game of draughts and me dinner.'

'Do you know anyone there?'

'An old boy called Maggs, that's all. I play draughts with him… Why?'

Frost tapped the envelope. 'Whoever sent this money knew your middle name and your address. You're not yet in the phone book or on the voting register, so how did they get it?'

Daniels shrugged. 'I expect they got it from somewhere.'

'Yes, I expect they did,' said Frost. 'I hadn't thought of that.' His trouser legs were scorching from the heat of the fire so he moved the chair even further back, then fumbled for a cigarette, but decided against it. Only two left in the packet and the old sod might expect to be offered one. 'You haven't joined any other clubs, have you — clubs you'd rather not talk about?'

The old man scowled at him angrily. 'What the hell do you mean?'

'Strip clubs… blue film clubs?'

'That's a flaming insult.'

'Whoever sent the money must have got your full name and address from somewhere, Mr Daniels, and a strip club would be the sort of place they might frequent.'

'Well, it ain't the bloody place I frequent.' Daniels couldn't tell Frost any more about the gunman than the brief description he had already given, so the inspector took his leave.

After the sauna bath atmosphere of the old man's room, the freezing cold air outside hit him like a plunge in icy water. He hurried to the car and tried unsuccessfully to get the heater to work. The interior still held the smell of stale spirits and vomit after his previous night's escapade with Morgan but there was no way he was going to open the window to let fresh air in. He wound his scarf tighter and was half-way back to the station when he stopped. A thought had struck him. He wondered if the other old boy — the one who was shot and had his car pinched — had also received money from the robbers. He was keeping quiet about it if he had. He radioed the station for the name and address. 'And get someone to check the membership lists of all the strip clubs and so on to see if Daniels is on them.' The old boy may have denied it, but best to make certain. He swung the car round and made for the other shotgun victim's house.

Mrs Redwood, thin and frail and in her seventies, peered nervously at the warrant card.

'Inspector Frost? Where's that nice young lady?'

'She's off sick. Just a quickie. Have you had any money sent to you in the post?'

She blinked. 'Money? No — why?'

'The gentleman who was shot had some money sent to him by the gunman.'

'Well, they didn't send us any and we wouldn't have kept it if they did. It wasn't their money, it was stolen.'

'If you do receive anything, please let us know.

How's your husband?'

'In pain, but recovering. Did you want to see him?' 'No thanks,' said Frost hurriedly. He'd had enough of old boys with their legs bandaged for one day.

PC Collier was waiting for him in his office. He had drawn a blank with the various Denton clubs he had phoned. Frost plonked in the chair and scratched his chin. 'So where did they get his name and address from?'

'The milkman? The newsagent?' suggested Collier. A firm headshake from Frost. 'The milkman or the newsagent don't bother taking down your middle name.' He drummed his fingers on the desk then pulled the note sent to Daniels from his pocket and read it aloud. ' "We didn't mean anyone to get hurt." It doesn't add up.'

'I don't follow,' said Collier.

'They say they didn't mean anyone to get hurt, yet they shoot the other old sod in the legs and pinch his car. They meant to hurt him all right, but didn't send him any money.'

'Probably don't know his address,' said Collier. 'If they found Daniels' address, they could find his bloody address.' Frost stared up at the ceiling. Something was nagging away at the back of his brain… He dug deeply into his memory, then snapped his fingers. 'Cordwell — the bloke who owns the mini-mart, didn't he prosecute some old age pensioner recently — caught her shoplifting? There was a stink about it in the paper.'

'That's right,' nodded Collier. 'Old dear got fined Ј200… Not her first offence.'

'I think her name was Maggs, son. Check it for me. It's important.'

As he waited for Collier, he rummaged through his in-tray, discarding all memos he didn't have time or the patience to deal with — mostly memos from Mullett starting with 'May I remind you…'or 'When may I expect…?' That chore done, he stared out of the window. Barely three o'clock and already starting to get dark with a thick mist descending again. The search parties wouldn't be able to work for much longer. Had Hanlon searched the hospital grounds again yet? He looked up as Collier returned. 'You're right, Inspector. Mrs Ruby Maggs.'