R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

The phone rang. Frost listened and frowned. “Thanks,” he grunted, “I expected as much.” He hung up. “The red Vauxhall Cavalier,” he told

Webster. “It was reported stolen at three o’clock this afternoon.” He stretched out his arms and yawned openly. “As soon as Sammy has identified the man with the golden gun, we’ll go home. I could do with an early night.” Webster reminded him of the house-to-house, but Frost wasn’t interested. “That can wait. We’ve got more important things to do than waste time trying to clear that little snot. No, we’ll have an early night.” He stared pointedly at Webster’s beard, then began to sing “Does Santa Claus sleep with his whiskers over or under the sheets …?”

Glickman’s shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter. He thought the inspector was a real card. The bearded one had no sense of humour and was so easily riled. Glickman’s eyes travelled over a page filled with sneering punks and scowling skin-heads. He licked his finger and turned the page.

He stared. He blinked. Then stared again.

“It’s him!”

Frost and Webster leaned over his shoulder. “This one!” insisted Glickman, jabbing a pudgy finger on the glossy black-and-white.

“Are you sure?” Frost asked doubtfully.

“I’m one hundred fifty percent sure,” claimed the pawnbroker. “You can’t get any surer than that.”

The photograph was of a rather hopeless-looking individual with tight curly hair and a mournful expression. Webster read out his details. “Stanley Eustace, aged forty-seven…”

“I know who it is,” cut in Frost, who had found his matches but seemed to have lost his cigarettes. “Useless Eustace. He’s a petty crook, shoplifting, breaking and entering, nicking cars, stripping lead from church roofs. He usually gets caught because he’s so bloody stupid. But he’s never used a shooter in his life.”

“Well, he used one this afternoon,” Glickman said positively. “Can I go home now?”

No spare cars were available, so Glickman, bitterly complaining, was left to find his own way home. Frost then asked Webster to bring the Cortina around to the front. They were off to pick up Stan Eustace.

Webster hesitated. “He’s armed and dangerous. Hadn’t we better take some reinforcements with us… and a couple of police marksmen?”

But Frost scorned this suggestion. “I know him, son. I’ve nicked him enough times. He’s harmless. The gun was only for show.”

“For show!” exclaimed Webster. “He nearly blasted that showcase from the wall.”

“Probably got his finger caught in the trigger,” said Frost airily. “You can stay in the car if you like. I’ll go in the house and drag him out.”

He was slipping on his mac when an agitated Johnny Johnson poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt you, Inspector, but you haven’t seen Dave Shelby on your travels, have you?”

“No,” replied Frost, ‘not since he delivered sexy Sue to us at The Coconut Grove round about two o’clock. Why?”

The station sergeant rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “I’m dead worried, Jack. Since he left you he hasn’t made any routine calls, hasn’t contacted us or answered his radio. He was supposed to report to me, here, at seven he’s only doing a part-shift but he didn’t show up.”

Frost didn’t think there was any cause for concern. “He’s probably in bed with some woman somewhere and forgotten the time.”

“I’m really worried, Jack,” insisted Johnson, and he looked it. “For all Shelby’s faults he’s never once failed to report in.” He waved away Frost’s offer of a cigarette.

“Have you had a word with Mr. Allen, Sergeant?” inquired Webster.

“Shelby said he was going to see him about the anonymous phone call.”

“There’s your answer,” said Frost, tucking his scarf inside his mac. He sent Webster out to ask Allen. Within a couple of minutes Allen, accompanied by Sergeant Ingram, marched in.

“What’s this about Shelby?” snapped Allen. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

“I saw him this morning,” said Ingram, ‘but I’ve been off duty all afternoon.”

“He’s gone missing,” said Frost, giving brief details. “Johnny’s worried about him.”

“He hasn’t reported in for nearly five hours,” added the station sergeant.

“Five hours!” exclaimed Allen in disbelief. “Why have you waited five hours before telling anyone?”

The station sergeant looked embarrassed. “He was doing a job for Mr.

Frost taking a WPC over to The Coconut Grove. I thought Mr. Frost might have commandeered his services and told him not to answer his radio.” It was

Frost’s turn to look embarrassed. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had cut corners by doing that.

“For heaven’s sake,” said Allen, ‘he’s in a patrol car. You can’t lose a police officer and a patrol car.”

“I’ve asked all patrols to look out for him,” said Johnson. “No sightings yet.”

“Have you tried the hospitals?” asked Frost. The sergeant nodded.

“Then what about his home? He might have gone straight there.”

“He would have signed off first,” said Johnson.

“Try his home anyway,” ordered Allen, ‘but be tactful. We don’t want to get his wife worried.”

Anxiously watched by all the others, Johnson dialled Shelby’s house.

“No, he’s not back yet,” replied Mrs. Shelby. “I’m expecting him soon. Any message?”

“Not really,” said Johnson, trying to sound unconcerned. He’s probably on a job for Mr. Frost, but I wanted to grab him before he left. Ask him to ring me when he gets in, would you?” He replaced the receiver slowly, his head bowed. “I’m worried,” he said. “Bloody worried.”

Ingram walked across to the wall map behind Frost’s desk. “I’ve had a nasty thought,” he said, and he pointed to the wall map. “North Street is here. The armed man in the getaway car was heading off in this direction.. which would take him smack bang into Shelby’s patrol area.”

Allen squeezed past Webster to study the wall map himself. “You’re suggesting that Shelby could have spotted the getaway car and tried to intercept it?”

“It’s possible, sir,” answered Ingram, “The gunman’s armed. Shelby could have got himself into trouble.”

Allen tugged at his lip, then turned to Frost. “What do you think?”

Frost stuck his hands in his mac pocket and drew hard on his cigarette. “If Shelby spotted the car, he wouldn’t have gone after it off his own bat. He’d have radioed in.” Johnny Johnson nodded his agreement.

“But his radio might be on the blink,” said Allen, ‘which is why we didn’t get any calls earlier. He could have tried to stop the getaway car and the gunman could have turned nasty… wounded him, or taken him hostage.”

“The gunman,” interjected Frost, ‘is Useless Eustace — Stan Eustace. Glickman identified him. Stan would never hold a gun to a copper in his life.”

“And he would never have committed an armed robbery in his life,” retorted Allen with a sarcastic smile, ‘but he did this afternoon.” He looked once more at the wall map. “It’s pointless wasting time speculating. A police officer has gone missing, so we take no chances.” He moved his head to the station sergeant. “All leave is stopped, Johnny. You’d better start calling the off-duty men in. We’ll have to get a full-scale search organized.”

“While you’re getting it organized,” said Frost, edging toward the door, ‘me and Fungus Face will pay a visit to Stan Eustace’s house. If he doesn’t know he’s been identified, we might be able to pick him up with only minimum loss of life.” He beckoned for Webster to follow him and was away.