Frost staggered down to the phone and yelled to the police motor cyclist who was banging at the front door that he would be there in a minute.
Bill Wells on the phone. He sounded grim. 'Nasty one for you, Jack. Three kids killed in their cots and the mother's gone missing.'
Frost slumped down in the chair by the phone. 'How old were the kids?'
'The eldest was three, the youngest a few months.'
'Bloody hell,' said Frost. 'Bloody, bloody hell.'
Most of the houses now had lights showing and curtains were twitching back as curious neighbours watched the comings and goings. A few, wearing dressing-gowns, were clustered at front gates, talking in hushed, disbelieving voices and shaking their heads sadly. One neighbour who ventured across the road was abruptly turned back by the police. 'Please keep to the other side, madam. Nothing to see here.'
The line of vehicles parked opposite the bungalow were filled with duffle-coated reporters and photographers with flashy Japanese cameras fitted with enormous telescopic lenses. Standing apart from the representatives of the big London dailies was Sandy Lane, Chief Reporter of the Denton Echo, his ears timed to what the big boys were saying, but hoping to use his local knowledge to talk to the people who mattered. This was a big story which he could sell to London with a by-line, although it would be too late for the morning editions.
The man in the BBC Television van, an early arrival on the scene and able to park almost directly opposite the murder house, drained his cup of thermos coffee and mounted his video camera on his shoulder to film the arrival of Detective Inspector Frost. He panned the approach of the Ford as it coughed exhaust and jerked to a halt behind the police cars. He focused sharply on the figure at the wheel wearing a none too clean mac with a maroon scarf, then zoomed in to show him climbing wearily out and surveying the murder house which had lights blazing from every room.
Outside the front door Mike Packer, the young PC who had found the body of eight-year-old Dean Anderson, moved to one side to let the inspector pass. 'Sergeant Hanlon is inside, sir.'
Frost looked back at the knots of people outside the other houses. 'Don't waste time here, son. Go and knock on doors… talk to people … Most of the street are up anyway. It'll save time in the morning.' Relieved to be doing something useful, Packer hurried off.
The duty police doctor, anxious to get away, was waiting for him in the hall which had its grey carpeting covered with plastic sheeting. From a far door came the heart-rending moan of a man in the depths of despair. 'The father,' explained the doctor. 'He's in shock. I've given him a mild sedative but he needs to go to hospital. The ambulance should be here shortly.'
'Can I talk to him?'
'I don't advise it. He'll be out cold soon, anyway.'
Frost nodded as if he accepted this, but he intended to question the father as soon as the doctor had departed. The children?'
'Asphyxiated, probably by a pillow being held over their faces. They've been dead two to three hours. You'll need a pathologist.'
'Drysdale's on his way,' said Frost.
The doctor snatched his bag and made for the door. 'Then you can manage without me.' Like Frost, he was not over-fond of the Home Office Pathologist.
Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon emerged from the door where all the wailing was coming from. Usually perky whatever the circumstances, he looked shattered. 'It's a mess, Jack. Three little kids dead and the mother's gone missing.'
Frost rested against the wall and fished out his cigarettes. He hated this type of case. 'She killed the kids and did a runner? I wonder what drove the poor bitch to do that. We're looking for her, I hope?'
'Yes,' said Hanlon. 'I've circulated her description.'
Frost rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation. The pervasive breath of death made the house seem very cold. Outside with that saw-edged wind it was colder. 'How was she dressed? Was she wearing a coat?'
'No idea, Jack. Haven't been able to find anyone who saw her leave yet.'
A row of clothes were hanging neatly from hooks in the hall: a man's raincoat and anorak, lots of brightly coloured children's coats and hats and, at the far end, a woman's thick red woollen coat with chunky black buttons. Frost patted the pockets and took out a suede leather purse which contained about 19. 'I reckon this is the coat she would have worn, Arthur. So it looks like no coat and no money probably just wearing a dress. If we don't find her soon, the poor cow will freeze to death. Has she got any friends, or relatives living nearby, she might have gone to?'
Hanlon shrugged helplessly. 'We can't get any sense from the husband and none of the neighbours have come up with anything yet, except to say she kept herself to herself and she loved the kids.'
'Never mind,' said Frost. Tdoubt if she's gone to anyone. I can't see her saying, 'Can you put me up for a few days, I've done in the kids.'
'I'll show you the bodies,' said Hanlon
Frost took another deep drag at his cigarette. 'There's no hurry they're not going anywhere.' He coughed as the smoke irritated his lungs. 'Fill me in on the facts, first.'
'Married couple. Mark Grover, aged twenty-six '
'He's the one making that bleeding row?'
Hanlon nodded. 'The father he found them. The missing wife is Nancy Grover, aged twenty-one. They had three kids, two boys and a girl, the eldest is three, the youngest that's the girl eleven months. Difficult to get details, but from what I can piece together, the husband is a self-employed carpet fitter. He had to go out at eight last night on a rush job.'
'Funny bleeding time to lay carpets?'
'That's what I thought. Anyway, he came home just after two this morning and found the front door wide open. The back door was open as well. He dashed to the kids' room…' Hanlon straightened up. 'I'll show you what he found.'
Frost took one last, long drag at his cigarette and pitched it out into the street. 'Let's go.'
Hanlon opened the nearest door, which was painted a nursery blue. Frost followed him into the small children's bedroom with its nursery wallpaper and heavy duty orange and brown carpeting, also covered with plastic sheeting. It held two single beds and a cot. Frost found himself tiptoeing across and holding his breath as if afraid to wake the tiny children lying in them. At the nearest bed he touched the cold, slightly swollen, face of a boy who could not have been more than three. He was lying on top of the bedclothes and wore white, knitted cotton pyjamas with Dennis the Menace figures printed on them.
'His name was Dennis,' said Hanlon in a soft voice, 'aged three.'
'Was he found like this on top of the bedclothes?'
'No, Jack. When we arrived the father was cradling the dead kid in his arms. We had a job getting the boy away from him. We put him back here.'
Frost nodded. The room had a lingering smell of Johnson's baby powder which reminded him of the little Chinese nurse. God, was that only last night?
They moved across to the other bed, by the window. Another boy, fair-haired and slightly chubbier than his brother. His eyes were wide open and there were small dots of blood in his ears and nose. The bedclothes were drawn up to his chin.
'Jimmy, aged two,' murmured Hanlon.
Frost shuddered and shook his head. 'Poor little bleeder!'
A crumpled pillow lay on top of the bedclothes at the foot of the bed. There was a slight discoloration in the centre. It had been used to smother the three children.
The sound of a car pulling up outside. Frost looked through the window to see if it was the pathologist, but it was a black Vauxhall which he didn't instantly recognize. He turned back and went over to the cot.
Sandy Lane, stamping his frozen feet on the pavement, looked up as a black Vauxhall pulled in behind Frost's car. The man who got out and scowled at the press looked familiar. Cassidy! Detective Sergeant Cassidy who had been transferred from Denton some four years back after his young daughter was killed in a hit and run accident. So what was he doing back here? Sandy made a mental note to ask around.
