'I thought we might go and ask him.'
She looked down at the mass of papers on her desk, most of them with Frost's scrawled, indecipherable and mainly fictitious figures, and decided anything was better than this. She reached for her coat. 'Why not?'
Frank Maltby, the owner of Denton Shopfitters, was not at home. His wife told them he was over at Bonley's department store supervising the counter fittings. Which is where they found him, a pugnacious little man with a loud voice, standing in the centre of acres of brand new red and blue carpeting which had been laid by Grover and Collard on the night the children were killed. Workmen on piece rates were hammering and sawing. Liz showed her warrant card while Frost was still digging down in his pocket amongst the cigarette ends for his.
Maltby scowled. 'Now what?' His face went angry and he yelled over Frost's shoulder at a workman wielding a saw. 'Mind what you're doing that's solid bloody mahogany you're ruining, not plywood.' Back to Frost. 'What is it now?'
Frost had to shout over the clatter of the hammering. 'Just checking. Are you sure you phoned Mark Grover just before midnight?'
'Of course I'm sure. I told the tart the lady — her!' He jabbed a thumb at Liz.
'Well,' yelled Frost, 'in spite of what you told the tart, the lady, her, we seem to have a problem.'
'And what's that?'
'The store switchboard shuts down at eight and all calls go to the answer phone
Maltby gave a smug smile. 'I didn't use the store's line. I called him on his mobile phone.'
'His mobile phone?' echoed Liz in dismay. 'I assumed you used the normal phone.'
'Then you assumed wrong, darling, didn't you?'
'You told me he was definitely at the store.'
'And so he was. Where else would he be?'
'Any bloody where he liked,' said Frost. 'He could have been having it away in bed with the tart, the lady, her, or he could have been back at home.'
'Well, he wasn't, smart-arse. He was here working.'
'And how can you be so bloody positive?'
'Because he bloody told me, that's why. Now if you'll excuse me, some of us have got work to do.'
'All right,' said Liz defensively as they walked back to the car. 'It no longer proves he was at the store, but that doesn't mean he wasn't. We've got two other people who confirm he was there.'
'You're too negative,' said Frost. 'He started off with three people supporting his alibi, and now there's only two. Let's go and see the night security guard.'
They heard the radio squawking away as they neared the car. It was Cassidy at his smuggest. 'Thought you'd like to know, inspector, I've got the case all tied up. Snell has confessed.'
At first Frost couldn't take it in and stared at the handset in disbelief. 'Confessed?'
'Coughed the lot the mother and the kids. Said it all happened in a haze he didn't know what came over him.' There was a long pause. Frost, so sure Snell didn't do it, so bloody sure, couldn't think of a thing to say. 'Are you still there?' asked Cassidy.
'Yes,' said Frost hastily. 'Sorry. Congratulations… good work.' He did his utmost to sound sincere, but knew he hadn't succeeded. A rustling over the speaker as someone else took the microphone. It was Mullett.
'Whatever you are doing, Frost, I want you here, now — no excuses.'
Frost switched off. 'The bugger's confessed,' he told Liz, still unable to believe it. 'Which rather tends to shoot my theory that the father did it right up the arse.'
She felt sorry for him. 'You spotted an inconsistency that no-one else did, inspector… even Mr. Cassidy. You checked it out.'
He flashed her a wry grin. 'For a tart, a woman, a what's it, you're not at all bad, sergeant. Ah well, it's bollock-chewing time, folks. Back to the ranch.'
Mullett was waiting for him and managed a quick jab with his finger at the chair just before Frost decided to sit anyway.
'Two things, Frost. The press have somehow got hold of the fact that you suspected Snell before the killings but did nothing about it. They're clamouring for a statement. Secondly, I've had Sir Richard Cordwell on the phone. May I take it you have not yet been in touch with him?'
'Not yet,' said Frost.
'Not yet?' echoed Mullett in a tone of exaggerated disbelief. 'You're telling me that you haven't even phoned to ask if, by some remote chance after last night's fiasco, the kidnapper had kept his side of the bargain?'
'I'm sure Sir Richard would have told us if he had,' replied Frost.
'Pathetic!' snapped Mullett.
Frost nodded wryly. This time Hornrim Harry was right.
'You will not, I am sure,' continued Mullett, 'be surprised to learn that there has been no such contact. Cordwell is convinced it is because of your clumsy intervention after promising to stay out of it.' He leant forward. 'You assured me nothing could go wrong. You gave me a categorical undertaking.'
Frost did a mental playback of his conversations with the superintendent and was damn sure he had given no such assurance.
Mullett removed his glasses and polished them sadly. 'I can't save you from the wolves this time, inspector.' He oozed insincerity.
When have you ever? thought Frost.
'Now that he's laid out the money, Cordwell wants his pound of flesh. He was hoping to be feted as the saviour who paid the ransom and saved the child, but now that is no longer possible, he is settling for the benefactor whose excellent intentions were thwarted by police bungling. He has called a press conference for ten o'clock to tell everyone about the fiasco.'
'There was no fiasco last night,' said Frost. 'We didn't show ourselves until long after the kidnapper had left with the money. The fact that the old boy Finch turned up on the scene with his fleabag of a dog had nothing at all to do with us.'
A thin wintery smile from Mullett. 'I imagine Sir Richard will tell the story slightly differently. But hear this, Frost,' and he jabbed his finger at the inspector. 'You are not dragging me down into the mire of your foul-ups.' He waved a sheet of paper filled with his neat handwriting. 'I am already drafting my report to the Chief Constable.'
Frost nodded curtly as he stood up. 'Don't take too much of the blame on yourself, sir, just to get me out of trouble… and don't overpraise me you know how embarrassed I get.'
Mullett shrugged as he pulled the cap from his Parker fountain pen. He would let it go. With luck, the inspector wouldn't be with Denton Division much longer.
In the outer office the clatter of the typewriter suddenly started up as Ida Smith, Mullett's devoted private secretary, quickly returned to her typing after straining her ears to hear the music of her boss giving Frost a dressing down. She was loyal to Mullett and if he didn't like the inspector, then neither did she. In any case, the man was uncouth. That filthy seaside postcard! And she certainly wasn't bending down anywhere within jabbing range of that stubby finger. If it wasn't so embarrassing she would have put in an official complaint. She gave a malevolent smirk as Frost ambled past her. To her surprise he stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. 'It's good to know I've got at least one friend in this place, Ida,' he said, giving her a little squeeze.
Like her boss, it took her a little time to recognize sarcasm. She returned to her typing, hammering the keys as if they were nails to be driven into Frost's coffin.
Sergeant Johnnie Johnson waylaid him as he was on his way to his office. 'Jack guess who's here to see you?'
Frost furrowed his brow as if giving this serious consideration. 'Not Princess Di again I told her never to bother me at work.'
'No.'
'Then I give up.' He was in no mood for guessing games.
'Tommy Dunn. He wants to see you.'
'Well, I don't want to see him. He's dropped me right in it thanks to his bloody sticky fingers.'
'He says it's urgent,' insisted Johnnie, trotting behind him into the office.
Frost dropped into his chair, flicked through his in-tray and weeded out the two latest memos from Mullett,
