Winter Frost (5 page)

Wells gawped in disbelief as Jordan and Simms escorted the violently protesting drunken driver into the lobby. Most of the football hooligans were in the coach, but a hard core had refused to co-operate and were lying on the floor, having to be manhandled one by one by perspiring police officers. All a flaming game to them, but Wells was close approaching the end of his tether and now another bloody drunk.

   
"We've arrested him for drunken driving, Sergeant," reported Jordan.

   
"Thank you very much," croaked Wells. "Another bleeding drunk—just what I'm short of."He kicked out savagely at one of the prostrate football fans who was tugging at his trouser leg, trying to topple him over.

   
"He was veering all over the road, Sergeant—a danger to other motorists—and he refused to be breathalysed."

   
The man squinted at Wells through drink-bleared eyes. "I was coming here anyway, officer. I want to report a serious crime."

   
Wells turned the page of the charge book. "Hard luck—we've got all the crimes we can handle tonight . . . Name?"

   
"Never mind my name," slurred the man. "I've been robbed . . . over four hundred quid. I pay my rates—you bloody investigate."

   
"Yes—you bloody well investigate," yelled the man on the floor staggering to his feet. "We're all witnesses. The gentleman's made a genuine complaint. He's entitled to justice."

   
"You'll get justice round the bleeding ear-hole if you don't shut up," snapped Wells, signalling for Collier to drag the man out to the coach before he flopped down again. He turned to the drunken driver. "All right. What's your name?"

   
"Hughes. Henry Hughes."

   
"And what happened?"

   
"She stole my wallet, all my credit cards and over four hundred quid in cash."

   
"Who stole them?"

   
"This tom . . . this flaming tart."

   
Frost, darting through the lobby on his way to the canteen, stopped and turned back. This sounded good for a laugh. "A prostitute?" he asked.

   
Hughes nodded. "The cow pinched my wallet."

   
"Tell me about it."

   
"She was swinging her handbag on the corner of King Street. She wants forty quid. I say OK, so we drive back to her place."

   
"And where was her place?"

   
"Clayton Street."

   
Frost nodded. A lot of toms did their business in short-let rooms in Clayton Street. "What number?"

   
"I don't know. I just followed her in. I didn't look at the number. I wasn't going to write her a bleeding letter."

   
"Then what?" prompted Wells who wanted to get this over.

   "We had it away. Forty quid She wasn't worth forty bleeding pence. I've had inflatable dolls with more reaction than her. Sod forty—I gave her twenty and that was generous."

   
"I bet that pleased her?" murmured Frost.

   
The man blinked at the inspector. "The cow started screaming and shouting. The names she called me . . . Anyway, I didn't want the hassle of clouting her one, so I ignored her and stamped out."

   
"Then what?" asked Frost.

   
"I gets into my car and drives off. I'd just turned the corner when I realized my naming wallet was missing. That cow had taken it!"

   
"Are you sure it was her who took it?" asked Wells.

   
"There was only me and her in the bleeding room. She must have nicked it from my jacket pocket while I was putting on my shoes."

   
"What did you do then?"

   
"I was back there like a streak of greased lightning. She must have known I was coming back because the door was locked. I kicked and banged and swore, but she wouldn't open up."

   
"Probably thought you were a Jehovah's Witness," said Frost.

   
"It's not bloody funny," snarled the man. "I want her arrested and I want my money back."

   
"Arrest her? You don't even know the number of her flat," said Wells.

   
"I'd know it if I saw it again. Take me there."

   
Wells jabbed a thumb at the two uniformed men. "Take him there."

   
Before they could move there came the sound of a struggle from the corridor and the thud of running feet. The man PC Collier had been dragging to the coach suddenly burst in and promptly sat himself down on the floor with his arms folded, a dishevelled PC Collier following, just too late to stop him. A roar of approval from other drunks on the floor. Wells winced and raised his eyes to heaven. The internal phone rang. He snatched it up. "What is it?" he barked, quickly changing his tone when he realized it was the Divisional Commander. "Oh. Sorry, sir. Yes, sir . . . I'm doing the best I can, sir . . . Yes, sir." He banged the phone down. "Bloody Mullett! He causes all the trouble, now he wants us to keep the noise down—it's giving him a headache. I'll give the bastard a headache." He yelled for Jordan and Simms to bring Hughes back. "Leave him and get these other sods into the coach." He turned to Frost. "And Mullett wants to know where the crime statistics return is."

   
As if on cue, Morgan poked his head round the door and waved a sheaf of papers. "I've done the return, guv. All you've got to do is sign it."

   
Frost scribbled his signature, not bothering to check the figures which meant little to him anyway. "Good boy, Taff. As a reward you can visit a prostitute with this gentleman and get his wallet back." He quickly filled him in. "And bring her straight back here—no freebies on the way."

   
"And bring him back as well," called Wells, indicating Hughes. "He's on a drunken driving charge." He watched Jordan and Simms manhandle another football fan out. What a peaceful flaming night this was turning out to be . . . And it wasn't over yet.

The cashier at the petrol station mini-mart was shaking, sobbing and almost incoherent, so Liz had to rely on the statement taken from her by PC Lambert to find out what had happened. All she could remember was this man, his face covered by a black ski mask, suddenly bursting in with a shotgun, firing it up into the ceiling, then ordering her to empty the till into a carrier bag. An old man who was pottering about in the DIY section suddenly came charging down the aisle, hollering and shouting, hurling whatever came to hand from the shelves at the armed robber. He chucked a can of paint which shed its lid and spilt all over the robber's coat, then hurled himself at the man and tried to wrestle the gun away. In the struggle, the shotgun went off leaving the old boy writhing on the floor, screaming with pain. The robber snatched up the carrier bag of cash and fled. The cashier remembered hearing a sound of an impact as if the getaway car had hit something before roaring away.

   
The victim, grey-faced and clearly in shock, was being carefully lifted on to a stretcher. "He's not too badly hurt," one of the ambulance men told Liz. "Give the hospital a ring in an hour or so after they've taken the pellets out. He should be able to talk to you then."

   
Harding from Forensic was on his knees by the chalked outline of the shot man, carefully avoiding the pool of blood which had mingled with a puddle of white paint, tingeing it pink. He beamed up at Liz. "Clues galore. White paint over his clothes, of course—we'll be able to match it if you catch him—and I reckon the gunman got hit with some of his own shotgun pellets."

   
"How do you know?" asked Liz, bending as he pointed to the main pool of blood.

   
"The victim was shot and fell here—this is his blood. But there's more blood further along." He ringed with blue chalk some splashes of blood nearer the exit. "We can safely assume this came from the gunman. Lucky for us we can match the DNA should you catch him. Unluckily for him, he's bleeding pretty badly and will almost certainly require medical attention."

   
Liz radioed the station where Bill Wells, sighing audibly at being dragged away from something more important than a lousy armed robbery, reluctantly agreed to contact all hospitals and doctors.

   
PC Lambert, who had been chaining off the entrances to the service station to stop motorists driving in, reported that the post holding the Fina emblem had been damaged, probably hit by the getaway car. Harding hurried out to check, returning happily to announce there was plenty of dark blue paint scraped from the getaway car to keep him happy. "Find the car and we can match the paint," he said. Again Liz radioed the station.

   
"What is it now?" barked Wells, his voice raised against a background of shouts and crashes.

   
"All units to look out for a dark blue car with a damaged nearside wing, wanted in connection with an armed robbery," she told him. "Approach with caution . . . driver believed to be armed with a shotgun." She had to repeat herself as Wells couldn't hear over the background. "Those drunks still there?" she asked.

   
"Yes, they flaming well are!" snapped Wells, banging down the phone.

   
The ambulance men taking the wounded man to hospital were also taking the woman cashier who was still in a state of shock. As Liz watched the ambulance leave, she spotted the surveillance camera on the forecourt. Excitedly, she pointed it out to Lambert. "Get the videotape."

   
Lambert shook his head. "Sorry Inspector, we've already checked. The recorder's up the spout. The tape's all snarled up inside and the cashier forgot to report it."

   
"Very convenient for the robber," muttered Liz significantly. She made a mental note to get Morgan to check on the cashier's background as soon as she got back to the station. Suddenly the aisle of shelves blurred in and out of focus and seemed to lurch to one side and there was a roaring in her ears, making her grab at Lambert for support.

   
"Are you all right?" asked Lambert with concern.

   
"Of course I'm all right," she snapped, making an effort to pull herself together; "Just a bit sick, that's all . . . something I ate."

She coasted her car into the station car-park, keeping well clear of the coach into which a rabble of noisy drunks were being herded. As they spotted her they let out a torrent of wolf whistles, accompanied by crude gestures. Ignoring them she pushed her way through to her office, clutching her handbag tightly. She hoped to find Morgan in Frost's office as she wanted him to check on the cashier, but it was empty. Frost was in the lobby talking to Bill Wells who acknowledged her with a scowl. "Any idea where DC Morgan is?"

   
"He's out getting a punter's wallet back from a torn," Frost told her. "He should be back soon."

   
The explosive roar of the coach engine bursting into life and urgent shouts and yells from the car-park sent them charging down the corridor. Then came the teeth-setting sound of metal grinding against metal. They reached the rear entrance just in time to see the coach, its jeering passengers giving them the V sign, weaving an erratic path to the exit, chased ineffectively by Collier, Simms and Jordan.

   
Wells' jaw dropped. "They've driven off in the bloody coach," he shrilled, staring accusingly at Frost whose idea it was in the first place.

   
Frost glared back at him. "Didn't you think to check who had the flaming key?" They glowered at each other.

   
Giving up the chase and sucking air into spent lungs, Jordan and Simms made their way to the area car. "We'll soon head them off, Sarge."

   
"No, you bloody won't," bellowed Wells. "Let the next Division have the pleasure of catching the sods. Chase them until they reach our boundary, then get a puncture and radio that you've lost them." He was grinning broadly at this happy outcome when the grin froze solid on his face. "Look!" he croaked, pointing a wavering finger at Mullett's blue Rover, the Divisional Commander's pride and joy. It was now clear what the sound of metal grinding against metal had been. The rear wing was crumpled and the rear passenger door punched in. His mouth opened and closed. He could barely get the words out. "Look what they've done to his motor!"

   
Frost looked and winced. "Perhaps he won't notice."

   
"Won't notice?" shrieked Wells. "There's over a thousand quid's worth of damage there—of course he'll bloody notice!!"

   
Even before they reached the lobby they could hear the internal phone shrilling angrily. Wells stared at it. "It's bloody Mullett. What shall I tell him?"

   
"Go on the offensive," suggested Frost. "Ask him why he hasn't made you to up inspector."

Even at one o'clock on a cold winter's morning there were still people furtively scuttling along the back streets. A drunk clutching a lager can suddenly lurched in front of the car without warning and Morgan had to pound the horn and swerve violently to avoid hitting him. To express his gratitude the drunk jerked two fingers at the car, hurled the lager can at it and let off a stream of oaths before lumbering off into the dark. "You should have run the bastard down," grunted Hughes, who clearly had no fellow feeling for other drunks. Nearing their destination, they passed through the red light area where one lone prostitute, shivering in an artificial fur coat, forced a welcoming smile and moved forward hopefully as the car approached, slumping back against the wall as it drove past.

   
"She's a bit long in the tooth," commented Morgan.