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Authors: R. D. Wingfield

Winter Frost (3 page)

BOOK: Winter Frost
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   "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."

   "And 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." Leyton'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?"

   
"I never knew she was his wife, guv—cross my heart."

   
"Where did you meet her?"

   
"The Raven's Arms. I went there for a quiet drink."

   
Frost snorted. "No-one goes to the Raven's Arms for a quiet drink. OK, let's hear the rest of this Mills and Boon love story. Did she take you to her place or was it the first shop doorway you came to?"

   
"We went to her place, guv."

   
"Double bed or single?"

   
"Double, guv."

   
"And you didn't think to ask who usually occupied the other half?"

   
"You know how it is, guv, the minute their knickers come off the last thing on your mind is asking personal questions."

   
Frost sighed and poked a cigarette in his mouth. "You're a bloody fool, Taffy. Knocking off the wife of a known criminal . . . If Mullett gets to hear of it you can kiss your job goodbye . . . and Leyton wants to cause trouble."

   
"I know, guv. Sorry, guv." Morgan gave Frost his soulful, wide-eyed expression.

   
"You're not sorry you did it, you're sorry the bastard found you out," sniffed Frost. He pinched out the cigarette and dropped it in his pocket. "All right—you nip back to the office and finish off those flaming crime figures. I'll see if I can get you off the hook with Leyton. And then I'm having a word with the canteen—I don't think they're putting enough bromide in your tea."

   
Morgan grinned sheepishly and slunk out.

   

Leyton looked up belligerently as Frost entered the interview room, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been removed. "I'm going to get that randy sod kicked out of the force," he snarled.

BOOK: Winter Frost
3.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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