He sat in the incident room smoking the cigarettes Shirley had flung at him and waiting for Forensic to come back to him with their report on the carpeting. They were taking their flaming time. He reached for the phone, but hesitated. They had given him a right mouthful the last time he rang them 'We're going as fast as we can and we'd go a damn sight faster if we didn't have to keep answering these stupid phone calls every five minutes. Don't call us we'll call you.'
A rattle of buckets from outside. The cleaners had arrived. Through the grimy windows dawn was giving the sky an orange glow to start off another cold day. He extended his arms and yawned, a long drawn out yawn, almost hurting his mouth as it stretched open. He felt sticky and grubby. His eyelids were scratching his eyes. He was so damn tired. If he hadn't asked Shirley for those fags he would be tucked up alongside her, warm and happy, not sitting all on his own in this cheerless incident room. He raised his wrist and tried to focus on his watch. Just gone seven. Mullett would be here in a couple of hours, all clean shaven and gleaming, ready to start the day off with a moan about the boat being used and the overtime agreed without his authority. And he'd moan even more if there were nothing to show for it. He shook his head and looked pleadingly at the phone. Come on, Forensic. Do your bloody stuff.
As he poked another one of Shirley's cigarettes into his mouth, his nose wrinkled. He couldn't get rid of the smell of that flaming goat which was almost as bad as one of Drysdale's choicest autopsies. Even the cigarettes tasted of it, but he persevered.
Bill Wells brought in the local paper. 'Thought you'd like to see this, Jack.' A large photograph of Bobby Kirby's tear-stained mother took up most of the front page, with an insert of Bobby. Above it, the caption read 'Police Dragging Heels In Search For Little Bobby Claims Weeping Mother'. Further down a sub-heading read 'Millionaire Supermarket Chief Offers Reward For Boy's Return'. A publicity photograph of a grinning Sir Richard Cordwell headed the story that he was offering a reward of 10,000 for information leading to the return of the boy. 'Thanks,' grunted Frost, consigning it to the rubbish bin. 'I needed cheering up.' He turned his attention back to the phone. 'Ring, you sod, ring… I haven't got all day.' As if answering his plea, the phone gave a throat-clearing cough. He snatched it up even before it rang properly, but it wasn't Forensic. Jordan reporting that he and Collier had searched the Grovers' garden and had found a heap of broken patio slabs, a couple of which matched those used to weigh down the carpet. 'You did say we were on official overtime?' asked Jordan, sounding worried. 'Yes, yes,' Frost assured him. He thanked them and told them to go to bed. Again he yawned and wished someone would tell him to go to bed.
He banged the phone down, almost jumping from his seat as the sudden, immediate ringing caught him off guard. This time it was Forensic.
'Bloodstains,' reported Harding cheerfully. 'Quite a lot of blood.'
Suddenly the cigarette tasted fine. 'I'm all ears.'
'Blood group A.'
He exhaled a stream of smoke in a long sigh of relief. 'The same as the dead mother! Don't let anyone call you a load of useless twats again.'
'The overtime has been authorized on this?' queried Harding. 'Only I've had to get a couple of men in.'
'Of course it is,' he said, wondering how the hell he was going to get Mullett to agree. He picked up a pencil and practised writing Mullett's signature on a scrap of paper. A little judicious forgery might be required. Then he hurled the pencil up in the air with a whoop of delight. He didn't give a damn if Mullett moaned about the overtime, or not. It had paid off. Blood, the same group as Nancy Grover, on the carpet retrieved from the canal. He looked again through the window at the lightening sky. It wasn't going to be such a lousy day after all, although Mark Grover wasn't going to enjoy it.
He no longer felt tired, but wished there was someone with whom he could share his triumph. He grinned delightedly as Burton came in with two steaming mugs of tea. 'You're early, my son. I'm afraid your lady love isn't in yet.'
Burton smiled and placed one of the mugs on Frost's desk.
'Did you see the way she kneed that bloke in the goo lies yesterday?' asked Frost, stirring his tea with a pencil. 'You'd better watch it if you take her out that could have been you squirming on the floor.'
'If my luck's in,' said Burton.
Frost laughed and took a sip at the tea. 'Talking of luck, we've had a break with the Grover case.' He told Burton about Forensic's examination of the carpet.
'So Graver's involved?'
'Right up to his bloody neck, son. Let's start the day off by arresting him.'
He phoned the hospital, but was told by the staff nurse that Mark Grover had discharged himself last night and was staying with his sister. Yes, she did have the address… He sent Burton to the Forensic Lab to bring back the carpet, then sauntered out into the car-park.
A plump little woman answered the door to his knock. Mark Graver's sister was some ten years older than her brother and her face was full of concern when Frost announced himself. 'I don't think he's up to answering any questions. The poor boy is absolutely shattered.' She took him through to the kitchen. 'He loved those children… just idolized them.'
Frost nodded in sympathy. 'I know, love… I know… If it wasn't important I wouldn't bother him.'
Mark Grover didn't look well, the pallor of his face emphasizing the dark, bruise-like rings round his eyes. He recognized Frost and greeted him without enthusiasm. 'Any news?'
'Couple of promising leads,' said Frost. 'I know you don't feel up to it, but it would help if you could come down to the station and look at some of the things we've found and tell me if they came from your house.'
Glover hesitated. 'I don't know…'
'Go with the man,' urged his sister. 'The fresh air will do you good.' When he went off to fetch his coat, she whispered to Frost, 'Mark could do with cheering up.'
'I'll see what I can do,' promised Frost, leaving her thinking what a nice man he was.
Grover kept fidgeting in the car, gazing blankly out of the window, not listening to Frost's aimless chatter. He frowned and turned to the inspector. 'Are we going the right way?'
Frost had deliberately detoured to go down Cresswell Street. 'Just wanted to take a look,' said Frost. He drove slowly past the house, where a mass of wreaths and floral tributes from neighbours were laid out in the front garden. One wreath was in the heart-rending shape of a teddy bear. Grover swallowed hard, then snatched his eyes away and shuddered. 'I'm never going back in there again. I couldn't.'
Frost nodded sympathetically, but he'd achieved what he wanted Grover to be emotional and unprepared for the little surprise he had in store for him.
'What exactly do you want me to identify?' Grover asked.
'Won't take long,' said Frost vaguely as he turned the car into the station car-park, pulling up by the large storage shed at the rear. He opened the shed doors and ushered Grover in. 'This way,' he said. The smell greeted them as he switched on the fluorescent lights. They flickered on and Grover stepped in to face the large section of exclusive Bonley's carpeting hanging to dry by the end wall, covered with chalked circles to outline the siting of the bloodstains located by Forensic. Grover stood stock still, his mouth gaping open, then he turned, shouldering Frost out of the way as he charged out of the shed and into the car-park.
'Don't be a twat,' yelled Frost making no move to follow. 'Where can you go… where would you hide?'
Grover faltered, then stopped and slowly turned, shoulders slumped, his face the picture of despair. He was trembling violently. 'My God,' he said. 'Oh my God!'
Frost ambled over and took his arm. 'Let's talk about it, son. It'll make you feel better.'
Mullett, who had seen Frost arrive and had learned of the unauthorized overtime, met Frost in the corridor. 'I want to see you,' he snapped.
'Later,' said Frost, moving him to one side so Grover could pass.
'Now!' shouted Mullett, quivering with rage.
'Later!' snarled Frost. 'Bloody later!'
He sat Grover down in the small interview room which smelt stalely of sweat and unwashed socks. Burton brought in mugs of tea, then started up the recorder while Frost lit up a cigarette and shook out the match. 'Right, Mr. Grover. You've been cautioned. You know you don't have to say anything, but let me tell you how I see it. You had a row with your wife. You were sick and tired of her and the kids. You went off to Bonley's, but returned later
