The old Victorian house had sash windows, which were usually a sod to open quietly. He hoped the catch inside wasn’t on. He managed to get his fingernails under the frame, then his fingers. For a change, his luck was in. The window slid upwards, but in the silence of the night the creaking sound screamed out. Someone must surely hear that. He paused, listening, ready to run – but nothing.
The beam of his torch travelled around an expensive fitted kitchen in charcoal grey with solid teak worktops. A knee up on the sill and he was inside.
Again he paused, ears strained. The silence was broken only by the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room and the thudding of his heart.
He headed to the large, double-doored, American-style fridge-freezer, which was crammed with all sorts of expensive foods and bottles of wine. He helped himself to a strawberry then went straight for the chiller compartment. Nestling next to the tomatoes and salad stuff was a roll of greasy banknotes, just where he expected to find them. Kelly was nothing if not consistent. He riffled through the wad – about six thousand quid. Crime was definitely paying for Kelly. He replaced the notes where he found them and pushed through a door into the dining room, walking across deep-piled, expensive fitted carpet to a massive oak sideboard.
Frost pulled open a couple of drawers and made a half-hearted search, but his gut feeling was that whatever Kelly had to hide, he wouldn’t keep it in such an obvious place. His gut feeling also told him the missing girl wasn’t in the house. That would be too much to hope for.
He gave the lounge a quick going-over – a massive forty-two-inch plasma screen dominated the room and there were surround-sound speakers all over the place. A flashy figured walnut cocktail cabinet bulged with wines and spirits.
He followed his torchbeam up the stairs. First stop the bathroom, where he lifted the ceramic top of the lavatory cistern and took out a water proof bag. Five thousand pounds or more in used banknotes and about twenty small polythene packets of white powder – drugs of some kind. Not what he was looking for. He put them back in the cistern and replaced the lid.
A car horn sounded. He stiffened. God, was it Taffy? Was Kelly back early? But no, Morgan wasn’t that subtle. He’d jam his thumb on the horn and wake up the whole bleeding street. He held his breath and listened. The sound wasn’t repeated. He expelled his held breath and fished out a screwdriver from his mac pocket, then turned his attention to the panels on the side of the bath, another favourite hiding place of Kelly’s. Tunelessly humming to himself, he began to turn the screws holding the panel in place.
Back at the Blue Parrot, Jordan yawned and looked again at his watch. He hated surveillance duty especially when you were on your own. Nothing to do but stare out of the windscreen. You daren’t pick up a paper or a magazine for a quick read – something always happened the minute you took your eyes away. Friday was a busy night – cars kept driving in and out; shrieking, shouting passengers alighted or embarked. Everyone but him seemed to be having a great time. He yawned again and shivered. It was cold in the car, but he couldn’t put the heat on in case it sent him to sleep. He took a swig from his flask of coffee. He had smoked too much. His fingers were oily with nicotine and his mouth tasted foul. The last thing in the world he wanted was another cigarette, but there was nothing else to do. He lit one up and stared out again at the light-blue Citroen parked on the other side of the car park.
Frost had to resist the temptation to smoke. Kelly was a non-smoker and the absence of ashtrays suggested the woman was also. They would detect the smell of cigarette smoke the minute they entered the house.
The screws were proving obstinate, but at last he got the panel off and poked his torch inside. Nothing. Absolutely sod all! Not like the last time he did the place over, when it was jam packed with expensive fax machines and DVD recorders, and Kelly had expressed utter hammy astonishment as to how they had come to be there. ‘God’s truth, Inspector, someone’s trying to frame me.’
He tried to replace the panel, but the damn thing wouldn’t go back in the space it had come out of so easily. He banged it with his fist and the hollow sound echoed round the empty house. Shit. He froze, hoping no one had heard. He tried again. Still the stupid bleeding thing wouldn’t cooperate, in spite of being helped with his knee. Double shit. If he couldn’t get the flaming thing back it would be a dead give away. He had a sudden thought and turned the panel upside-down and tried again. This time it purred into place. Hands sweating, he replaced the screws, noting that he had managed to chew the heads of a couple of them. He rubbed in some grime from the soles of his shoes to disguise the shiny scratches and hoped they wouldn’t be noticed. A cigarette. He’d give his bloody right arm for a cigarette. Wiping his sweaty palms down the sides of his trousers, he made his way into the main bedroom.
Nothing in the bedroom. Not a bloody thing! Doubts began chewing away at his inside wasn’t going to find anything. Everything would go wrong. He’d be caught red-handed in the flaming house and Mullett would think Christmas had come early. What had he got? Sod all, really. Just a name the poor kid may or may not have called out and someone with a nick name that matched. He went to the window and peered out at the back alley just to make sure Taffy hadn’t decided to nip off and get some fish and chips. The car was still there a Taffy was in the driving seat, looking more or less awake. Why had he come here? Bill Wells was right. He was stark, staring, flaming mad.
He left the bedroom and stood on the landing looking up at the ceiling. There was a trapdoor leading to the loft. There wouldn’t be anything in the loft. He knew it. There never was and Kelly was a creature of habit, but he had to look. It was his last hope. A quick flash of his torch on his wristwatch. Flaming hell. He’d been here over an hour and still hadn’t finished. He hoped Kelly and Molly Malone were enjoying themselves.
Jordan shook his head and reached out again for the flask of coffee. It was supposed to help keep you awake, but all it did was make him want to pee. He was bursting. He nipped out for a quick slash behind the car, then climbed back into the uncomfortable driving seat. He looked at his watch. Only an hour had passed. It seemed like flaming years. Where was the relief Frost was supposed to be sending?
There was a gentle tapping on the side window. Good old Frost, for once he hadn’t forgotten. Jordan opened the car door so that WPC Kate Holby could slide into the seat beside him. He filled her in, pointing out the location of the Citroen. She was about to leave for her own car when – ‘Jordan! What the hell are you doing here?’
Shit! Detective Chief Inspector Skinner was all tarted up in a smart suit, stinking of beer and with a nasty ‘I’m looking for trouble’ glint in his eye.
Jordan’s mouth opened and closed. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.
‘I asked you what the hell you were doing here, both of you?’
‘Surveillance, sir,’ Jordan choked out at last.
‘Surveillance?’ Skinner checked his watch. ‘At this time of the bloody night. Who authorised it?’
‘Inspector Frost, sir.’
‘And where is Inspector Frost?’
‘Back at the station, I think, sir.’
‘And what, Constable, are you supposed to be surveillancing?’
‘Suspect is a chap called Kelly, sir. Receiver of stolen goods.’
‘And he’s inside the club?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘With his arms full of stolen goods?’
Jordan thought quickly. ‘He sometimes seeks orders for stolen goods from contacts in the club, sir. We want to follow him to find out where he’s got them stashed.’
Skinner gave Jordan a cold, hard stare, then turned his attention to Kate Holby.
‘And what do you think you’re doing here?’
The girl flushed. ‘I’m relieving PC Jordan.’