A Killing Frost (46 page)

   Skinner waved a hand at the papers on his desk. ‘You know what these are? Overtime claims . . .
unauthorised
overtime claims. I’m the one who authorises overtime, Frost, not you.’

   ‘Superintendent Mullett - ’ began Frost.

   ‘And not Superintendent bleeding Mullett - you take your orders from me, not him. What did that Irish tart say about the phone?’

   Frost told him.

   Skinner snorted. ‘She took it from the girl’s locker? Just what I thought.’

   ‘Mrs Clark said Debbie had it the night she was killed.’

   ‘Then she’s wrong. It can’t have been in two bloody places at once, can it? The kid probably left it at school by mistake and lied to her mother. You’re wasting everyone’s time following that line of inquiry, so drop it. Bridget Malone is a petty, bog-paper-nicking thief, not a murderer, and Patsy Kelly’s a drug-dealer - I’m letting the drug squad deal with him. I’ve phoned the school. They don’t want to prosecute the woman, so that’s that.’

   His phone rang. ‘Skinner.’ He pulled the hand set away from his ear as a stream of invective poured out. ‘Mr Beazley, my name is Detective Chief Inspector Skinner. I think we have a mutual friend . . . yes, he’s the one. Up to now this whole thing has been a complete mess. I’m going to kick arse to make sure it’s dealt with as it should be. You have my word on that, Mr Beazley, you have my word.’ He hung up and rubbed his ear. ‘More bloody money was taken last night while you were gallivanting around picking up a bog-paper nicker. I want Beazley off my flaming back, so do a proper surveillance for a change tonight and catch the sod . . .
Comprende?

   ‘
Arrivederci,
’ said Frost.

   Skinner stared at him, wondering as usual whether Frost was taking the mickey or was just plain stupid. A noise from his old office distracted him. ‘How’s that lazy sod next door getting on?’

   ‘What, Superintendent Mullett?’ asked Frost innocently.

   ‘You know damn well who I mean. And he’s doing your office next week, ready for your successor. Have you sold your house yet?’

   ‘Not yet.’

   ‘Then get a bloody move on. You start at Lexton the week after next.’

   As Frost got up to go, Skinner suddenly remembered. ‘Where’s the change from my twenty quid?’

   ‘I gave it to your granddaughter,’ said Frost. ‘The under-age one.’

Back in his office, he sat and smoked, staring at the nicotine-stained ceiling. The thought that he would have to give this up and move to some sterile cupboard in Lexton added to his depressed mood. He hated to admit it, but Skinner was right about Kelly and Malone. Villains, yes; drug-dealers and petty thieves, yes; but killers and torturers of kids, no. So, with them off the suspects list they now had to try and trace the woman who was making the phone calls to Sandy Lane about the video.

   He made his way over to the Incident Room to see if they were having any luck with the registration numbers of the few cars that had been in the vicinity at around the time the woman made the call.

   Kate Holby was sitting at the corner desk with stacks of box files around her, transferring the contents to the computer. It was a boring, seemingly never-ending job. She looked as depressed as he felt. He wandered over to her. She looked up and gave him a weak smile.

   ‘I’ve just had a word with Skinner, love. He won’t be doing an adverse report on you.’

   Her face brightened. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.’

   ‘Don’t thank me, love,’ said Frost. ‘I just pointed out one or two things to him and, living saint that he is, he realised he’d made a mistake.’

   He moved across the room to Collier, who had the phone to his ear and was scribbling some thing down on a sheet of paper.

   ‘What are you doing, son?’ asked Frost when the call finished.

   ‘Jordan and Simms are out checking on the cars that were in the vicinity last night when the phone call was made. All vehicles cleared so far.’ He waved the A4 sheet at Frost. It was a list of registration numbers, ticked and marked when the owners had been traced and called on.

   One registration number wasn’t ticked. Frost jabbed it with his finger. ‘What about this one?’

   ‘That’s a lorry Inspector. You said check only cars.’

   Frost stared at the number. A little bell started ringing deep in the dark depths of his memory Where had he seen that registration number before? It was on a list. It was definitely on a list of some sort. ‘Check it out, son.’

   He waited while Collier tapped away at the computer. A name flashed up on the monitor. ‘Registered to Kenneth Taylor, Denton Farm Produce Ltd.’

   Frost shook his head. It still didn’t mean anything. ‘By the way, we’re back on surveillance duty at the Fortress cashpoints tonight. After midnight this time. Skinner has promised Beazley that he is going to crack this case personally, and we mustn’t let our Chief Inspector down, must we?’

As Frost returned to his office, DC Morgan hastily stuffed the
Daily Mirror
in a drawer and pretended to be busily filling in forms.

   ‘We’re back on cashpoint surveillance again tonight,Taff, so it will give your dick a rest.’

   Morgan grinned. ‘I’ve got details of the cars picked up on CCTV around the time the money was taken from Fortress last night. No common factor.’

   He passed the file across to Frost, who idly flipped through it while digging in his pocket for a cigarette. Then he froze. Staring up at him was the registration number of the Denton Farm Produce lorry; He turned another page. There it was again. He looked up. ‘Taff, come here.’

   Looking apprehensive and wondering what he had done wrong now, the Weishman joined him. ‘Yes, Guv?’

   Frost stabbed a finger. ‘Why wasn’t this one checked? The same vehicle on three of the four nights?’

   ‘It’s a lorry, Guv. You said don’t check lorries.’

   ‘You prat,’ snarled Frost. ‘Why do you only obey orders when it’s the wrong flaming thing to do? The same flaming lorry turning up every night around the time the money was taken from the building society. Didn’t you think that was more than a flaming coincidence?’

   ‘Now you come to mention it,’ began Morgan, but Frost was already on his way to the Incident Room.

   ‘Collier, what was the address of that bloke from Denton Farm Produce?’

   ‘Rose Cottage, Shadwell Road,’ Collier told him.

   Frost punched the palm of his hand. ‘Shadwell Road? That’s within spitting distance of where Billy King lives - the one whose cashpoint card was stolen. This could be the bloody lead we’re looking for.’ He snatched up the phone and called Control. ‘Get on to Jordan and Simms. Tell them to drop everything and pick up a Kenneth Taylor, Rose Cottage, Shadwell Road for questioning in connection with the theft of a bank card. And tell him I want to thank him personally for hitting Morgan on the head the other night.’

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 for ever.’

   ‘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?’