open in Denton at this hour of the morning. Nothing else for it then. He spun the wheel and took a detour.
She hadn't been able to sleep and was in bed reading when she heard the car draw up outside. She picked up the bedside clock. Sixteen minutes past three in the morning. Footsteps up the path, then the ringing of her door bell. She slipped on her dressing-gown and cautiously made her way down the stairs.
A quick peek through the spy-hole and a deep sigh as she opened the door. A scruffy, apologetic-looking individual stood on the doorstep, shuffling his feet and grinning hopefully.
'Jack flaming Frost!'
'Hello, Shirl. Sorry I'm so late.'
'Late? Only thirty-six flaming hours late. You were supposed to be taking me out for dinner.'
He clapped a hand to his forehead. 'So I bloody was! Sorry, Shirl this missing kid…'
'You could have phoned. I was all dressed up, sitting, waiting, stomach rumbling…'
He hung his head in contrition. 'I'm truly sorry, Shirl. I've been on the go non-stop ever since that kid went missing. I had no sleep at all last night.'
She shook her head in mock sympathy. 'You poor old git. You'd better come in then.'
He shuffled in after her into the lounge and took off his coat. She switched on the electric fire with its flickering flame log effect. He felt warmer, happier, and perhaps a little less tired as he dropped down on the settee. 'Better late than never,' he murmured. 'I just had to come and see you.'
Her expression softened. She sat down on the settee beside him and snuggled in closer. 'Perhaps you're not such a rotten old sod after all.'
He silently counted up to ten, then nuzzled her soft, warm cheek. 'You wouldn't have a packet of fags on you by any chance?'
She jerked upright. 'You bastard!' she said.
The bed was hard and uncomfortable and as he lay there a thousand thoughts hurtled around his brain making sleep impossible. Wearily, he clicked on the bedside lamp and lit up one of the cigarettes from the packet Shirley had hurled at him and lay back, watching the smoke curl to the ceiling.
His mind was replaying the abortive visit to the caravan. There was something there, something that tried to jog his memory, but his thoughts just kept going endlessly round and round, getting him nowhere. He tried to switch to something else, but again his mind insisted on replaying the search… the stripped bunk beds with the thin mattresses, about as uncomfortable as the one he was lying on… the cupboards full of bedding… the kitchen… the rusty water belting out and soaking the carpet… At last tiredness began to envelop him and the bed suddenly became warm and comfortable and the outside cold and unfriendly. He stubbed out his cigarette and sank back, sinking down, down, down into a deep sleep, his brain fading on the picture of the caravan… the tap… the sodden carpet… He sat up with a start. The carpet! The bloody carpet… That's what his mind was scratching and nagging away at, trying to nudge him into action. The right clue for the wrong bloody case… Out of bed, and he was in the car within minutes and back at the station in a quarter of an hour. As he pushed open the door into the lobby the siren smell of frying bacon lured him up to the canteen where he was pleased to see Bill Wells and Burton sitting together, polishing off the standard fry-up breakfast before they finished their shift. He joined them, dumping his loaded tray on the empty chair.
Wells looked at his watch. Half-past five. 'What's the matter, Jack? Did she kick you out of bed?'
'She kicked me out before I got in,' said Frost, dipping his piece of bread into Wells's fried egg. He turned to Burton. 'I've got a job for you, son.'
'I'm just going home,' said Burton.
'No, you're not,' said Frost. 'You're on extended overtime.' A clatter of trays made him spin round. Jordan and Collier from the night shift, stoking up with food before going back to the Police House. He called them over. 'Job for you… overtime.'
'Mr. Mullett's got to authorize overtime, Jack,' protested Wells.
'Sod Mr. Mullett. It can't wait.' He dragged his chair back so he could include Jordan and Collier at the adjoining table in the conversation. 'Remember when you were dragging the canal for the kid all that junk we found and chucked back? I want some of it out again.'
'Not the dead goat?' said Jordan.
'No that roll of carpeting.'
'It'll never fit your lounge, Jack,' said Wells. 'And it will be stinking to high heaven by now.'
'Especially if that bag of offal has leaked over it,' added Jordan.
Frost ignored the wisecracks. 'Go and hire a rowing boat.'
'We need Mullett's authorization for that as well,' objected Wells.
'Or that of the senior officer, which is me,' replied Frost, 'so let's get cracking before he comes in and says no.'
It was still dark. Lights from the road bridge reflected off the oily black velvet of the canal and broke up into tiny shimmering dots as the oar blades cut through.
'I think we've got it,' called Burton to Frost who was standing on the towpath, watching. Collier stuck his pole down alongside Burton's and they heaved up a dripping bundle.
Frost's heart started to hammer. Not another bleeding body, he pleaded. If so, they can chuck the bugger back. The smell of decay seemed to confirm his worst fears but they had dredged up the bag of butcher's offal. 'Dump it,' yelled Frost. 'I've had breakfast.' They let it slither back into the depths where it belched evil-smelling bubbles.
'It was more to your left,' said Frost.
They followed his pointing finger and tried again. Half an hour later they found it, nowhere near where Frost had said. They had to remove the putrefying goat carcass to get to it, but managed to drag up into the boat a sodden bundle of folded carpeting, about four feet square, tied with string and stained with stinking black mud.
'Now what?' called Burton.
'Let's have a look at it.'
They rowed to the bank and heaved the squelchy bundle on to the towpath. It had been too near the goat and stunk to high heaven. Holding his breath, Frost bent over and teased out a corner of the carpet material so he could see the pattern. At first he was disappointed. It was far too dark, almost black, and the sodium lights from the bridge distorted the colour. He illuminated it with his torch and this time, he knew he was right. He straightened up and beckoned to Burton who was climbing from the rowing boat. 'Recognize it, son?'
Filthy, sodden red and blue carpeting. What was he on about? Then Burton frowned. A frown of puzzled recognition. Yes, he did recognize it. 'This is the carpet they laid at Bonley's?'
'Top of the class, my son. The special, exclusive pattern obtainable nowhere else.' His penknife slashed at the string. The bundle fell open and disgorged a flood of stinking water all over his shoes. 'Knickers!' The expletive would have been stronger, but his attention was snatched by a couple of large chunks of coloured paving slabs used to weigh the bundle down.
'They wanted it to sink. Brand spanking new carpeting worth about twenty quid a square metre.' He looked across at Jordan and Collier who were manhandling the rowing boat up to the towpath. 'Your luck's in, lads… another lovely job for you.' He prodded the bundle with his foot. 'Get this over to Forensic. If there's no-one on duty get someone in… sod the overtime bill. I want them to go over this with a tooth comb… stains, marks, dribble, jam, wee-wee or even bloodstains… Tell them it's urgent.'
Jordan regarded the waterlogged bale with a marked lack of enthusiasm. 'It's wringing wet, sir, and it will stink the car out… couldn't we get a van or something?'
'No,' said Frost. 'And when you've done that, another job for you. Go to the house where the kiddies were killed… take the bits of slab with you. Check if it's the same as their new patio and see if you can spot where in the garden it came from.' He yawned. A quick check on his watch. Quarter to seven. No point in trying to get any sleep now. 'I'm off to the station,' he announced.
'Shall we drop you off?' asked Jordan.
Frost backed away from the smelly carpet. 'No thanks. I'll go in Burton's car.'
Sixteen
