Authors: R. D. Wingfield
"But you can't turn a blind eye to murder," protested Morgan.
"Just watch me, Taffy. That old cow kept her son hidden away for years just to save her own skin. I'd like to get her for that, but she's too old and it happened far too long ago and I'm too flaming tired to care." He exhaled smoke. "Let this be a lesson to you, Taff. Stay away from women with big nipples and long knives." He yawned. "Let's get our heads down. I get the feeling we're going to be in for a rough night."
PC Collier yawned and knuckled his eyes. Three in the morning, his fourth consecutive night on overtime and it was hard to keep awake. This was going to be yet another boring night with nothing happening. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and wished he was back home in bed, then his eyes snapped open as he became aware there was someone in the seat next to him. Jordan back with the big Macs? No. It was Detective Inspector Jack Frost.
"Sorry, sir," Collier muttered, trying to look alert. "Must have closed my eyes for a few seconds."
"About two hundred and forty bleeding seconds," said Frost. "I know it's a bore, son, but there's little point to the exercise if you fall asleep just as the killer picks her up." He took a look through the car window.
"Where is she?"
With a start of panic Collier snatched up the night glasses and scoured the area near the phone box. Polly wasn't there! He'd missed the pick-up, he'd bloody missed it! Then he saw her, leaning against the railings in the shadow. "There, sir!" He passed the night glasses to Frost, trying to sound as if he knew all the time.
Sensing she was being watched, Polly moved forward to the light-splash from the lamp post and gave her bottom a little wiggle for Collier's benefit. He blushed, but Frost gawped with delight. "Cor, I couldn't half give her one." He turned to the PC. "Shouldn't there be two of you? Where's Jordan?"
Before Collier could think of an excuse, Jordan appeared clutching two yellow polystyrene containers. His dismay showed when he saw Frost. "Just popped out for some refreshment, Inspector."
Frost took one of the boxes and looked inside. A beefburger, oozing fat and reeking of fried onion. "You should have got one for Collier as well," he said, sinking his teeth into it. His head jerked up. "What's this?"
A flare of headlights as a beige minicab marked 'Dave's Taxis' drew up by the phone box and honked its horn. Collier consulted his list. "The right cab, sir." He focused the night glasses. "And the right driver. He's picked Polly up a couple of times before."
"OK, son. Follow it, then take her back to the station. I'm calling it a night." He climbed out of the car, fatigue and depression weighing him down. He was so sure tonight was going to be the night. Now he'd have to face Mullett again in the morning and talk the cheese-paring bastard out of stopping the exercise. He took another bite at the beefburger but realized he didn't want it and chucked it into the gutter, giving it a savage kick as it fell. Round the corner to his own car and off to the other phone box. He had left Morgan watching Liz Maud but wasn't too happy at leaving the DC on his own in spite of the man's earnest protestations. "You can rely on me, guv." Taffy was the last bleeding bloke you could rely on.
Half-way there when his radio squawked. "Control to Mr. Frost. Urgent. Come in, please."
He lifted the handset. "Frost."
"Urgent assistance required. Ram raid in progress at Conway's Jewellers in the High Street. One officer injured, ambulance on way. We need all your men, now!"
He radioed his team as he spun the car round. "All units, abandon operation. Ram raid, Conway's Jewellers, officer injured. Get over there now."
Morgan radioed back. "I'm watching DI Maud, guv. There's a cab pulling up for her now. Can't see the registration number, but it's a woman driver. Looks all right. Safe to leave?"
"No, not safe to bloody leave," snapped Frost. "Might be a man in drag. Follow, pick her up at the other end, then both of you get over to Conway's pronto."
Skidding round the corner, he was the first on the scene, the other two cars close on his heels. A Panda car was slewed across the road. The pavement outside the jewellers sparkled with broken glass and the alarm was shrilling with no-one to take any notice. He ran over to the still shape of a uniformed officer sprawled in the gutter, his head in a puddle of blood.
A slamming of car doors and the clatter of footsteps behind him. He knelt by the officer and touched the icy cold, chalk white face of twenty-year-old Peter Adams who had been with the Division a few months only. "Get a blanket or something. The poor sod's freezing." He moved to one side as WPC Polly Fletcher shucked off her tart's fur coat and gently laid it over the injured constable. Frost could smell the incongruous aroma of the heady scent she had been using.
"Hey!" A man was running towards them from a house opposite. "It was me who phoned your lot," he told them proudly. "I saw it all."
Frost took the man's arm and moved away. "What happened?"
"I was watching a film on the telly when I heard this crash. I looks out the window and I sees this van ramming through the jeweller's plate glass window. There were three of them, youngish, in their twenties I'd imagine, all with balaclavas hiding their faces. They were scooping jewellery from the window when the cop drives up. He charges over and one of them welts him with this baseball bat. Poor sod went down like a stone. They ran back in the van and roared off."
"Which way did they go?" asked Frost.
He pointed. "Down the Bath Road, speeding like the clappers."
"What sort of van?"
"Little grey delivery van. There had been a name on the side but it was blacked out."
"Registration number?"
The man shook his head. "Couldn't get it. The plates were covered in mud."
Frost called for all units to be on the look-out. He had no sooner clicked off when Morgan radioed through, very excited. "That van. It just passed me by the Denton roundabout going towards Exley . . . light grey, three men. Am in pursuit, assistance required."
"Stick to the sods like glue," said Frost, calling in all units to assist. He found himself having to shout over the noise of the shrilling alarm. "Can't someone turn that thing off?"
"Key-holder's on the way," Jordan told him. Another sound sliced through the night. The warble of an ambulance siren. Frost looked down at the unconscious man. Adams was really too inexperienced to have been out on his own at night. Sod the bloody budget cuts. And Adams had been too keen, too anxious to prove himself. He should have stayed in the Panda and waited for assistance, not gone rushing out when there were three of them, armed with baseball bats.
In seconds the paramedics were gently easing Adams on to a stretcher. "Looks like a fractured skull," they told Frost, adding ominously, "Could be nasty." Frost detailed Polly to go with Adams to the hospital, the paramedics expressing surprise as she tottered up the steps in her short skirt and high heels. He didn't bother to explain.
As the rear lights of the ambulance dwindled to pinpricks as it sped down the Bath Road, Frost scrunched over broken glass to examine the shop front. The metal grid used to protect the display was crumpled and had been cut with heavy duty cutters. The display shelves were stripped bare, except for a solitary diamond necklace which hung forlornly, its price ticket string caught on a drawing pin. Unhooking it, he checked the price tag. £4,500. He whistled softly. He'd have guessed a couple of quid.
Morgan radioed through. "Still on their tail, guv. They're going at a fair old lick. Any chance we could head them off from the other direction before they reach the turn-off?"
"I'll check." He called Control, but Morgan was out of luck. The only available vehicle was over the other side of Denton and would never get there in time. He was pocketing his radio when a black Honda Accord braked to a halt outside the shop and a short, tubby man in a sheepskin driving coat clambered out. "The name's Conway . . . it's my shop," he told Collier, then surveyed the wreckage of the window with mounting indignation. "Bloody hell! Look at it! The third time in four months. I've only just had that window put in."
"My heart bleeds for you," grunted Frost, introducing himself. "You're insured, aren't you?"
"Top rate premiums and I have to pay the first £5,000 of any claim, but after that I'm insured, yes."
"Tough," said Frost. He jerked a thumb at the alarm. "Can you turn that flaming thing off?" Conway scowled. "I can turn it off if it offends your ears, Inspector, but tell me something, would you? Where was your bloody lot when it went off?"
"Our bloody lot was lying in the gutter with his skull smashed in," snapped Frost. "He was welted with a baseball bat."
The man's eyes opened wide in concern. "My God! I didn't know. Is he all right?"
Frost shrugged. "He's unconscious. We're waiting to hear from the hospital."
Conway covered his face with a hand and shook his head. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"We'll want an inventory of what's been taken."
"That's easy," said Conway, bitterly. "It's everything that was in the window."
"As soon as you can," said Frost, moving away as his radio paged him. Morgan again.
"We've lost them, guv."
Frost stared at the radio open-mouthed. "You've what?"
"Not our fault, guv. They swerved in front of an articulated lorry. The lorry driver slammed on his brakes, skidded and jack-knifed. We couldn't get past."
Frost sighed. "There's not many places they could have gone. Keep looking!"
The clock on the interview room wall clunked its way round to 4.12. The radiator still wasn't working properly in spite of Frost's kicks and the room was cold. Frost thumbed through the list of stolen items then raised his eyes to Conway. "Nearly a quarter of a million. What were you stocking—the Crown Jewels?"
"It was all good stuff: gold, silver, jewellery, Rolex watches. It soon adds up."
"Why wasn't it in the safe?"
"Good question. The flaming safe's jammed. We can't open it. The locksmith's coming tomorrow to fix it—too flaming busy to come today. I had to get special dispensation from the insurance company to leave it in the window overnight."
"That was good of them."
"Yes . . . very generous," replied Conway with heavy sarcasm. "All they charged was an extra premium of £500. £500 for twenty-four flaming hours."
Frost glanced at the list of stolen items again. "I bet they wish they'd turned you down, now." He took out a cigarette. "Was tonight the first time the stuff was left in the window?"
"Yes. These crooks were either bloody observant or bloody lucky—tomorrow night the stuff would all have been nicely locked away in the safe."
Frost thumbed his lighter. "At least you were insured."
"Oh yes, and if I live long enough, and they can't find anything in the small print so they can wriggle out of paying, I'll get the wholesale price less £5,000 excess and treble the premium for next time." He blew his nose noisily. "But here am I ranting on and forgetting about that poor devil in hospital. Any news?"
"Still unconscious. It doesn't look too good." The jeweller's face creased. "I'm so terribly sorry. I owe him. If there's anything I can do . . ."
"Thanks," said Frost, rubbing his hands together to restore the circulation. "And thanks for coming. We'll keep you informed."
Conway zipped up his briefcase and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.
"Half a mo!" said Frost. As Conway sat down again, Frost beckoned Collier over. "Nip out and see if there's any news from the hospital, would you, son?" He waited until the constable had left before leaning across the table to Conway and lowering his voice. "Wanted him out of the way for a minute," he said, tapping his nose conspiratorially. He pulled a brown paper bag from his pocket and shook the contents into his hand. A necklace which sparkled in the overhead light. "I bought this from a bloke in a pub today, paid fifty quid for it. He swore blind it was worth £400. Was I caught?"
Conway stripped off his gloves and examined the necklace. A sad shake of his head as he handed it back. "You got exactly what you paid for, Inspector. It's worth £50 top whack."
With a rueful grin Frost tucked the necklace back in his pocket. "The lousy bastard!" he said. Then he clicked his fingers as if he had suddenly remembered something. "I'm a silly sod. This isn't the necklace I bought in the pub. This is the one I took from your shop window tonight. It had this £4,500 price ticket on it." He swung the price ticket backwards and forwards.
Conway went white. "I don't understand . . ."
Frost grinned back at him. "Don't you, Mr. Conway? Your bank manager does."