ground. He grinned broadly at Mullett. 'Thank you, super. I always said you weren't entirely useless.'
By the time Mullett had worked out that this wasn't the whole-hearted compliment he had assumed, Frost and his team were racing across the rain-swept car-park, leaving empty desks and sheaves and sheaves of printed lists.
The car slithered and bumped up the unmade road that led them to Wrights Lane. Rain bounced and drained off the road into an overflowing ditch which ran along its length. The road dipped sharply as the car went beneath a small, iron railway bridge and churned its way through a deep puddle; a slight bend and there was the house, just to their left behind a fringe of trees. Its lights were on.
They turned into the drive, skidding to a splashing halt by the front door, the second car with the rest of the team having to brake sharply to avoid running into the back of them. Out of the car, heads down against the driving rain, and Frost was hammering at the front door after sending Burton and Jordan round to the back. No answer but he could see someone moving about inside the hall through the frosted glass of the door.
He was about to knock again when Finch's voice called, 'Who is it?'
'Police open up.'
'Just a minute.'
A brief pause, then the door was opened by Finch, his jacket off, a sponge mop in his hand. He raised his eyebrows in pretended surprise. 'Inspector Frost! Twice in one day what an unexpected pleasure!'
'We want to search these premises,' said Frost.
'Do you have a warrant?'
'No, but it won't take long to get one.'
'Is it about the missing boy?'
'Yes.'
'Then I waive my right to demand a warrant. Please search where you like.' He moved back so they could pass. 'Do wipe your feet… and don't make a mess. This isn't my house.'
He's too cocky, thought Frost, hoping and praying this wasn't going to turn out yet another wasted exercise. He's too bloody cocky.
They thudded past him. Liz went straight through to the back door to let in Burton and Jordan who were shivering in the rain. They stepped thankfully into the dry and on to gleaming chequer-board linoleum tiles, dripping pools of water which Finch hastily sponged up with the mop. 'Please,' he admonished. 'I've gone to a great deal of trouble to tidy this place up. It belongs to friends of mine who return from Spain tomorrow.' He checked the washing machine which was churning away. 'I've got so much to do before then.'
Liz allocated areas of search, while Frost sat with Finch in the lounge, a large, high-ceilinged room, its gleaming furniture reeking of polish.
'How did you find me here?' asked Finch, slipping on his jacket. Then he smiled. 'Of course the address on the dog's name tag. How clever of you!'
Bloody hell, thought Frost. Don't tell me it was on the flaming dog's name tag all the time! He smiled back modestly as if pleased at his cleverness. 'That's right.'
'Why do you think the boy is here, inspector?'
'Because you are here, Mr. Finch.' He took a cigarette from the packet and lit up.
Finch grabbed at a heavy glass ashtray and pushed it over to him. 'This smacks of harassment. I have already told you I know nothing about the boy. You have nothing to suggest otherwise, yet I am constantly having to put up with this cavalier treatment.'
'Where is he?' asked Frost.
'I wish I knew,' said Finch. 'The poor little mite, away from his parents…'
An urgent call from upstairs. 'Sir here!'
Burton had found something. Frost shot a glance across to Finch, who remained impassive and was carefully blowing flakes of cigarette ash from the polished top of the table.
'In here, sir.' Burton was waiting on the landing outside a grey-painted door. 'Put your cigarette out, please.' Frost, puzzled, did as the DC requested. He exhaled smoke which Burton fanned away before opening the door a fraction, pushing Frost in, then quickly closing it behind them both.
They were in a small bedroom at the back of the house. An oak wardrobe, a small matching dressing-table and a single bed which was pushed tight against the wall. The bed had been stripped down to the ticking on the mattress and pillows. A smell of wet wool from the carpet which had been shampooed recently and was still slightly damp.
'Take a sniff, sir,' said Burton.
Frost sniffed. 'Polish? Carpet shampoo?'
Burton looked disappointed. 'Nothing else?'
Frost tried again, then frowned. A sickly, sweet smell. Very faint, but it was there. 'Chloroform?'
Burton nodded in agreement. 'That's what I think.'
'The kid's been in this room,' said Frost. 'On that bed!' He lowered his nose to the mattress and sniffed, but could detect nothing. He went to the door, opened it briefly and called for Liz to bring Finch up.
Finch came in and stood in the middle of the bedroom. 'Smell anything?' Frost asked him.
With a cocky smile, Finch took a deep breath, his nose twitching delicately as if he was savouring the bouquet of a rare wine. 'Furniture polish… carpet shampoo…?' he suggested. His nose wrinkled in distaste. 'And stale tobacco smoke which I imagine is coming from you. May I open the window?'
'No,' snapped Frost. He gave a tentative sniff, but by now the dying linger of the anaesthetic had expired. 'We could smell chloroform!'
Finch gave a knowing smirk and shook his head. 'Dry cleaning fluid. There was a stain on the carpet the dog. I cleaned it off and shampooed it.' He bent over and peered. 'It's completely gone now.'
Frost pointed to the stripped bed. 'Where's the bedding?'
'In the washing machine. The dog again he was sick over the pillow.'
Liz was told to dash down to the kitchen and rescue the bedding from the washing machine in the hope Forensic could do their stuff on it.
'Inspector!' Jordan calling from below. It sounded important. Frost scuttled down the stairs, two at a time, hoping and praying that it was something that would wipe the supercilious smile from Finch's face. Under the stairs an open door led to steps to the cellar. Jordan was calling from there.
A large cellar, its floor of flagstones, the bare brick walls white-washed. An unshaded 75-watt bulb swung in a holder, flickering grotesque shadows on the walls, along which ran metal shelving stacked high with cardboard boxes, bottles, carboys, drums, stock left over from when Finch's friend sold his chemist shop.
'I found this,' said Jordan, handing the inspector a large bottle in blue, fluted glass with a label that read 'Trichloromethane CHCI3 Chloroform'.
Frost held it up to the light. It was about a third full. Removing the stopper, he lifted it to his nose. Not white spirit this time. Definitely chloroform. He nodded grimly, then looked down at the floor, stamping his foot down on the flagstones, pointing out a couple that appeared loose. Where better to bury a body? 'Have them up, son. All of them… especially the ones that don't look as if they have been moved.'
Back up the cellar steps, squeezing tight against the wall to get out of the way of the Forensic team who were crawling everywhere. Harding didn't look very optimistic even when he told him about the chloroform. 'You'd expect to find it amongst a chemist's stock. It doesn't really prove anything.'
'How's the search going?' Frost asked.
'He seems to have made sure there's nothing for us to find. This place has been scrubbed, sponged, polished and vacuumed. The vacuum cleaner is a wet and dry model, so it's had water through it which has removed nearly all traces of dust and fibre.'
'What about the bedding from the washing machine?'
'We'll have a go at it over the lab, but I reckon it's been too well washed to yield anything.'
'The kid was here,' said Frost firmly. 'I'm pretty certain he was here up to a couple of hours ago.'
'Would he have had the run of the place?' asked Harding.
'Hardly,' replied Frost. 'I reckon the poor little sod was trussed like a chicken on that bed.'
Harding shrugged. 'Then he wouldn't have left much trace in the rest of the house, would he?'
'Inspector!' Liz, this time calling him from the landing. Another bloody clue that would probably lead nowhere.
