R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

Jordan shook his head and reached out again for the flask of coffee. It was supposed to help keep you awake, but all it did was make him want to pee. He was bursting. He nipped out for a quick slash behind the car, then climbed back into the uncomfortable driving seat. He looked at his watch. Only an hour had passed. It seemed like flaming years. Where was the relief Frost was supposed to be sending?

There was a gentle tapping on the side window. Good old Frost, for once he hadn’t forgotten. Jordan opened the car door so that WPC Kate Holby could slide into the seat beside him. He filled her in, pointing out the location of the Citroen. She was about to leave for her own car when – ‘Jordan! What the hell are you doing here?’

Shit! Detective Chief Inspector Skinner was all tarted up in a smart suit, stinking of beer and with a nasty ‘I’m looking for trouble’ glint in his eye.

Jordan’s mouth opened and closed. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

‘I asked you what the hell you were doing here, both of you?’

‘Surveillance, sir,’ Jordan choked out at last.

‘Surveillance?’ Skinner checked his watch. ‘At this time of the bloody night. Who authorised it?’

‘Inspector Frost, sir.’

‘And where is Inspector Frost?’

‘Back at the station, I think, sir.’

‘And what, Constable, are you supposed to be surveillancing?’

‘Suspect is a chap called Kelly, sir. Receiver of stolen goods.’

‘And he’s inside the club?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘With his arms full of stolen goods?’

Jordan thought quickly. ‘He sometimes seeks orders for stolen goods from contacts in the club, sir. We want to follow him to find out where he’s got them stashed.’

Skinner gave Jordan a cold, hard stare, then turned his attention to Kate Holby.

‘And what do you think you’re doing here?’

The girl flushed. ‘I’m relieving PC Jordan.’

‘You’re doing surveillance as well? Who the hell gave you permission to do surveillance? Have you finished compiling those lists that I gave you?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Didn’t I say you were to do no other duties until you’d finished everything I’d allocated you?’

‘Yes, but Inspector Frost – ’

‘You don’t take orders from Inspector Frost, you take them from me. This is a bloody waste of time. I’m the only one who authorises surveillance overtime and this is unauthorised. Clear out of here right now, the pair of you, and tell Inspector Frost I want to see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, Chief Inspector,’ mumbled Jordan.

‘Now!’ yelled Skinner. ‘Clear out of here now!’ He waited for Kate Holby to return to her car and for Jordan to reverse and leave the car park. As Jordan did so, he noticed a flashily dressed woman in Skinner’s car, obviously waiting to be taken into the club. He doubted she was Skinner’s wife. No wonder he wanted the surveillance discontinued.

Jordan was backing out when, to his horror, he saw Kelly and Malone leaving the club and making for the Citroen. Kelly had his arm round the woman, who didn’t seem very well. This was confirmed when she turned her head and vomited all over the tarmac.

‘Shit! They’re leaving early.’ He snatched up his mobile to warn Frost.

The loft was tightly crammed with junk and looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for years. The floorboards were crumbling with dry rot and Frost nearly put his foot through to the ceiling below. A quick flash around with his torch revealed nothing. He climbed down and brushed dust and cobwebs from his coat. He checked his watch. One thirty. Plenty of time. Kelly never left the club until two at the earliest.

Jordan had lost Kelly’s car. He was so sure Kelly was heading for home that he had overtaken him in case he saw he was being followed. He tucked into a lay-by and waited. And waited. Shit! They must have turned off down one of the side roads, but where the hell would they be going at half one in the flaming morning? Hoping and praying Skinner wasn’t listening in, he radioed all area cars asking them to keep a look-out for Kelly and to report back as soon as they saw him.

He had tried to ring Inspector Frost on his mobile phone to warn him, but all he got was a recorded message that the person called was not available and would he like to leave a message. Typical! Frost had switched the damn thing off. He tried Frost’s radio. ‘Inspector Frost, come in please… Please… come in…’

Why Frost suddenly decided to look in the airing cupboard was a complete mystery to him. His experience of his own airing cupboard was that when you opened the door the contents cascaded out all over the floor and had to be rammed back with much swearing; He tentatively opened the door, his torchbeam crawling over neatly folded towels and sheets. On the bottom shelf lay a pile of assorted items in a card board box. He pulled it out and examined the contents. Creditcards, chequebooks, cheque-guarantee cards, all in different names – clearly the spoils of theft.

As he was pushing the box back, he another one at the back of the shelf. He pulled it out half-heartedly and lifted the lid. Wrist watches, cheap jewellery, assorted credit cards and… His heart stopped. At the bottom of the box was a phone. A Nokia mobile phone. The same make, model and colour as Debbie, Clark’s missing mobile.

Taffy Morgan had just finished off a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and was chucking the screwed-up bag out of the window when he suddenly heard a muffled voice.

‘Inspector Frost, come in please…’

Where the hell was it coming from? The glove compartment. He opened it and there was the pocket radio Frost should have taken with him. Morgan pulled it out and answered the call.

‘For Pete’s sake, get hold of Inspector Frost!’ yelled Jordan. ‘Kelly’s left the club. We think he’s on his way home.’

Hands trembling, Frost carefully wrapped a handkerchief around the mobile, took it out and examined it more closely under the light of his torch. It was switched off, so he clicked it on. What next? There was no indication of the phone’s number. On his own mobile there was a way to bring the owner’s number up on the screen, but he couldn’t remember how it was done and didn’t want to press keys randomly in case it messed things up. He brought up the menu. The battery level was very low – it looked ready to die at any minute. He switched it off quickly. If the phone was dead there was no way he could find out if it was Debbie’s.

Think, think, think! How could he check? There was a way. There had to be. Right. He had Debbie’s mobile number on him somewhere. If he phoned the number and the mobile rang, that would prove it was her phone and he had the bastards. He rummaged through his pockets to find the scrap of paper with the number scribbled down, then scuttled back to the bedroom to use the bedside phone. As his hand went to pick it up, it rang.

Jordan’s radio spluttered. ‘Charlie Baker calling. We’ve just spotted Kelly and the woman driving away from the twenty-four-hour chemist in Market Square. Do we follow?’

‘Don’t follow,’ said Jordan. ‘See if you can get to the house before them. Park round the back behind Taffy Morgan. I’ll let you know if I want any more help.’

He drove as quickly as he could to Kelly’s house, still trying to work out how to warn Frost, who hadn’t got his radio or mobile. He braked sharply at a public telephone box with a couple of yellowing, tattered phone directories dangling from a chain. He dashed in. The kiosk stank of urine and the floor was littered with stale, damp papers and takeaway containers. Most of the pages had been torn out of the directory; but he hoped Kelly’s number was there. It was! He rammed 20p in the slot and dialled Kelly’s number. It rang and rang. ‘Answer the flaming thing,’ hissed Jordan. ‘You’ve got to get your arse out of there bloody quick.’