London dailies Supermarket Chief To The Rescue, you know the sort of thing. And get me some television interviews me and the boy.' He dismissed Roberts then turned back to Frost. 'If you give a press conference you can quote me as saying that to save the boy I'm giving the police my unstinted, wholehearted co-operation.'
'You're too good for this world,' said Frost. 'Can you get the money together in time?'
'No problem.'
'How soon can you get it over to us?'
Cordwell frowned. 'Why should I let you have it?'
'We've got to mark the notes and record as many of the numbers as we can. We also need to put a small radio transmitter inside the case.'
'No!' Mullett winced as Cordwell's fist thumped down on his desk top making the silver cigar case rattle. 'The object of the exercise is to save the kid, so no tricks, no marked notes and no transmitters.' He reached over and clicked on the intercom again. 'Roberts! You can add this to the press release. 'The police wanted the notes to be marked, but supermarket chief, Sir Richard Cord well, said no. Even though the ransom money is being paid by Sir Richard, his first and only consideration is for the safe return of the boy.' He clicked Roberts off in mid- acknowledgement.
'Now, listen to me began Frost.
'No!' snapped Cordwell. 'You listen to me. I'm not doing this for the love of humanity. This bastard has grabbed a kid and is on my back for the money. He thinks he's blackmailing me, but he's not I'm doing this of my own volition, because it suits me to do so.'
'Hardly,' smirked Mullett. 'What would the public say if you refused?'
'Sod the public. They wouldn't desert Savalot. Knock tuppence off a tin of baked beans and they'd be fighting to come in whether the kid's dead or not. I don't usually give in to blackmail, but I can get some publicity out of this. For a lousy two hundred and fifty thousand quid I can get a million quid's worth of publicity and that's the sort of bargain I like. So you either do it my way, or I'm out!'
'All right,' said Frost reluctantly. 'We do it your way.'
'No police involvement in any shape or form until the kid is safely returned?'
'No police involvement,' agreed Frost.
'Do I have your word?'
'You have my word.'
Cordwell jabbed a stubby finger at Frost. 'Cross me and I'll crucify you do you read me, buster?'
Frost put on his hurt look. 'I've given you my word,' he said.
They were curtly dismissed and ushered out to the car by the secretary. As Frost settled himself down in the seat, Mullett turned to him angrily. 'You had no business giving him your word, Frost.'
'Don't worry, super,' said Frost, 'I have no intention of keeping it.'
Mullett's eyebrows soared. 'What?'
Frost gave the same sort of sweet smile that Cordwell had given him. 'No-one tells me what to do,' he said. As the black gates closed behind them, he dug down in his pocket and produced three cigars. He stuck one in his mouth and offered the others to Mullett and Burton.
Mullett hesitated, but they were excellent cigars, probably costing something like 9 each. He accepted a light from Frost and inhaled with deep satisfaction. Soon the interior of the Ford was hazy blue and redolent with the rich Havana aroma. He thought wryly of the smell in his own car from that wretched woman last night. He took another drag and beamed with a glow of well-being. There was something about a good cigar… Maybe it wasn't Frost's fault. Perhaps, at times, he was too hard on the man. He took the cigar from his mouth and contemplated the glowing end. 'An excellent smoke, Frost. Where did you get them?'
'I pinched them from Cordwell's box when he wasn't looking,' said Frost.
Nine
When Frost got back to his office he nearly tripped over the fur coats the insurance assessor had dropped on the floor. Mullett was right, the office did stink. He opened the window a fraction to let in some fresh air, while he made a few phone calls. Liz was still attending the postmortems where, no doubt, Drysdale was being his usual thorough self with all three tiny bodies. Bill Wells confirmed there was still no sign of the missing mother. Frost drummed the desk in thought had he called off the dragging of the canal too soon?
The jewellery was still on his desk. He'd have to get Margie Stanfield down for a formal identification of her property and the sooner she took back her skunk-smelling furs, the better. Margie! She must be Stanfield's second wife. He seemed to remember an entirely different woman when he was at the house all those years ago for the arson case.
He stared at the jewellery. Damn. This phoney abduction case was irritating him. He wanted to get it out of the way, but he couldn't wait for Liz to come back from her autopsy treat so he collared Burton from the incident room.
'Where are we going?' asked the DC, sliding behind the steering wheel.
'Bennington's Bank,' Frost told him. 'I want to take a look at their security video for when Stanfield was drawing out all that cash.' The car slowed at traffic lights. 'How are you getting on with Sergeant Liz?'
'She tore me off a strip today,' said Burton, moving forward as the lights changed. 'I put the wrong date down on a report.' He grinned. 'I think I'm starting to fancy her.'
'She wouldn't be a bad looker if she tar ted herself up,' mused Frost. 'Reminds me of those old Hollywood films where the heroine is a schoolmistress with no make-up, thick glasses, her hair in a bun and a flat chest. When she has her first kiss from the hero, she takes off her glasses, lets her hair down and her tits swell up to twice their previous size.' He started unbuckling his seat belt as the bank loomed into view. 'The same thing could happen to our Liz.'
Burton grinned again as he turned the car into the 'Staff Only' car-park behind the bank. 'I wouldn't mind being the bloke who makes it happen.'
The bank manager brought in the videotape and fed it into the player for them. 'I'm rather busy, so I'll leave you to it, inspector.'
'Yes, you go and foreclose on some poor sod,' answered Frost. 'We'll manage.' He pressed the play button.
On the monitor a black and white picture of the customer area of the bank. It was a minute to opening time so no customers. A running clock superimposed on the corner of the picture showed the seconds zipping on to 9.30 a.m. A cashier walked across the customer area, checked the time with the wall clock, then opened the doors. He was shoved to one side as an impatient Stanfield, barging his way through other customers, managed to reach the cashier's window before anyone else. He was carrying a large briefcase.
It was a wide angle shot taken from behind the counters. Other customers went to different cashiers, but the two detectives kept their eyes on Stanfield who pushed across a withdrawal slip, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter as the cashier read it through. He snapped some angry remark and then moved to the end of the counter. The cashier came out and led Stanfield to the assistant manager's office and out of camera range. 'He's waiting in there while they're getting the money out of the vaults,' explained Frost.
More people came into the bank. Queues shuffled forward, cashing cheques or paying in money.
'What are we looking for?' asked Burton.
'I haven't the faintest bloody idea,' admitted Frost.
Ten more minutes of watching people come and go and Frost's attention was starting to wander. He began to read a confidential letter on the manager's desk. 'There he is!' said Burton. He was all attention again.
Stanfield moved back into the picture. The briefcase bulged and seemed heavier. He snarled at someone who dared to get in his path as he barged his way through the crowded customer area. The doors closed behind him and he was gone.
Frost let the tape run for a couple of minutes, then fished out his cigarette packet. 'There's something there, son, something screaming at me… but I don't know what it is.' He wound the tape back to the start and played it through again, only half watching as he dribbled smoke from his nose. Suddenly, he stiffened. 'Yes I do!' His finger
