The area car’s headlights sliced a path through the darkness as it bumped and juddered up the unmade road that led to the farm building. It crawled up to a wooden gate which had fallen off its hinges, the headlights picking out the dim outline of an old farm labourer’s cottage. No lights were showing. Jordan squinted through the windscreen. “You sure this is the place? It looks derelict.”
“This is the place,” confirmed Simms. “Look—there’s the lorry by the side of the house.”
Jordan climbed out and adjusted his peaked cap as Simms slid from the driving seat. They scrunched up the weed-strewn gravel path. Suddenly there was the sound of shattering glass. They froze.
“What the hell . . . ?” began Simms when a man’s voice screamed out at them from one of the upstairs windows.
“That’s far enough, coppers.”
Simms tried to make out the shape in the window. “Now look, Mr. Taylor,” called Simms in his ‘let’s be reasonable about this’ voice. “We just want to talk to you.” They were moving forward again when the man swung round and thrust something through the shattered window, something metallic which glinted in the headlights.
“Shit!” croaked Simms. “It’s a bleeding shotgun.”
Both policemen stopped dead.
“This is silly, Mr. Taylor,” called Jordan. “We only want to talk to you.”
“Another move and I’ll shoot.” The voice was strained. The man seemed to be on the crumbling edge of a nervous breakdown.
Flaming hell, thought Simms. What has Frost let us in for this time?
The woman on the phone was near hysterical and Wells could hardly make out what she was saying. “Now calm down, madam, please.”
“The baby,” she kept sobbing. “He’s got the baby.”
“Who has got the baby?”
“I keep telling you. My husband . . . I came home from work. I went to the childminder. She said my husband had taken him. He told her we were going away on holiday.”
“And what’s wrong with that, madam?”
“We’re separated. He doesn’t have access. He gets violent rages. He’s going to hurt the baby. I just know it.”
“Have you contacted your husband?”
“I keep telling you. You don’t listen. I tried the last address he gave me. He’s moved. I don’t know where he is. He’s got the baby and I don’t know where he is.”
Wells picked up a pencil. “Right, madam, let’s have some details. First, your name and address . . .”
Jordan and Simms stood stock still. The barrel of the shotgun was moving slowly from one of them to the other.
Jordan tried again. “You’re prolonging the agony, Mr. Taylor. If we can’t sort this out calmly, we’ll have to call in a whole gang of armed police and things would get really nasty. We don’t want that.”
“I bloody want it,” screamed Taylor. “Get your bloody armed police. Get the press. Get the telly. I’ll tell them how those bastards ruined me . . . how they drove me to this.”
“Mr. Taylor—” Jordan took a tentative step forward, jumping hurriedly back as the shotgun blasted out, shattering one of the area car’s headlamps.
“I warned you,” screamed Taylor. “I won’t warn you again. Unless you want a faceful of pellets, clear off!”
“In the bloody car,” yelled Simms, grabbing Jordan’s arm and dragging him back. Once at the wheel, even before the doors were shut, he hurriedly backed the car down the lane, out of shotgun range and snatched up the radio handset.
“Denton. We’ve got a problem. We’re going to need back-up . . .”
“A bloody shoot-out,” moaned Frost, shuffling on his mac. “Just what we flaming well need.”
Lambert looked round the door. “Skinner isn’t answering his radio or his phone.”
“Trust Fatty Arbuckle to piss off somewhere when things get nasty.” Frost turned to Morgan. “He might be checking up on that tart. You did tell her to say she was fifteen?”
“Yes, Guv. She said she would. Are you going to call out Armed Response?”
Frost thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not yet. They’ll take over and turn it into a flaming gun fight at the OK Corral. Let’s try and keep things low key and talk Taylor out of it.”
Kate Holby came in and dumped some papers on Frost’s desk. “From DCI Skinner,” she said.
Frost smiled up at her. “Grab your coat, love. We’re going to a shoot-out.”
She looked doubtful. “I’ve got to stay here. DCI Skinner said—”
“Sod Skinner. He’s not here, so I’m in charge. Just get your coat.”
“Shall I come too, Guv?” asked Morgan.
“Yes,” nodded Frost. “We might need an expendable human shield.”
Frost’s ancient Ford made heavy going of the unmade road but it eventually staggered up to the area car. Frost switched off the headlights, then he and Taffy slid on to the rear seat of the area car. “Where is he?” he asked.
Jordan pointed up to the shattered window. “Up behind that left-hand top window—the one with the broken glass.”
Frost squinted. “I can see sod all.” He wished he’d had the sense to bring the night glasses.
“He’s up there all right,” Jordan assured him. “Just try walking towards the house and see what happens!”
Frost passed his cigarettes round to delay the moment when he would have to come up with a plan of action. At the moment, his mind was a blank.
Morgan offered a suggestion. “If you kept him talking, Guv, I might be able to sneak round the back of the house unnoticed and take him by surprise.”
“No,” said Frost. “I only want you shot to pieces as a last resort.” He took one last drag at his cigarette and stubbed it out. “Let’s see if my silver-tongued eloquence will work.” He climbed out of the car and advanced cautiously up the path. “Mr. Taylor, my name is Frost. Detective Inspector Frost. I want to talk to you.”
No reply.
Frost took another couple of tentative steps forward. “Can we talk?”
Movement at the window. A shot blasted out. Shotgun pellets bounded off the path just in front of Frost, who backed away hurriedly. “I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.
“I said no further,” yelled Taylor.
“What’s the point of all this?” shouted Frost. “You’ve nowhere to go. Chuck out the gun and come out.”
“If you want me, you can bloody well come and get me.” The voice was quivering on the edge of total hysteria.
“I don’t want to have to bring in armed police,” called Frost, his throat hurting from shouting against the wind. “I don’t want my men hurt and I don’t want you hurt.”
“Then go away. Leave me alone.”
Frost shrugged and mooched back to the car for another cigarette.
“What now, Guv?” asked Morgan, who always imagined Frost had instant solutions to all problems.
“Gawd knows,” shrugged Frost. “Sit it out, I suppose. He can’t stay in there forever.”
“He sounds suicidal,” said Kate Holby.
“If he tops himself, then hard luck. I’m not risking lives trying to stop him.” A tapping at the car window made him look up. He opened the door to Simms.
“Have you got your radio switched off, Inspector?”
Frost checked. “Yes. Sorry.”
“Control’s going mad trying to contact you.”
Frost switched on and picked up the handset. “Frost. What’s the panic?”
“Mullett wants you,” Lambert told him.
“And I thought it was urgent,” sighed Frost.
“Putting you through now,” said Lambert.
“Frost,” said Mullett, sounding annoyed as usual. “We’ve been trying to contact you.”
“Sorry, Super. Radio went on the blink. We’ve just managed to fix it.”
“We’ve had Taylor’s wife on the phone. She’s frantic. She and Taylor are separated. He doesn’t have access to their one-year-old son
. Taylor picked the kiddy up from the childminder and didn’t take him back home.”
Frost went cold. “Shit. He must have the kid in there with him. I need back-up.” This completely changed the situation.
“DCI Skinner is coming over to take command.”
“Terrific,” muttered Frost. “Our troubles are over!” He turned to the others. “Taylor’s got his one-year-old son in there with him.” He opened the car door. “Let’s have another bleeding fireside chat.”
He moved as far up the path as he dared and yelled, “Mr. Taylor!”
Movement at the window. “What do you want?”
“Have you got your son with you?”
“He goes where I go.”
“He could get hurt. Let’s get him out of there.”
“He stays with me.”
“What’s the point of all this, Mr. Taylor? You’ve got to come out some time. This is doing no one any good. What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you what I want.” The man was screaming now. “I want the world to know what that bastard supermarket has done to me . . .”
“And what has it done to you?”
“I had a market garden. I supplied all their vegetables—top-quality stuff, but they kept cutting the price they wanted to pay me. And then they wanted to cut it to below the cost of production. When I couldn’t meet their price, they dropped me. I lost everything.”
“Tough,” said Frost. “But how does this help?”
“I want the world to know what that bastard Beazley did to me. I want the press here . . . I want television . . . I want the bloody world to know what a shit he is.”
“All right, send your son out and I’ll get the media here.”
“My son stays with me.”
“Is he all right, Mr. Taylor? He’s very quiet.”
A long pause.
“Mr. Taylor,” repeated Frost. “Is he all right?”
“He’s sleeping . . . peacefully sleeping.”
“If I get the media here and you give them your story, will you end this? Will you come out quietly with the baby?”
Again a pause, then a none-too-convincing “Yes.”
“Leave it to me.” Frost returned to the car and lit up. “I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like it one sodding bit. Still, we’ve got no choice. We’ll have to go along with him. I get the feeling the bastard might make his point by doing himself in in front of the TV cameras and before the bleeding watershed.”
Headlights flared in the windscreen as DCI Skinner’s car pulled up alongside. “Our troubles are over,” muttered Frost. “The United States Cavalry has arrived.”
Skinner yanked open the car door, then jerked a thumb for Morgan to get out so he could slide in beside Frost. He scowled as he noticed Kate Holby. “What the hell are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you—”
“We need her,” cut in Frost. “Taylor’s got a baby with him. We could well need a woman.”
“I told her to stay in the office. She’s disobeyed orders once too often. By the way, I’ve checked with that tart . . . She’s twenty-three.” He turned to face the WPC. “You’re out, sweetie.” Back to Frost. “Fill me in.”
Frost brought him up to date.
Skinner frowned. “And you haven’t called in Armed Response?”
“I don’t want to escalate things. I want to keep it as low key as possible.”
“Firing at police officers is hardly low bleeding key, is it?”
“He fired in their direction. He could have hit them if he’d wanted to.”
“OK, we’ll keep them out of it for the time being. Those bastards like to steal all the flaming glory. And he’s got the child in there with him?”
Frost shrugged his shoulders. “He says he has, but we haven’t heard a peep out of the kid. He says the baby is sleeping peacefully—that’s got me worried.”
Skinner stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“With all the shouting and noise, I’d expect the kid to be bawling its head off. He might have done him in.”
Skinner frowned. “Done him in? You’re a cheerful bleeding sod, aren’t you? You’ve got no bloody proof of that.”
“Of course I’ve got no bloody proof. I hope I’m wrong, but Taylor’s gone round the bend. He’s not talking logically any more.”
The DCI chewed this over. “Suppose we rushed him—drove the car at speed to the door, bashed our way in and charged up the stairs?”
“Even I’m not prat enough to try that,” said Frost. “He’s got suicidal tendencies. He’d have shot himself and the kid before you were halfway down the passage.”
“We can’t just bloody well sit here,” said Skinner.
Then think of something, thought Frost. I’m out of flaming ideas. Aloud he said, “He wants to pour his heart out to the media.”
Skinner shook his head. “I don’t want the media here at this stage. If anything goes wrong I don’t want our mistakes broadcast all over the flaming country.” He tugged at his nose in thought. “I’ll talk to him. Do we know his phone number?”
“If he’s got his mobile on him, we know that number. It’s written on the side of the lorry.”
“Then try it.”
Frost dialled and handed his mobile over.
The call was answered on the first ring. “What do you want?”
“Mr. Taylor?”
“Who the hell did you think it would be? Who are you?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Skinner.”
“I don’t want to speak to you. Let me talk to the scruffy one.”
Skinner handed the phone to Frost. “He wants to speak to you.”
“What is it, Mr. Taylor?”
“The media. Where’s the media?”
“On their way,” lied Frost. “How’s the baby?”
A pause, then, “He’s fine. He’s at peace.”
A cold shiver crawled down Frost’s spine. “You’re sure he’s all right?”
“He’s at peace.”
“Can we see him?”
“No. I want the media. I want Beazley. I want him here.” The line went dead.
Frost stared at his mobile, then turned it off. “Did you hear that?” he asked Skinner.
Skinner nodded. “Yeah. I don’t want the flaming media here yet. Hold on. Do nothing. I’m going to take a recce.” He opened the car door and stepped out into the darkness.
“A reccy?” said Frost to Morgan. “Is that another name for a slash?”
“Reconnaissance, Guv,” explained Morgan.
“Oh!” said Frost, as if he didn’t know. He lit up another cigarette he didn’t want and watched the smoke writhe its way up to the roof. “It might not be a bad idea to get his wife down here.”
More car headlights shone through the windscreen. A blue Porsche—Superintendent Mullett. “Shit,” groaned Frost. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.”
Mullett tapped on his window and beckoned Frost over. “Update,” he snapped as Frost slid in beside him.
“Up what?” asked Frost innocently.
“I want an update,” barked Mullett. “What is the current position? Where is DCI Skinner?”
“Taylor’s in that upstairs room. He’s got a shotgun and is threatening to shoot anyone who comes too near. We think he’s got his one-year-old son with him, but we can’t be sure.”
“What does he want?”
“He wants the media and Beazley brought in so he can let the world know what a load of bastards Beazley and his supermarket are.”
“If that’s what he wants, get the media here,” said Mullett.
“In case we make a complete balls-up, DCI Skinner doesn’t want it splashed all over the TV screen,” said Frost.
Mullett nodded gravely. “Yes, of course. Good point. But what do you intend to do, Frost? We can’t just sit it out.”
“I’m waiting for Skinner. He’s in charge.”
“Then where is he?” The possibility of a ba
lls up was making Mullett nervous. If things went disastrously wrong, he didn’t want to be in the vicinity. He was already mentally composing his defence. I knew nothing about it. I would never have sanctioned it if I had known. “Ah—here he is.”
Skinner emerged from the dark and slid into the back seat. He nodded to Mullett. “Good to see you, sir. Do you want to take charge?”
“Good heavens no,” blurted Mullett, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m sure things are in capable hands.”
The DCI grunted his acceptance of authority “The way I see it is this. The longer we leave things, the worse they could get. He’s on the verge of cracking up completely. God knows what the hell he’ll do when he does.”
“We should back off and let him calm down,” said Frost.
“That’s just delaying what has to be done. We’ve got to bite the bullet. I managed to get round the back of the house without being seen. The back door doesn’t seem to be locked. Since I’m an official police marksman, I drew a gun from the station before I came. I want you to keep him talking, Frost, while I sneak round the back with the gun. I reckon I can get in without him knowing, creep up the stairs and ram my gun in his guts before he has a chance to do anything.”
“But if he hears you . . .” protested Mullett.
“If he hears me and comes at me with the shot gun, I’ll have no alternative but to shoot. I hope it won’t come to that. The important thing is to save the child if he’s still alive.”
Mullett blinked nervously. This could well go wrong and he didn’t want to be around when it happened, but he could see no way of getting out of it. “I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s too risky.”
“The alternative could be him killing the kid, then topping himself. Do you want to risk that?”
Mullett winced. He hated being put on the spot. “You’re in charge of the operation,” he told Skinner. “I must defer to your decision, but I’m calling Armed Response as a back-up just in case.”
Use your flaming authority, you spineless prat. Veto it, urged Frost mentally. This was going to end in disaster, he just knew it.
“Right, Frost,” ordered Skinner. “Get him on the phone and keep him talking.”
A Killing Frost Page 37
