Milton sighed and shook his head in sad disbelief. 'Those poor kids. His wife must have been right round the bend.' He pulled a face at the howls from the dining-room. 'I often feel like wringing my own kids' necks, but I'd never actually do it.'
Frost gritted his teeth against the noise. 'If you feel like doing it now, Mr. Milton, don't let us stop you.' He consulted his notes. 'Grover told one of my officers that he and Phil Collard arrived at the store around eight to do the carpet and didn't leave until around ten to two in the morning. Is that correct?'
He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. 'Quite correct.'
'Any chance either of them could have left the building without you knowing?'
'No way. It's all electronically controlled. I'd have to operate the switch.'
'They were working on the top floor. Where were you?'
'Either in my cubicle by the back entrance, or doing my rounds. I have to cover every floor at half-hourly intervals and click a key into time locks.'
'While you were on your rounds, could they have got out?'
'Not without setting off the alarms when the door opened and they'd have to have the master key and that was with me all the time. If they wanted to go out, they only had to ask it's not a flaming prison.'
'And they didn't ask?'
'No.' Another yawn.
Frost accepted this gloomily. He was convinced Mark Grover had found a way to leave the store without anyone knowing, but he couldn't see how he could prove it. 'Thanks for your trouble, Mr. Milton. We'll let you get some sleep.'
At the door to the lounge he stopped. Why didn't Milton want to take them in there? What was he hiding? Stuff nicked from the store perhaps? He reached for the door handle. 'Is this the way out?' he asked innocently.
'No, — not in there,' called Milton, running forward, but he was too late. Frost was already insider
The strong aroma of expensive new wool filled the room, a smell Frost had noted earlier in Bonley's department store. Woollen carpeting. He switched on the light. And there it was, on the floor, red, blue and expensive, stretching from wall to wall. The pattern was very familiar. It was the design for Bonley's new restaurant, an exclusive design, specially made and imported for them.
'I spy,' said Frost, 'with my little eye, something that has been nicked.'
'An odd remnant that was left over,' spluttered Milton. 'It would only have gone to waste.'
Frost sat down on the settee and prodded the carpet's springiness with his foot. 'Tell me about it.'
'Someone must have made a mistake with the measurements because there was this great chunk of carpet left over… so me and the fitters had half each.'
'How did it manage to find its way from the store to here?'
Milton shuffled his feet and wouldn't meet Frost's eye. 'They dropped it in for me.'
'So Grover and Collard did leave the store that night?'
'Well yes. But not for long… hour or so at the most.'
'And you lied to us?'
'A white lie. I'm supposed to be the security guard. If Bonley's ever found out I was party to sneaking out a thousand quid's worth of top quality carpeting, I'd have been for the high jump.'
'You still might be for the flaming high jump. We're investigating a murder and you are making false statements to the police. Unless you want to get deeper into the mire than you already are, you'd better tell me everything… right from the start… and the bloody truth this time.'
'All right. They turned up just after eight, like I said, and they worked like the clappers didn't even stop for anything to eat. By midnight they were well on the way to finishing and they find there's a dirty great chunk of carpeting left over… worth around a thousand quid, so
Mark Grover reckoned. We made a deal. They'd lay it in my lounge for me and they'd keep the rest. Just before midnight I let them out. They dropped off my bit and took their own piece. They were back again around half-past one and finished off at the store… Yesterday afternoon the fat one Phil Collard called here to lay it for me. He stressed we should all keep our mouths shut about the other night, in case we got found out.'
Frost gnawed away at his thumb knuckle. 'How did they seem when they came back?'
'Same as always. I didn't pay them too much attention as I was due for my next round of clocking on. I could hear them working away up there and just before two they came down and went off home. You won't tell my firm, will you?'
Before Frost could reply, Burton was hammering at the front door. 'Control have radioed through. The red Honda Jordan and Simms have found it parked in Whitmore Avenue.'
As the car sped through the traffic, Frost brought Burton up to date regarding his talk with the security guard. 'So that's Mark Grover's alibi shot right up the fundamental orifice.'
'So he could have done it,' said Burton grudgingly, inching the car forward in anticipation of the traffic lights changing, 'but that doesn't prove that he did do it.'
'You're too bloody finicky,' grunted Frost. 'Mr. Cassidy won't like it but I'm having Grover and his fat mate in for more questioning.' They turned a corner and Frost pointed. 'There's the area car…'
PC Jordan, in Charlie Bravo, was waiting for them down the side street while PC Simms, a mac over his uniform, was in Whitmore Avenue keeping an eye on the Honda. 'Let's take a look,' said Frost.
He went with Jordan and cautiously peered round the corner. Whitmore Avenue was a broken-down terrace of three-storey houses, some of them with basements. Many of the buildings had been split up into flats, others, beyond repair, were boarded up and empty. The road was jam-packed with cars, mostly old bangers, but the nearly new red Honda, gleaming under the light of a nearby lamp post, screamed at them as the odd man out.
'About as inconspicuous as a topless tart in a monastery,' commented Frost.
Simms wandered down to join them. 'We're presuming the kidnapper is in one of the houses,' he told Frost, 'but we don't know which one. He's probably stuck it where there was a vacant space and not necessarily outside where he lives.'
'He may not even live in this street,' said Burton. 'He could have parked it well away from his own place.'
'No,' said Frost. 'A shiny new motor in this bloody neighbourhood. He'll park it where he can keep an eye on it. A fiver says he lives in one of these houses.'
They went back to the side street to await reinforcements. In a couple of minutes another car shuddered to a stop behind Frost's Ford and Liz Maud, accompanied by two other officers in plain clothes, got out. A burst from the radio. Another car with four more officers was on its way. Frost directed them to go round the block and wait at the opposite end of Whitmore Avenue. It might be over-kill, but he was taking no chances this time.
Back with Burton to take another look. There were some twenty three-storeyed houses on each side. 'Damn,' muttered Frost. 'We can't go knocking at bloody doors asking for the owner of the red Honda to come out. If he's got the kid holed up here, we could end up with a hostage situation.'
'So how do we get him out?' asked Burton.
Frost thought for a moment, then he walked over to a ramshackle waist-high brick wall that protected the basement area of a boarded-up property. The cement was crumbling and most of the bricks were loose. He worked a brick free and walked casually over to the red Honda. A quick look up and down the street, then with a hefty blow he smashed the brick down on the driver's window, shattering the glass.
Immediately the car alarm system screamed out and the car lights flashed on and off. Frost stuck his hand through the broken window and tried to reach the cassette player on the dash.
A shaft of light sliced across the street as an upstairs window shot up. A man leant out. 'Get away from my car, you bastard.' Frost ignored him, still reaching for the cassette player.
The head disappeared and a few seconds later the street door opened and the man burst out, charging across the road, his pony tail flying. 'Go, go, go!' yelled Frost into his radio, realizing even as he said it that he hadn't positioned his team properly.
The police thudded down from each end of the street. Half-way across the road, the man hesitated, spotted the stampede and turned to run back to the house.
'Shit!' snarled Frost. He hadn't made certain someone was near to cut off his escape. If the man got back inside and slammed the door they could be faced with the very hostage situation he had tried to avoid. He started
