R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

Frost puffed out a smoke ring and watched it writhe its way up to the nicotine-stained ceiling. ‘I have a strict code of ethics, Billy. I only set people up if I can’t beat a confession out of them.’ He was feeling pleased with himself. He never expected such a quick result. He was just waiting for Morgan and Jordan to return from their search of Billy’s car bearing the five hundred quid.

‘How much longer before you tell me what this is all about?’ asked King. ‘My old lady will be worried sick.’

‘Not long, Billy,’ said Frost. ‘Ah!’ He could hear approaching footsteps. Jordan and Morgan came in. In reply to his questioning gaze, they shook their heads. They had searched the car and found nothing.

Frost groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands. This was going to take longer than he had hoped. ‘Give us a clue, Billy. Where have you hidden the money? Have you swallowed it? Shall we get out the syrup of figs or the enema we use for our horses?’

‘You give me a clue, Inspector Frost. What money are you talking about?’

‘The money you withdrew from the building society’

‘It’s in my bloody wallet, if that copper hasn’t nicked it.’

‘There was only twenty quid in there, Billy.’

‘So? That’s all I had in my account. I told you.’

‘You also told us, Billy, you had your cashpoint card stolen.’ He flashed the plastic under Billy’s nose. ‘So what is this?’

‘That’s my wife’s card. It’s a joint account. Mine was pinched, so I used hers. So how about telling me what this is all about, or is it a flaming state secret?’

Frost’s heart took a nosedive. He looked at the card. It was in joint names. ‘You didn’t bloody tell me it was a joint account.’

‘You didn’t bloody ask!’

Frost just stared at him. His mobile phone rang. Still looking at Billy he fumbled for the phone and put it to his ear.

‘Frost,’ he grunted.

As he listened, his heart nosedived even further into the depths of his stomach. Vindictive fate was kneeing him in the privates. ‘Shit! Thanks for telling me.’ He clicked off, shifted his gaze from Billy and stared in disbelief at his phone, then spun the chair round to face Jordan and Morgan. ‘You want the bad news or the bad news? That was the Fortress Building Society. While we’ve been wasting our time with this prat, someone has used the stolen card to with draw four hundred and eighty quid from the Minton Street cashpoint.’

‘Four hundred and eighty?’queried Jordan

‘That was all the machine would let him have. Apparently twenty quid had been withdrawn earlier.’

Billy King smirked. ‘That was me. Will you believe me now?’

Jordan moved to the door. ‘Shall I get over there?’

Frost shook his head. ‘It’s too flaming late. He’ll be miles away by now.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘It’s not my bleeding night.’

‘It even more of a rotten night for you now, Inspector Frost,’ smirked Billy. ‘I’m having you up for false arrest.’ He stood and scooped up the stuff taken from his pockets, which was on the table between them.

Frost’s hand shot out to grab King’s wrist.

‘Hold on, Billy, it might not be your bleeding night either.’ He hooked a keyring on his index finger and spun it so it flashed in the light. ‘I meant to ask you about this before, but there’s an awful lot of keys here for just one small-time crook’s crappy house.’

The smile faded from Billy’s face. ‘Oh – they’re old keys, Inspector. I’ve never got around to throwing them away.’ He held out his hand. ‘If I could have them…’

Frost whirled the keys around.

King stared at them as if hypnotised.

‘You used to rob old ladies, didn’t you, Billy? Nick their handbags, pinch their money and then use their door key to sneak into their houses when they were out.’

‘That was a long time ago. I don’t do things like that any more.’

Frost gave him a long, hard stare, remembering how worried the man had seemed when the wallet was first taken away from him. Frost had only done a quick flip through, looking for the money, and Billy had seemed quite relieved when the wallet was put down again. Frost held out his hand. ‘Show me your wallet again, Billy.’

An even more worried look. ‘What for? You’ve seen it once.’

‘I’ve got a looking-inside-wallets fetish,’ said Frost, thrusting his open hand forward. ‘Give it to me.’

Reluctantly, King pulled the wallet from his pocket and handed it over, watching apprehensively as Frost flipped it open. There were two credit cards inside. One was in Billy’s name, but the other…

Frost smiled. ‘What a coincidence, Billykins. We had an old lady in here earlier complaining some toe-rag had nicked her handbag. Now, her name is exactly the same as the name on this credit card and you’re a toe-rag. Isn’t that a coincidence?’

‘I found it in the gutter, Inspector. I was going to hand it in, but what with you trying to stitch me up on a false charge…’

‘She identified you, Billy,’ continued Frost. ‘We showed her the mugshots and she picked you out. “That’s him – that fat little sod,” she said.’

‘You’re lying. Any mugshot of me must be years old.’

‘Policemen don’t lie, Billy – unless they want to get a conviction. You know that.’

‘I still think you’re lying, Inspector.’

Frost opened the Interview Room door and yelled down the corridor to Sergeant Wells. ‘Sergeant, was Bill King’s mugshot in those photos we showed the old dear this morning?’

‘Yes,’ shouted back Wells.

‘And did she pick him out as the bastard who robbed her?’

‘You know she did!’ yelled Wells.

Frost shut the door quickly, in case Wells decided to qualify his statement by adding that she identified every flaming face she saw. He sat down, put on his disarming smile and pushed his packet of cigarettes across the table. ‘It’s late, Billy, we’re all shagged out and we want to go home. Now we can either bang you up for the night, sharing a cell with a frustrated, seventeen-stone raging queer, or you can cough the lot, give us a statement and we’ll let you go home on police bail.’

‘You’re a bastard,’ said Billy.

‘So people keep telling me,’ said Frost, ‘but I don’t see it myself.’

Frost stood by his office window to watch Billy climb into his car, slam the door angrily and drive off.

‘We should have searched his house, Guv,’ said Morgan. ‘I bet we’d have found a whole pile of loot.’

‘It’s too flaming late for those larks,’ yawned Frost, passing his cigarettes around. For a while they smoked in silence.

‘Not entirely a wasted evening then, Guv,’ offered Taffy.

Frost shrugged. ‘It could have been a damn sight better. Still, what is it Rhett Butler says in Gone with the Wind?’

‘Something like “Quite frankly, I don’t give a monkey’s”?’ suggested Jordan.

‘No,’ said Frost. ‘Something like “Tomorrow is another bleeding day.” ’

‘Scarlett O’Hara says that,’ said Morgan.

‘Whatever her bleeding colour, she was flaming right,’ said Frost. ‘So we missed him tonight. There’s other nights. He can only draw out five hundred quid at a time, so he’s got to do it again and again. Even someone as stupid as me won’t be able to continually sod up catching him.’ He stood up and crushed his cigarette underfoot. An unmade bed in a cold house wasn’t much of an attraction, but he was dead on his feet. ‘Right, we try again tomorrow.’

His mobile rang. He frowned. Who the hell would be calling him at this flaming hour? Late-night – or early-morning – phone calls always spelled trouble.