R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

Frost knew there was no way Mullett would authorise this in full, so he had upped the ante by asking for more men than he needed. He had asked Fortress Building Society to put two of their cashpoints out of action overnight, so they would only be watching three instead of five, but he didn’t tell Mullett that.

‘For how many days?’ croaked Mullett, his brain whirling as he tried to calculate how much all this would cost.

‘One or two at the most,’ lied Frost. ‘The minute he draws money out on the card, the building society will phone me. If our luck’s in, we’ll nab him tonight.’ He oozed optimism, but Frost’s luck was rarely in.

Mullett’s head was already shaking when Skinner forestalled him again.

‘I don’t know about during the day. I want every man I can get my hands on to search the woods and other likely places for those missing kids. But you can have a maximum of five bodies for tonight – and let one of them be that dopey Welsh bloke. But if you sod this up

…!’ He let the threat hover like Damocles’ sword over the inspector’s head.

Frost put on his hurt look, as if sodding things up was inconceivable to him. He shot out of his chair and made for the door before they could change their minds.

‘Hold it,’ snapped Skinner. ‘Don’t forget. When you get him, you hand him over to me. I’ll take it from there.’

Frost nodded. Always agree: that was his motto. You could always say you didn’t understand afterwards.

‘But remember, if you foul this up -, began Skinner, his mouth shutting with a snap when he realised he was talking to a slammed door. Frost had made his exit.

‘When are you going to tell him he’s being transferred out of Denton?’ asked Mullett.

‘Not yet,’ replied Skinner, smiling maliciously. ‘I don’t want to dampen his enthusiasm for tonight’s stake-out.’

A petulant wind rattled the windows of the Incident Room. It was a lousy night for a stakeout, but you couldn’t pick your moment. Frost surveyed his team and was pleased to note that Bill Wells had included two WPCs, one the girl who had sat with the rape victim at Denton General, looking even younger out of uniform. This was good. A man and a woman in a shop doorway late at night would look far less conspicuous than a man on his own, and the blackmailer was sure to be edgy and ready to abort. Frost swilled down the dregs of his tea, lit up another cigarette from the stub of the old one, which he dumped in the mug, then clapped his hands for silence.

‘Right. You all know what we’re in for. A long, boring wait in the bleeding cold in the happy knowledge that Mullett begrudges paying you the overtime. We ought to catch the sod tonight, but as he can only withdraw a maximum of?500 a day, we’ll have plenty of other chances. All the indications are that he’s a rank amateur, but a dangerous one. He laced Supersaves own-brand wine with bleach – the fact that most of the customers thought it tasted better that way isn’t the point. He also put a lethal dose of salt in babies’ milk powder and nearly killed one. So we want him caught quickly.’

The young WPC put up her hand. ‘You say he’s a rank amateur, but this is a pretty ingenious way of getting his money.’

‘You’re right, love,’ agreed Frost. ‘It’s bloody ingenious, but he didn’t think of it himself – this is a copycat crime. A few years ago, back in London, an ex-cop – you can’t trust the bastards – found a way of getting his blackmail money paid without risk. He opened up a building society account with a false name and address and got the money paid into that account. He then made withdrawals using his cashpoint card. Today, building societies won’t let you open an account without the most vigorous of checks, so it shouldn’t happen again. But our clever bastard amateur has found a way round that. He pinched a legitimate card on which the prat of an owner had written his pin number in large letters, just in case any crook should miss it. But for a change, we’ve got a bit of luck on our side. With the ex cop, the Met had hundreds of cashpoints to cover. The Fortress Building Society has only got five cashpoints, so if our bloke wants to withdraw his money, his choice is limited. We’ve limited it even further by arranging with Fortress to put two of their cashpoints out of action, so we now have only three to watch.’

‘Detective Sergeant Hanlon has done a recce for us to find safe places where we can observe the cashpoints and not be seen. We will cover them by lurking in shop doorways, and I want a male and female officer together where possible. If anyone comes, go into a passionate embrace. That should both divert suspicion and give you a thrill. And you can take that dirty grin off your face, Taffy Morgan. We haven’t got enough chastity belts to go round, so you will be with me, watching the main cashpoint in Market Square. No convenient shop doorways, so you and I will be in the car, round the corner. As soon as chummy withdraws the money, you will dash out and grab him.’

‘How will we know that it’s our bloke who’s using the cashpoint?’ Jordan asked.

‘The Fortress technical staff are monitoring their main computer. As soon as chummy sticks his card in the slot, they will phone me and I’ll phone you.’ He checked his watch. Eight forty-five p.m. ‘Right, just time for a quick wee, then off to your assigned stake-out positions. Hold it -’ He looked up as Bill Wells came in and beckoned him over.

‘Slight change of plan, Jack.’

‘Oh?’ said Frost warily.

‘Skinner’s just phoned. Mullett has talked him into cutting the overtime men by half.’

‘Sod that!’ exclaimed Frost. ‘We’re working to the barest minimum as it is.’

‘He told me to tell you it’s not a request, it’s an order. He’s going to need the extra men for the search of the woods for those two missing kids tomorrow morning.’

‘Sod him!’ repeated Frost vehemently. ‘Tell him you couldn’t find me.’

‘Then he will expect me to phone or radio you.’

Frost took his mobile from his pocket and switched it off. ‘My phone battery needs charging and my radio is on the blink’

‘He won’t believe you, Jack.’

‘The bastard doesn’t believe me when I’m telling the truth, so what’s the difference?’

Frost sat slumped in the passenger seat of his car, coat collar turned up, his scarf wound tightly round his neck against the cold. Parked down a side street, they didn’t have the cashpoint in view, but would be able to reach it at a sprint in a few seconds. He shivered. ‘I thought I told you to get this heater fixed.’

‘I’ve booked it in for tomorrow, Guv,’ lied Morgan, who had forgotten all about it.

‘Lying Welsh bastard,’ grunted Frost. He rubbed his hands together, then checked his watch. Coming to midnight and no sign of the sod. He felt his stomach rumble. ‘There’s a chippy round the corner. Get me a cod and chips and put salt and vinegar on it. You can buy your own if you like.’ He passed over a five-pound note. ‘And I’m going to count the change.’

‘Right, Guv.’ Glad of the chance to stretch his legs, Morgan slid out of the car and disappeared round the corner. Frost sank lower in his seat.

This was going to be a sodding waste of time, he just knew it. He was stuck in a freezing-cold car and the blackmailing bastard was probably tucked up snug in a nice warm bed. He might as well have given Skinner those extra men he wanted. There’d be hell to pay tomorrow if he didn’t get a result.

The radio buzzed. ‘PC Jordan to Inspector Frost. Come in please. Urgent.’

‘Yes?’ said Frost, popping a cigarette in his mouth.

‘We’ve just arrested a junkie trying to pinch money from people using the cash machine. He grabbed fifty quid from this old dear. We’re going to have to take him back to the station.’