Free Hard Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page A

switched off the current," said Stanfield, as if explaining to an idiot.
       "Exactly. Between the time you heard the sound of glass breaking, which was them getting into the house, and the phone going dead, how much time elapsed?"
       "I don't know . . . seconds . . ."
       Frost nodded. "They were bloody quick, weren't they? They knew exactly where the meter was."
       "It wouldn't take a bloody mastermind to work that out," exclaimed Stanfield. "Most people have their meter cupboard under the stairs."
       "Yes," agreed Frost, 'but these people had to be sure. They had to do it bloody quickly otherwise Carol would have made her phone call. There's only one way out of here - along that four mile lane. The police would have been waiting for them. How did the gang know that the phone in Carol's bedroom was cordless?"
       "I've had this house up for sale for the past four months," said Stanfield. "We've had estate agents in and out measuring up, we've had prospective buyers and every nosy sod imaginable poking and touching everything with their grubby fingers . . . any of them could have been casing the place."
       "We'll need names," said Liz.
       "Then get them from the estate agents, darling. They didn't leave flaming visiting cards, just sticky bloody finger marks on the wallpaper."
       "When did your friends offer you the tickets for the show?" asked Frost.
       "The day before yesterday. He had to go to Paris on business. Why?"
       "I'm wondering how the crooks knew Carol would have been alone in the house last night."
       "They could have been watching the place and picked their moment. We do go out at night from time to time."
       Frost pulled a face. He didn't think much of this explanation. Before he could ask another question, Jordan was beckoning from the doorway. "Sorry to disturb you, inspector, but it is urgent."
       Frost stood up. "What was the value of the jewellery they nicked?"
       "I haven't added it up - around £50,000," said the woman.
       "But you are insured?"
       "It's not the money, is it it's the sentimental value."
       "Of course," said Frost.
       Stanfield sprang to his feet. "And just what are you insinuating?"
       Frost switched on his look of injured innocence. "Nothing, Mr. Stanfield. Nothing at all. Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."
       He followed Jordan into the hall, closing the door behind him. "What is it, son?"
       It was a radio message from Control. A woman had just phoned in reporting her eight-year-old son had been missing since the previous afternoon. Her description matched the dead boy.
       Frost swore softly. "I suppose no-one's given the poor cow any hint that he's dead?"
       "No, sir," said Jordan.
       "We'll go in your car," said Frost. "Sergeant Maud can stay and finish up here." He went back into the lounge and quietly explained the position to Liz. "Got to go," he told Stanfield. "Something important has come up."
       Stanfield stared incredulously. "Something more important than this?"
       "Yes," sighed Frost. "Something more important than this."
     
    Jordan negotiated the car round the twists and turns of the narrow lane with much more care and skill than Liz had done. Frost was sitting alongside him, smoking, lost in his thoughts. If the dead boy was her son, how was he going to break it to her? Eight years old . . . God . . . He had radioed for Burton to meet him outside the house. He would have preferred to have a woman police officer with him, but they were all out helping with the search for Bobby Kirby. Still, breaking news like this was a job he had done many times before. Too many bloody times.
       Jordan dragged him back from his brooding thoughts. "What do you reckon is behind this abduction, inspector?"
       Frost took the cigarette from his mouth and dribbled smoke down his nose. "I'm not even sure there was an abduction, son."
       Jordan frowned. "What do you mean?"
       "I've come across Stanfield