Back downstairs he read her note again, his free hand pouring out a drink. He tried to feel sad, but couldn’t. He swilled down the remains of the drink, stuffed the note on top of the unpaid bills in the bureau and went upstairs to the empty bedroom.
Even as his head touched the pillow he was in a deep, dreamless, trouble-free sleep.
Friday night shift (1)
Police Sergeant Bill Wells shivered and turned the lobby thermostat up to full in the hope that it would encourage the radiator to belt out some more heat. A waste of time, because as soon as Mullett came in, he’d complain about the lobby being like a tropical greenhouse and would turn the thermostat right down again. It was all right for him, with his 3-kilowatt heater, but let him try working in this draughty lobby with the door opening every five minutes and that gale-force wind roaring through.
The lobby door slammed open, the wind roared through, and there was Jack Frost, his scarf wound round his face to cover his nose. He was unwrapping himself when Burton pushed through the swing doors carrying the sergeant’s tea.
‘What news on Ronnie boy?’ asked Frost, warming his hands on the radiator.
‘He drove to the hospital at 7.22 and brought his mother back home,’ said Burton.
‘His mother? I thought they were keeping her in over night?’
‘She couldn’t have been as bad as they thought.’
‘I knew the old cow was faking. So where’s Gauld now?’
‘Indoors. Collier’s watching the house.’
The phone rang. Wells answered it, then pulled a face at the mouthpiece. The caller was Mullett. ‘Mr Frost, sir?’ Frost shook his head vigorously ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.’
‘I won’t be in until later,’ said Mullett. ‘I’m feeling a bit under the weather. What have we got on the menu?’
‘There’s this threatened gang violence when the pubs shut, sir. Can I call on other divisions for assistance if necessary?’
‘It shouldn’t be necessary,’ replied Mullett. ‘Put every available man on to it.’
‘Mr Frost is going to need much of the available man power to keep tracks on Gauld, sir,’ persisted Wells.
‘You must give Mr Frost every assistance possible, Sergeant. Both operations are top priority. I’m relying on you to ensure that each operation does not hamper the effects of the other.’
A click as he hung up, leaving Wells spluttering helplessly at the dead phone ‘Both top priority and neither must hamper the success of the other! He knows it’s flaming impossible, that’s why the bastard’s staying away. Why is it always me?’ He swung indignantly round to Frost. ‘You’re the senior officer. You should have taken the call.’
‘I wasn’t here,’ said Frost. ‘I heard you tell him.’ He hurried off to collect Gilmore, leaving Wells staring at an empty mug and slowly realizing that the inspector had drunk his tea.
PC Collier champed at the cheeseburger. He was parked at the end of the little cul-de-sac, tucked tightly behind a cream-coloured Ford Consul whose owner had decided it would look better in green, but had abandoned the idea after painting just the front wing. The car radio, on which he reported every fifteen minutes that there was nothing to report, was turned down low so that its stream of messages were not audible to passers-by. His eyes were fixed on the house in mid-terrace. Gauld’s house. Parked opposite the house, but out of sight from Collier’s position, was Gauld’s Vauxhall Astra.
He twisted his wrist so he could see his watch. A quarter to ten. He’d been stuck down this side turning for some two hours. In mid-bite something made him pause. Movement reflected in the rear-view mirror. Two men, keeping tight to the wall, stealthily approaching, obviously up to no good. Collier sank down in his seat so his head was below the window and waited. Suddenly the car echoed like a drum as someone pounded a fist on the roof and jerked the door open.
‘Are you playing peek-a-boo, Collier?’
He grinned sheepishly and kicked the yellow polystyrene food container out of sight under the dash. It was Detective Inspector Jack Frost with the new chap, Gilmore. ‘I spotted you coming, sir. Thought you were villains trying door handles.’
The car lurched as Frost and Gilmore climbed inside and settled themselves down on the back seat. “What’s happening.
‘Nothing, sir. He’s still inside. Went in with his mother just after eight. Hasn’t come out.’
Frost’s nose began to twitch suspiciously. ‘Can I smell cheeseburger?’
Collier blushed. ‘Yes, I did have one, sir.’
‘Did you cook it in the car,’ asked Frost, innocently, ‘or was it delivered?’
‘Delivered?’ frowned Collier, not sure what the inspector was getting at.
‘You didn’t bloody go off watch to get it, did you?’ barked Gilmore.
‘I’ve had nothing to eat for hours. I wasn’t gone more than five minutes.’
‘Five minutes!’ repeated Frost, sadly. ‘A lot can happen in five minutes. I could have five women in five minutes — on an off day. Is his car still there?’
Collier craned his neck, but the Ford Consul blocked his view. ‘I think so,’ he stammered.
‘You think so?’ exploded Gilmore. ‘If you’ve blown this, Collier…’
‘Nip out and see,’ said Frost, trying not to let his anxiety show. Collier was soon back and Frost’s heart nose-dived as he read the answer in the young constable’s white face.
‘His car’s gone, sir. A couple of kids said he drove off about five minutes ago.’
‘You stupid fool!’ yelled Gilmore.
‘It’s my fault,’ said Frost, ‘I should have had two men in the car, not one.’ He leant forward to grab the handset. ‘Frost to Control, receiving?’ He barked out his orders for all cars, all patrols, to be on the lookout for Gauld’s Vauxhall and to report the sighting immediately.
Half-way back to the station, Frost smote his forehead with his palm. ‘The Oxfam shop! He might try to burn the evidence there.’ He radioed through to the station requesting a man on permanent watch at the Oxfam shop.
‘I haven’t got anyone to spare,’ protested Wells.
‘Just do it,’ said Frost, switching off the set before Wells could reply.
As they roared past a public house they noticed a gang of youths pouring out of an old van and making for the public bar. They seemed to be spoiling for a fight.
He sat in Control, listening to the stream of radio messages, a mound of mangled corpses of half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray at his side. He hardly looked up when Wells banged a cup of tea in front of him.
‘Bloody Collier,’ snarled Wells. ‘He must choose the busiest flaming night of the week to sod things up.’
‘I sodded it up,’ said Frost, lighting another cigarette an offering the packet to Wells. ‘Collier didn’t have the experience and I shouldn’t have left him on his own.’
PC Lambert, the officer on Control duty, twisted his head. ‘Inspector! Punch up at the Denton Arms. A gang of yobbos smashing the place up. Can I send a couple of cars?
‘Send one,’ said Frost. ‘I need all the rest.’
‘One won’t be enough,’ protested Lambert.
‘It’s better than sod all,’ Frost told him. ‘Tell it to drive with its sirens screaming full blast. With a bit of luck the pub will empty before they burst in.’ He tossed his cigarette packet across to Lambert. ‘And I want them back searching for Gauld’s car as soon as they’ve mopped up the last drop of blood and guts from the sawdust.’ He sipped his tea and shuddered at the taste while Control directed Charlie Able to the pub.
No sooner was that task completed than Control was in trouble again. ‘Serious domestic at Vicarage Terrace. Neighbours report couple seem to be smashing the happy home up. They can hear kiddies crying. I’d like to send a car.’