'Never mind,' said Frost. 'It's not entirely your fault.' He pinched the scar on his face as he thought things over. 'Someone get on the phone to Sandy Lane at the Denton Echo. I want that letter. He's not to open it or play the cassette he's to bring it straight over here.'
'Already done,' said Cassidy. 'He should be on his way over now.'
Frost tapped the matchbox. 'Have we confirmed that this is Bobby Kirby's finger and not the dead boy's… or even some other boy we don't know about yet?'
'I've sent someone over to the mother's house to get prints from Bobby's room,' said Harding. 'We're also checking with the prints of the dead boy in the morgue.'
'For Pete's sake don't tell the mother about the ransom demand,' said Frost.
'Of course not,' said Harding.
Frost spun his chair round and looked at the wall map which charted the progress of the search parties. 'Call off the search.'
'We haven't checked this is the boy's finger yet,' protested Cassidy. 'It could be some medical student's hoax.'
'A hoax? We should be so bloody lucky,' said Frost. 'It's genuine, I promise you.' He waved a finger at Arthur Hanlon. 'Call it off, Arthur.' Back to Cassidy. 'What about the letter he's sent to Sir Richard Cordwell?'
'I've been on to Savalot's main office. They're going through all their post now. I've also spoken to his private secretary. She's going through the personal mail.'
The internal phone buzzed. Sandy Lane from the Denton Echo was here.
Bill Wells ushered him in. Lane was carrying a padded envelope, identical to the one in front of Frost. He handed it over. It had been opened.
'We asked you not to open it,' said Cassidy.
'I didn't get the message until I'd just slit the flap,' lied Sandy.
'Did it photostat all right?' Frost asked.
'Perfectly,' grinned the reporter. The postmark was the same. The envelope was addressed to 'The Chief Crime Reporter, Denton Echo'.
'Chief Crime Reporter?' queried Frost.
'That's me, Jack Chief Crime Reporter, Chief Sports Reporter, Jumble Sales and Church Fetes.'
'I expect your bleeding fingerprints are all over it,' said Frost, letting Harding extract the contents and slip them into transparent folders. There were two letters and a cassette tape. The first letter read:
To The Chief Crime Reporter.
I have the boy Bobby Kirby. The police will confirm this. I require 250,000 from Sir Richard Cordwell, Managing Director of Savalot supermarkets. His company can well afford this sum. If he refuses to pay, the boy will die and I am sure it will make an interesting story for your newspaper.
Let the police have the tape after you have listened to it. Copy of my letter to the police enclosed.
'I suppose you've played the tape as well?' said Frost.
'I might have accidentally listened to it,' affirmed Sandy.
Burton took the tape and poked it into a cassette player. Everyone quietened down.
For a second or so, nothing, just the hiss of raw tape and the rumble of the recorder motor, then a boy's voice. There were lots of pauses and clicks. The recorder had been switched on and off a few times while the man obviously told the boy what to say. Bobby was clearly distressed and it made harrowing listening.
'My name is Bobby Kirby. I'm tied up and blindfolded. The man says if you do what he tells you, he will let me go home. He says you know what will happen if you don't do what he says. I want to go home. Please… I want to go home…' A click and the sound of raw tape without the recorder motor noise. Burton switched the machine off.
Harding leant across and fast-forwarded the rest of the tape on cue and review. There was nothing else on it. He removed the cassette and carefully examined it. 'I think that was the first recording on a brand-new tape, but I'll get it checked in case we can pick anything else up.'
'Any idea what sort of machine it was recorded on?' asked Cassidy.
'Judging by the sound quality certainly not a state of the art hi-fi. I'd guess at a cheap portable model with a built-in microphone that's why it's picking up the sound of the motor.'
'Are they rare?' asked Frost.
'There's millions of them,' said Harding.
'What about the cassette? Could we trace the shop where he bought it?'
Again Harding shook his head. 'One of the commonest types… sold in their thousands. I'll replay it back at the lab and boost up the background. It might give us a clue as to where it was recorded.'
'Get a copy made,' said Cassidy, 'and take it to the mother see if she can identify the voice.'
'No!' said Frost. 'Why upset the poor cow? If the fingerprint matches, we'll know it's genuine.'
Cassidy scowled. He resented being contradicted in front of everyone. He resented even more the fact that Frost was right on this occasion.
'What's this about the boy losing another finger?' asked Sandy.
Frost filled him in. 'But I don't want it reported. We've got to keep that up our sleeve. In fact, I don't want any of this reported until we've got the boy back safe.'
'Bloody hell, Jack,' the reporter protested, 'it's the biggest scoop I've ever had. I could make a bomb selling it to the London papers.'
'It'll still be a scoop when we get the boy back. You can have it as an exclusive.'
Sandy sighed. 'All right. I'll make do with that.'
'How do you know you can trust him?' asked Cassidy when Lane had left.
'I can trust him,' said Frost firmly. He read through the letters again. 'The bastard's on to a winner here. Kidnap someone anyone. It doesn't matter if the parents have got any money because you then blackmail some large corporation into coughing up the cash, knowing the public will think them shit if they refuse and let the kid die.' He groaned inwardly as Mullett came bustling in. He could do without another dose of Horn-rim Harry this morning.
'I've just come from your office, Frost,' said Mullett. 'There's a terrible smell in there.'
'You don't have to apologize, super,' said Frost, pretending to misunderstand. 'We all have the odd accident.' Mullett glared and Frost snapped his fingers. 'Oh sorry. You mean the stuff we fished from the canal. It's the loot from the Stanfield robbery. I'm getting the insurance assessor over to have a look at it.'
'I understand there's been a ransom demand?' said Mullett, trying not to show his irritation at the suppressed giggles from some of the others in the room.
Frost pushed the letter across, then showed Mullett the contents of the matchbox. Mullett's face creased with concern which grew as he listened to the tape. He took his glasses off and pinched his nose. 'I do hope Savalot agree to co-operate.'
'They'll co-operate,' said Frost. 'They daren't risk the bad publicity.'
'Bad publicity?'
'When the papers print the story that they've refused to come up with money they can well afford and the kid dies.'
'It's blackmail,' said Mullett.
'All ransom demands are blackmail,' retorted Frost.
Burton, the phone pressed to his ear, called him over. 'Savalot. Sir Richard Cordwell's private secretary. She's been through all his private post nothing. The main office has opened up all the general mail and there's nothing there either.'
'It's got to be!' frowned Frost. 'It's bloody well got to be.' He scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to think… 'Wait a minute. He must have sent it to Cordwell's house. Get the number.'
The number was ex-directory which the secretary refused to pass on, but she did condescend to phone the house herself and was back within two minutes. The letter, marked 'Strictly Personal and Confidential', was waiting for Cordwell who was still in bed.
'Tell him not to touch it we're on our way over,' said Frost. She started to suggest he made an appointment, but Frost had slammed the phone down.
The internal phone rang. 'There's a Mr. Hicks here to see you,' said Bill Wells.
