'I've known worse,' grunted Frost. 'What's the address of this burglary?' He had a quick look at his watch. If it didn't take too long he would have plenty of time to fiddle his expenses and see the videoed title fight with the rest of the shift. Life was a joy when your Divisional Commander was away.
Police Superintendent Mullett tapped his fingers happily on the steering wheel of his Rover as he drove back from CountyHeadquarters. An excellent meeting under the chairmanship of the Chief Constable in which Denton Division came out very well, he thought. It was a meeting for all Divisional Commanders to discuss ways of maintaining an efficient force in the face of the draconian budget cuts that had been forced upon them. The Chief Constable - quite brilliantly, thought toadying Mullett - had suggested that more work with less manpower could be achieved by increased inter-Divisional co-operation with men being seconded from Division to Division as and when required. Some of the other officers had expressed their disquiet feeling this could only reduce the efficiency of the supplying Divisions, but Mullett, not quite understanding what was involved, although sensing that nods of approval and not constructive criticism were required, had nodded until his head ached and had committed ten of his own officers to a joint drugs operation. He was now basking in the euphoria of the Chief Constable's comments: 'It is the Denton spirit that's wanted throughout the County, gentlemen - an example to you all.' The sour glances fired at him by the rest of the meeting made it clear he was in a minority, but it was not the rest of the meeting he wanted to impress.
He pulled back the sleeve of his grey pin-stripe jacket to consult his Rolex. 9.58. The others would still be in the pub, drinking, drowning their sorrows, shaking their heads doubtfully over their beers and telling each other that it might look good on paper, but it just wouldn't work in practice. However, thought Mullett, if it did fail, it would be the Doubting Thomases who got the blame, not the wholeheartedly approving Denton Divisional Commander, determined to make a go of it.
As he spun the wheel to turn into the main road he had to brake sharply to avoid a mud-splattered Ford Sierra which had anticipated the traffic lights and roared across his path. He frowned. No mistaking the car or the driver. Frost! He'd have a word with him about careless driving when he got back to the office. As the Chief Constable had so rightly said at the meeting, supported by Mullett's unstinting noddings of approval, the police should always be setting an example, not bending the rules.
He took the short cut through the red light district as he wanted to check the current position. A deputation of some of the local residents, led by the vicar, had called on him demanding that the police clean up the streets. He had delegated the task to Frost who had insolently pretended that cleaning up the streets involved picking up empty crisp packets and cleaning away dogs' mess. Mullett's lips tightened. Frost might think that funny, but he wouldn't be laughing when Mullett got back to him.
The 'girls' were out in force, grinning, wiggling and beckoning as he drove past. They had disappeared from their beats in a panic some two months ago when one of their number had been found beaten up and murdered, but had gradually drifted back.
He clicked on his radio for the local news. '. . . Denton police have released without charge a man they had been questioning in connection with the disappearance some nine weeks ago of schoolgirl Vicky Stuart . . .' Another frown. Frost hadn't had the common courtesy to contact him at County and tell him they had arrested a suspect. He had felt a proper fool at the meeting when the Chief questioned him about it and he had to phone the station to find out what it was about. He slowed down and stopped at the traffic lights. Someone tapped on the driver's window. A woman with dyed blond hair and a ridiculously low-cut dress. 'Want to be naughty, mister?'
'No I do not, madam,' he snapped, hastily jumping the lights and narrowly missing a collision to get away from her. Ignoring the angry hootings from other drivers, he turned into the Market Square
. As he did so his mobile phone rang. Superintendent Harry Conley from Fenwick Division . . . probably still in the pub with the others, judging from the raucous laughter he could hear in the background.
'A spot of inter-Divisional co-operation wanted, Stan,' said Conley. 'Hope you can help?'
Mullett smirked happily. A chance to show what Demon could do. 'Certainly, Harry . . . fire away . . .'
A police car was parked outside the entrance to the apartment building and Frost slid his Sierra behind it. The burglary was at Flat 305 on the third floor. He thumbed the lift button, but nothing happened. A couple of swift kicks to the door hurt his foot, but failed to produce the lift, so it was the damn, stairs, when he reached the third floor he saw that the lift doors had been wedged open with a piece of wood, preventing the lift from operating. On to Flat 305 where an angry-looking woman opened the door to his ring and beckoned him in. 'The more the bloody merrier,' she said bitterly. 'No-one here when he robs us, can't move for bleeding police when it's all over.' Frost grunted his sympathy. Two uniformed men, Jordan and Simms, were already in the flat, Simms questioning an irate man who was slumped in an armchair. 'First bleeding night we go out together for ages,' he was moaning, 'and this flaming well happens.'
PC Jordan briefed Frost. 'Mr and Mrs Plummer. Went out just before eight o'clock to see the film at the Premier, got back quarter of an hour ago to find they'd been burgled.'
'The whole bloody evening was a wash-out,' wailed Mrs Plummer. 'Moan, moan, moan from him because he was missing the match on the telly. When we get back the stinking lift is out of order so we have to walk up three flaming flights of stairs to find we've been robbed, and on top of that it was a lousy bleeding film.'
'If we'd stayed in to watch the match like I wanted,' said her husband, 'this wouldn't have happened.'
She turned on him angrily. 'Oh - so it's all my bleeding fault now, is it? Just because, for once in my life, I wanted to go out.'
Frost shut his ears to the row. 'Any sign of forced entry?'
'No.' Jordan took him over to the front door. 'The letter box is in line with the latch. He probably hooked a piece of wire through and opened it that way.'
Frost nodded his grudging admiration. 'He's a clever bastard. Did you see how he wedged open the lift doors to make sure they didn't come back too soon? Let's have a look at the conjugal nest.'
He followed Jordan into the bedroom and saw exactly what he expected. One of the pillows, taken from near the double bed's headboard, had been dumped half-way down in the centre of the powder blue quilt.
'Reminds me of my honeymoon,' grunted Frost.
Jordan grinned. 'A professional job . . . straight in the bedroom and in and out in a couple of seconds.'
'Still reminds me of my honeymoon,' said Frost. Jordan suppressed a snigger as the husband and wife came in. Crime victims rarely saw the funny side of things.
'Look,' shrieked the woman, pointing to the bed. 'Not content with pinching my jewellery, he's taken the bleeding pillow case.'
'He always does,' Frost told her. 'It's his trademark. He uses the pillow case to bag up the loot. He arrives empty-handed - nothing on him to arouse suspicion before the burglary. He makes straight for the bedroom - which is where most people keep their jewellery - grabs the pillow case, drops the loot inside, then . . .' Frost walked over to the bedroom window and raised it so he could look down. Two floors below was a grassed-over area. 'Chummy drops the pillow case with the loot out of the window and walks away. If he's stopped at this stage, and we haven't been that flaming lucky yet, he's got nothing on him to arouse suspicion. Then he calmly retrieves the loot and legs it away. He only takes small stuff that he can pocket. He must have been watching the place . . . saw you go out and took his chance. Did you notice anyone hanging around?'
The man and his wife both shook their heads.
'If it's any consolation,' said Frost, 'you're not alone. He's done about eight blocks of flats over the Past three weeks; got away with thousands of pounds' worth of swag.'
'A
nd you still haven't caught the bastard. Brilliant!' snarled the man.
'As soon as someone is observant enough to feed us with a description, we might have something to go on,' said Frost, 'but so far, no-one's come up with anything.' He gave the place one last look around before rebuttoning his mac, ready for the off. 'Don't touch anything ... he hasn't left prints before, but there's always a first time. I'll send our lady Scenes of Crime Officer round first thing tomorrow morning to give the place the once-over.'
'Tomorrow?' shrieked Mrs Plummer. 'What about now? Time's bloody wasting.'
'She's off duty . . . and she's probably in bed with her pillow in the same position as yours but for a different reason. Tomorrow will be soon enough.'
Jordan's radio called. He listened and beckoned Frost over. 'Message for you from Control, Inspector. They've had a call from a couple on the next floor. Flat 410. Another burglary . . . sounds like the same man.'
Frost swore silently. 'You bet it's the same bloke. He's probably turned over half the flats in the building. He doesn't give a toss for what he's doing to our unsolved crime figures.' He checked his wrist-watch and groaned. At this rate he'd be working on his expenses into the small hours. 'Come on. Let's get it over with . . .'
The clock in the Market Square
was chiming eleven as Frost nosed his Ford into the station car-park. It had been a sod of a night so far. Two more burglaries reported and investigated in the flats, making four in all ... four, lots of miserable people moaning about their rotten luck and what bloody use were the police who spent too much time harassing motorists for' parking on double yellow lines and hardly any on the prevention of crime. Another four unsolved crimes for the monthly report and no further forward in catching the sod.
A list of the stolen jewellery was in his pocket, but Chummy was far too smart to use any of the local fences. Nothing from the previous break-ins had turned up.
Frost had switched his radio and his mobile phone off just in case some bright spark thought he was itching for more crimes to investigate. The rest of the night was expenses, crime figures, the big fight and then bed . . . He yawned. He could do with bed now. He'd been on duty since eight in the morning and was just about whacked.
At that time of night the station car-park should have been almost empty, but a large yellow and green motor coach was slewed across most of the parking spaces and he had to leave his Ford by the entrance. As he scrunched across the car-park the sound of drunken singing, shouting and the smashing of glass bellowed from inside the building. There must have been an affray at a pub somewhere. So much for peace and flaming quiet.
As he pushed open the rear doors the noise hit him like a punch in the face - drunken screeching laughter, bawdy singing, shouting and the yelling of Sergeant Wells demanding, but not getting, silence. Frost scuttled down the passage to the lobby and cautiously peeked inside. Drunks, men and youths, some near paralytic, others too full of bloody life, were sprawled all over the place and the noise was deafening. One man in the corner, eyes glazed, was performing a sinuous dance, with much pelvic thrusting, to music only he could hear. Another, egged on by the cheers of his mates, was standing on one of the benches, performing a strip-tease and was down to his bulging Y-fronts. In the corner, a sad-faced individual was quietly and copiously being sick. Red-faced and bellowing, Sergeant Wells was adding to the cacophony. 'Shut up all of you . . . bloody shut up!'
'What the hell is going on?' asked Frost. 'I thought I'd told Mullett not to bring his Rotary Club mates here any more.'
'Don't talk to me about flaming Mullett,' moaned Wells. 'This is all down to him!' He clapped his hands over his ears as the strip-tease finished and the applause rocked the room. 'Look at them ... a coachload of football hooligans - just what I flaming well needed!' He took one of Frost's cigarettes. 'You should see what those animals have done to the toilets - you could float the Titanic on a sea of vomit and urine. There's over sixty of them and I haven't got anywhere to put them - the cells are all full.' He raised his eyes to the ceiling. 'Bloody, bleeding Mullett!' ,
'How does our beloved Divisional Commander come into it?' asked Frost, pushing away a drunk who was trying to put his arms round his neck. I'm already! spoken for, mate.'
'This lot been up to town for the big match -though I expect most of them were too pissed to see it. They finish off all their booze on the way back, so they get the driver to stop at that all-night off-licence just outside Fenwick. They charge in, grab everything they can carry, wines, spirits, lager, packets of flaming pork scratchings, then belt back to the coach without paying. The manager and two of his staff try to stop them and get beaten up with bottles for their trouble. The manager's in hospital with a fractured skull.'
'Boyish high spirits!' murmured Frost. 'But how did we get involved? It's Fenwick Division's problem.'
'Tell me something I don't bleeding know, Jack. By the time the Fenwick area car turns up, they've all jammed into one of the coaches, left the driver behind and gone speeding off up the motorway. The area car follows, skids on some oil and overturns. So Fenwick now wants other Divisions to come to their rescue, stop the coach and hold the drunken sods until they can pick them up. All the other Divisional Commanders are boozing away somewhere. They don't want all the bleeding aggro so they ask Joe Soap Mullett. "We'll stop it," he says. "Denton will rise to the occasion as always." So we have to pull them in and now we're stuck with the sods. Mullett's mates must be laughing their bloody heads off.'
'Still,' grunted Frost, 'it's a fine example of inter-Departmental co-operation. Mr Mullett will be delighted.'
'Then Mr bleeding Mullett can come round with carbolic and a bucket and help swab up the mess. They're discharging from every flaming orifice in here.' He gaped and pointed. 'Look at that bastard. He's peeing on the floor.'
As Wells dashed over to stop the man Frost took the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat. His hand was on the door to his office when running footsteps and his name called made him turn round. An agitated PC Collier. 'What's up, son?'
Collier was panting and could just about get the words out. 'Quick, Inspector. A fight.'
Frost frowned. 'Nothing to do with me, son - tell Sergeant Wells, he's dying for something to do.'
'I think you'd prefer to handle it, Inspector.' Collier lowered his voice. 'One of the fighters is DC Morgan.'
Bloody Taffy! Frost hurried down the corridor after Collier, nearly tripping over a sleeping drunk on the way. Then, in the dim light, he saw them. Two dark shapes, rolling and thrashing about on the floor, each trying to get on top. One of them, a man with a long Woollen football scarf twined round his neck, managed to pin the other's arms down with his knees, then began methodically banging his adversary's head on the stone floor. Frost squinted. Collier was right. The man underneath was DC Taffy Morgan and he was definitely losing.
Frost grabbed the two ends of the football scarf and pulled with all his might. The winner's face went red as the scarf tightened, eating into his neck. Choking, he released his grip on Taffy's hair to pull the scarf away. Frost jerked the man's head back, crooked an arm firmly round his neck and dragged him to his feet. 'Cuffs!' he barked. Collier snapped on the cuffs. Glowering, eyes blazing, the man watched as Frost helped Morgan to his feet. 'What the hell is going on,! Taffy?'
Morgan looked sheepish. He brushed the dust down from his clothes, dabbed at blood that dribbled from his nose and gingerly touched the back of his head. 'Nothing, guv ... A misunderstanding . . .'
'Misunderstanding?' croaked Frost. 'He understood what he was flaming well doing - he was trying to smash your Welsh head in.'
'Let me at him and I'll finish the bloody job,' screamed the handcuffed man, a shaven-headed lout in his late twenties who kept jerking his wrists, trying to snap the handcuffs apart.
Frost peered at him. 'Don't I know you, sunshine?! He clicked his fingers. 'Kenny Leyton . . . robber with violence. I thought you were inside?'
'I came out last week.' L
eyton's face was contorted with rage as he glared at Morgan.
'I hope you left your cell nice and clean because you'll be back again tomorrow,' said Frost. 'I'm charging you with assaulting a police officer.'
Morgan looked dismayed. He tugged at Frost's sleeve. 'No, guv. He was drunk. He didn't mean it.'
'You bet I bloody meant it,' shouted Leyton. He turned to Frost with a provocative grin. 'Come on, copper, charge me. I want to be charged. Let the court know why I want to beat his bleeding brains out.'
Frost's eyes swivelled from one to the other, Leyton furious, Morgan looking embarrassed and guilty. He jabbed a finger at Collier. 'Stay with Leyton. I'll be back in a minute.' Grabbing Morgan's arm, he pushed him into an empty office and slammed the door. 'Right, Taffy. What the flaming hell is going on?'
Morgan hung his head and mumbled to the pattern on the threadbare carpet. 'Nothing, guv. It's trivial. I don't want to press charges.'
'Trivial?' echoed Frost in disbelief. 'A convicted criminal bashing the living daylights out of a police officer? If you don't charge him, then I will.' He moved to the door, but Morgan called him back.
'Wait, guv . . .' The DC slumped down in a chair and put on his hangdog, little boy caught stealing the jam expression, the expression that made weak-kneed women take him to their hearts before taking him to their beds. 'It's a bit embarrassing, guv . . .'
'Then embarrass me,' said Frost, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.
'I met this woman, see. She seemed a nice type . . . I didn't know she was married. Honest, guv, I wouldn't have touched her with a barge pole if I thought she was married.'
'Barge pole!' exclaimed Frost, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 'I bet you touched her with something bigger than a bleeding barge pole.' Then the penny dropped. 'You're not trying to tell me she was Leyton's wife?'
Morgan gave a shamefaced nod.
'A known criminal?' croaked Frost. 'And while he was doing time, you was doing his old lady?'
Winter Frost Page 2
