R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

Frost didn’t answer. He shuffled over to the other side of the room to look at the various notices fastened to the cork bulletin board: duty rosters; search areas; phone numbers of off-duty men, a list headed Police Marksmen with names and phone numbers. Frost saw that Ingram’s name was on this list. “Why police marksmen?” he inquired.

“Eustace is armed,” replied Ingram wearily. He wished the inspector would go. He was tired. He didn’t feel like talking or answering questions. He just wanted to go somewhere quiet. For the past three nights he had hardly had any sleep.

“I don’t want him killed,” said Frost.

Ingram nodded. “I’ll let Mr. Allen know.” A green light flashed and the spools of the Revox began to revolve. Another call coming through on Sadie’s phone. Ingram turned up the volume control. The ringing tone. A click as the receiver was lifted.

Sadie’s voice. “Demon 2234.”

A man’s voice, tired, despondent. “Sadie. It’s Stan. Did you talk to him?”

Sadie’s voice, shouting. “Hang up, Stan. They’ve tapped the line.”

Click. The dial tone. Silence. The tape recorder switched itself off.

Behind them the door opened and closed. They turned to see Detective Inspector Allen. “We’ve found Stan Eustace’s old car,” he told Ingram. “It was abandoned under the railway arches, so he’s obviously nicked something else. Advise all units.”

As Ingram was phoning through to Control, Allen gave Frost an unfriendly nod, then moved to his Immediate Action in-tray. “Phone call 16.37. Sadie Eustace to Inspector Frost. Tape Index 033.” He grinned mockingly at Frost. “What was that about, Inspector? Were you and Sadie arranging another clandestine assignation?”

“I wish you wouldn’t use such long words,” said Frost. “You know what an ignorant sod I am.”

Friday night shift

Ken Jordan gently coasted Charlie Alpha down the side street, past the public toilets and into the empty parking space alongside four other parked cars. Seven o’clock in the evening and time for an unofficial coffee break. He leaned back in the driving seat and stretched his arms as his observer, Ron Simms, unscrewed the top of a thermos flask and the smell of strong, hot coffee filled the area car.

Taking their plastic cups with them, they climbed out of Charlie Alpha to stretch their legs. The night was chilly and there was a fresh wind blowing. “Isn’t that where they found that tramp’s body?” asked Simms, nodding his head toward the red-bricked building with its creaking enamelled sign.

“Yes,” muttered Jordan, but he wasn’t looking in that direction. His eyes, ever alert, had detected a movement inside one of the parked cars, a grey Honda. It was as if someone had quickly ducked down because he didn’t want to be seen. Jordan drained his coffee, took a torch from the door pocket, and strolled across for a closer look. The beam of his torch flared on the wind-screen. A face jerked up. The engine coughed, then roared, and the Honda leaped forward, forcing Jordan to jump to one side. He spun around, catching sight of the driver’s face as the car sped past.

“After him!” he yelled to Simms, clambering inside Charlie Alpha.

“What’s all the panic?” asked Simms as the police car, its siren wailing, bulleted after the Honda in hot pursuit.

“It’s Stanley Eustace!” shouted Jordan. “Radio Control and tell them we need all the assistance they’ve got.”

The red dots of the Honda’s rear lights were increasing in size. They were gaining on him. Closer and closer. Soon they would be able to pass him, to swing in front and force him to stop.

The road took a sharp curve. The rear lights of the Honda suddenly disappeared. Around the bend at full speed, tyres screaming in agony.

No sign of the Honda. The road shot straight ahead. You could see for miles, but the Honda had vanished.

Simms twisted his head to look through the rear window. “Back there!” he yelled. Far behind them, getting smaller and smaller as they roared on, was the Honda. It crouched on the grass verge, lights off, driver’s door open. Jordan slammed on the brakes and the Sierra shuddered to a stop.

“Three units on their way to assist you, Charlie Alpha,” radioed Control. “You are reminded that the suspect is armed and dangerous.”

“What shall we do?” asked Simms, warily eyeing the grey car, which appeared to be abandoned.

“We don’t just sit here like bloody Charlies,” snapped Jordan, reversing back to the other car. They got out and cautiously approached. There was a rustling in the grass to one side of them, and before they could turn, a shotgun barrel was rammed into Jordan’s face.

“Don’t force me to do anything stupid,” said Stan Eustace, the gun shaking in his hand, his trigger finger twitching. He looked tired, frightened, and desperately dangerous. “Facedown on the grass.”

They flung themselves, facedown, on to the wet grass.

“Move and I’ll blast your heads off,” croaked Eustace.

They stared at wet grass. A rustling sound. Simms jerked up his head. A shot blasted out. He banged his face down, hugging the ground as tightly as he could.

The slam of a car door. A car driving off at speed. Silence. Simms carefully lifted his head to see Charlie Alpha disappearing into the distance. They leaped up and raced to the Honda, then stopped dead. The front tyre was flat and peppered with shotgun pellets.

“Shit!” said Jordan.

Faintly at first, from a long way off, came the sirens of approaching police cars. Jordan moved out to the centre of the road to flag them down.

Jack Frost ambled into the station about eight o’clock, hoping he might catch Mullett. The news of the arrest of the Denton rapist should have put the Divisional Commander in a sufficiently good mood to allow the inspector more men to help with the Ben Cornish investigation. No-one seemed able to whip up much enthusiasm over the death of a junkie dropout who was living on borrowed time anyway.

“He’s been in and gone out again,” Johnny Johnson told him. “He’s with Mr. Allen at the house.”

“What house?” asked Frost. “The house at Pooh Corner? The house that Jack built? The house of Ul repute?”

“I thought you knew,” said the sergeant, delighted he had someone to break the news to. “It’s Stanley Eustace. They’ve got him cornered in a house on Farley Street. Allen’s in his element police marksmen, the press, television cameras. Stanley’s broken into this house and is holding a family at gunpoint. It’s a hostage situation.”

Detective Inspector Allen was leaving nothing to chance. He opened up a detailed street map of the area and went over the various points one more time with Detective Sergeant Ingram. “Are all the adjoining houses empty? Has everyone been evacuated?”

“Most of them,” said Ingram.

“Most of them? I told you to shift all of them, Sergeant.”

“The family in number 25 refuse to leave, sir.”

Allen’s voice rose.” Refuse? Who said they had a choice? Get them out. I don’t care how, but get them out.”

Ingram delegated this task to a uniformed constable, then looked up as a police car, flanked by two police motorbikes, screeched up with the rifles and handguns from County HQ armoury.

“Right, Sergeant. Issue the guns,” ordered Allen. “And make sure our marksmen are positioned exactly where I indicated. And emphasize that they are not, repeat not, to fire a single round unless they have my explicit authorisation. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Inspector,” said Ingram. He handed out the Smith and Wesson specials to the five police marksmen, keeping a Ruger. 222 rifle for himself. Ammunition was carefully counted out, allocated, and signed for. He made sure they all knew their locations, repeated Allen’s instructions, then sent them out to take up position.