R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Bloody hell,’ moaned Frost. ‘Now everyone will know that the fuzz is in the vicinity.’

‘We had to arrest him, Inspector. We couldn’t let him get away with it – the old dear was screaming blue murder.’

‘All right,’ sighed Frost. ‘Take him back, book him in, then get back here. Our bloke hasn’t turned up yet. And check with Sergeant Wells about that poor cow who had her handbag nicked earlier today. This might be the same man.’

A tapping at the side window made him look up. Someone was standing there. He wound the window down and a blast of cheap scent hit him in the face.

‘Looking for a bit of fun, handsome?’

‘Piss off,’ groaned Frost, flashing his warrant card at the hard-faced, cheap-fake-leather-coated woman in her late forties with an equally fake smile.

‘Bloody hell. It’s the flaming filth!’

‘Exactly,’ said Frost. ‘Now sling your hook, darling, before I run you in for offering goods past their sell-by date.’

She jerked two fingers at him and wandered off into the night, swinging her handbag like a gladiator’s chain. A burble of conversation floated from round the corner, then Taffy slid into the car clutching two greasy packages.

‘Just bumped into a cracking bit of stuff, Guv. I reckon I could have had her.’

‘Only if you had the 50p to pay her,’ grunted Frost, checking his change before slipping it into his mac pocket. ‘I hope you didn’t let her touch my chips. I shudder to think what else she’s been fingering tonight.’ He opened the package, broke off a chunk of fish and looked up angrily. ‘This is haddock.’

‘They didn’t have cod,’ lied Morgan, who had forgotten what Frost had asked for.

Frost reached for the door handle. ‘Do you want me to go back there and check?’

Morgan looked shamefaced. ‘Sorry, Guv. Actually, I forgot.’

Frost had just settled back in his seat when the sound of angry voices floated across the square He wound down the window, but couldn’t make out what was going on. ‘Nip over and check that, Taff.’

A couple of minutes later, Morgan was back.

‘It’s that tom, Guv. The punter has only got thirty quid and she wants forty.’

‘Not for her bleeding body, surely?’ grunted Frost. ‘She must be throwing in her car as well. So what’s the hold-up?’

‘The machine keeps rejecting his card. They’re both getting stroppy.’

‘This isn’t going to be my night,’ gloomed Frost. ‘I’m in the excrement with fat-guts Skinner, arrests we don’t want are cropping up all over the bleeding place, and you bought me haddock instead of cod.’ He snatched his mobile up at the first ring. ‘Frost?’ It was Fortress Building Society. He listened. ‘What?… Where?… Thanks.’ He chucked the mobile up in the air with delight, but missed catching it so had to scrabble for it on the floor. ‘Foot down, Taffy. He’s bitten the bait. The card is currently being used to withdraw cash in Minton Street.’ He groaned. The cashpoint Jordan had had to leave unwatched.

Morgan couldn’t get the engine to fire and kept fiddling frantically with the ignition. ‘If we’re out of flaming petrol – ’ began Frost, but was cut short as the engine spluttered then suddenly roared to life with a jerk, sending his haddock and chips flying all over the car.

He brushed chips from his mac as the car sped round to the main road. He was right. The bloke must be a rank amateur. Surely he might have guessed that the police would be watching all the cashpoints. And Frost couldn’t believe his luck. Catching the sod on the very first night of the stake-out. Minton Street was only a couple minutes away, but just to be on the safe side he radioed through to Jordan, who with any luck should be on his way back now and approaching from the opposite direction. If chummy wasn’t still at the till, they would stop and search any pedestrian or motorists in the vicinity. There would be very few people around at this time of night.

As they turned the corner into Minton Street, Frost scrubbed the windscreen with the sleeve of his mac. ‘I can see him. The bastard is still there.’

The dimly lit area around the cashpoint showed a man checking some notes then stuffing them into his pocket. Seemingly unaware of the approaching car, he turned down a side street.

‘Left, left,’ screamed Frost as Morgan missed the turn and had to brake sharply and skid the car round. There was a sickening crash and the tinkle of broken glass. Morgan had hit one of the parked cars. ‘It was his fault,’ yelled Frost. ‘Drive on.’ As they turned into the side street they could see the rear lights of a car driving off into the night.

‘Tally ho!’ cried Frost. He snatched up the radio handset and alerted Jordan that the suspect was heading his way. At the T-junction Taffy slowed as Frost, eyes squinted, scoured left and right. ‘There!’ Tiny pinpricks of red in the distance, then the sound of a police siren Jon had spotted the car and was in pursuit. The pinprick of red was followed by a flashing blue light.

‘He’s slowing,’ radioed Jordan triumphantly. ‘He’s stopped.. . he’s bloody stopped!’

Frost punched the air in delight. ‘We’ve got him, Taff!’ He screwed up the greasy chip bag and hurled it through the car window as they drove towards the flashing blue light of a parked Allegro. Jordan was opening the door as Frost’s car pulled up behind.

‘What the flaming hell is this all about, officer?’ demanded a man’s voice. ‘I wasn’t speeding and I’m not bloody drunk. You got a quota of arrests to make?’

Frost stopped dead in his tracks. He recognised that flaming voice. He was out of the car and over in a flash. ‘Hello, hello, hello. Where have you been all the day, Billy Boy?’ he beamed. The driver was Billy King, the man who claimed his building society card had been stolen.

King’s face fell when he saw Frost. ‘Twice in one flaming day! I must have run over a black cat or something. What am I supposed to have done now?’

Frost flashed a smug, self-satisfied smile. On the passenger seat next to Billy was a Fortress Building Society passbook, poking out from which was a cashpoint card. ‘Been making a little withdrawal, Billy?’

‘It’s not a flaming crime, is it?’

‘It’s too cold standing here talking, Billy. Let’s get you down to the nice, warm station so we can rough you up a bit. First of all, where’s the money?’

‘What flaming money?’

Frost sighed. ‘Search him, Taffy.’

King shrunk back. ‘Oh no. Not with them greasy fish-and-chip fingers. Let the other bloke do it.’ He raised his arms as Jordan patted his pockets then withdrew a wallet from inside his jacket. Jordan opened it and pulled out a couple of notes.

‘Twenty quid, Inspector, that’s all,’ reported Jordan.

‘And there had still better be twenty quid in there when I get the wallet back,’ sniffed King. ‘I know what sticky-fingered bastards you coppers are.’

‘Where’s the rest, Billy?’ asked Frost.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s in the car somewhere,’ said Frost. ‘Too bleeding cold to search here. We’ll do it back at the station.’ He took King’s arm. ‘Come on, sunshine. Let’s go to the nice cop shop. My Welsh colleague will drive your car back.’

‘He’d better take care of it,’ scowled King. ‘I ain’t paid for it yet.’

‘He’ll treat it as if it were his own, Billy,’ Frost assured him. ‘He wrote his off yesterday.’ He radioed through to the stake-out team and told them they could go home, but to book an extra hour for their trouble.

Frost dribbled smoke through his nose and watched King through the haze, on the other side of the table in the Interview Room. Billy squirmed in his chair. ‘I don’t know what this is all about, Inspector. You’re setting me up, aren’t you? You’re flaming well setting me up.’