‘You’re car-mad,’ admonished Frost. ‘Haven’t you got a foot patrol who could handle it?’
‘It will take a quarter of an hour for the foot patrol to get there. There’s kiddies involved!’ protested Control.
‘The kids won’t get their throats cut. Some senior citizen will if we don’t find Gauld quickly. The bastard’s going to try it on again tonight, I just know it.’
Anxious squawks from Control’s headphones. Lambert turned a permanently worried face to Frost. ‘The fight at the pub is getting out of hand, sir. It’s sprawled into the street. Windows have been smashed and they’re damaging cars now.’
Frost sighed. ‘All right, son. You handle it. Send what you want.’ His mouth felt stale and bitter. The last thing he wanted was another cigarette, but he lit one up. Nothing was going right.
It was Burton who saved the day. Control switched the call to the external loudspeaker.
‘Have located Vauxhall Astra registration K, Kansas, X, X-Ray..’
‘Sod the phonetic spelling, Burton,’ yelled Frost, snatching the handset from Control. “Where is the bastard?’
‘He’s parked half-way down Wedgewood Street. I only spotted him by chance.’
At Frost’s raised eyebrows, Control indicated Wedgewood Street on the large-scale map. A derelict side street in an area scheduled for demolition. ‘I can’t think what he’s doing down there, Inspector. All the houses are boarded up and empty.’
Frost nodded and went back to Burton. ‘You got him in full view?’
‘Yes, I’m parked right at the end with my lights off. I don’t want him to see me.’ A pause, then, ‘Damn!’
‘Now what?’
‘He’s turned his lights off. There’s no street lamps down there. It’s pitch black.’
Frost peered up at the wall map. ‘He’s got to pass you to come out.’
‘Only if he stays in the car. If he goes on foot he can cut through any of the empty houses.’
‘Right. We can’t be sodded about any more. If he’s still in the car, arrest him and bring him back here… parking without lights.. any excuse you can think of. And hurry.’ Frost drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited. Then a crackle from the loudspeaker.
‘Have subject car in view.’
‘But is the sodding subject in the sodding subject car?’ demanded Frost.
A pause. Then, ‘Subject car is empty… repeat empty.’
‘Shit,’ moaned Frost, ‘repeat shit! I suppose he hasn’t got out just to have a pee or something innocent like that?’
‘No sign of him anywhere,’ said Burton.
With a weary grunt, Frost flopped back in his chair. ‘Right, son. This is what you do. You immobilize his car… wee in his petrol tank, let his tires down, anything, just so he can’t use it. We don’t want him driving off the minute your back is turned.’
He waited nervously sucking at his cigarette until a blast of static from the loudspeaker announced Burton to report that he’d immobilized the car.
‘Good boy. Still no sign of him?’
‘No, sir. No sign of anything. It’s a ghost street — just empty houses. Hold on…’
‘What is it?’ asked Frost excitedly.
‘I thought I saw a light in one of the houses. It flickered like someone striking a match. I’ll go and take a look.’
‘Be careful,’ ordered Frost. ‘And keep in touch.’ He lit a fresh cigarette and fidgeted in his chair as he waited. Gilmore came in with two more mugs of tea. ‘Thanks, son.’ He stirred it with a pencil, feeling vaguely worried. Why the hell was Burton taking so long? He hesitated about asking Control to call the detective constable. Burton might be stalking his prey and a police radio sounding could give the game away. He stared up at the big wall clock, just above Lambert’s head. He’d give Burton another two minutes before asking Control to radio. But before fifty seconds were up he had one of his feelings… one of his icy cold fingers scraping the back of the spine feelings. ‘Call him,’ he barked. ‘Now!’
‘Control to Burton, come in, please…’ Lambert flipped the switch to receive. A crackle of empty static from the loudspeaker. He tried again. ‘Control to Burton… are you receiving… over?’ More empty static. ‘He doesn’t seem to be responding, Inspector,’ said Lambert, redundantly.
‘Keep bloody trying,’ yelled Frost from the door. ‘Come on, Gilmore. Let’s get over there.’
The traffic light changed to red and Gilmore slowed to a halt with Frost grunting his impatience as they waited. As soon as the cross-road was clear he ordered Gilmore to jump the lights. They passed a huge building site with skeleton tower blocks and giant cranes. Frost peered through the side window. ‘Wedgewood Street should be along here some where…’ They nearly missed it. ‘There!’
Slamming on the brakes, Gilmore backed the car and turned into a dark side road. A dead street of empty windowless houses. Burton’s car stood by the corner. Further down the road another car. A grey Vauxhall Astra.
At the top of his voice Frost repeatedly shouted, ‘Burton!’ The empty houses flung his words back.
‘On the pavement — there!’ Gilmore pointed to some thing black and rectangular.
They ran over. It was a police radio, its casing smashed and caved in as if it had been stamped on. When Frost picked it up his hand touched stickiness. He stared at his fingers. Blood, fresh and ruby red that glittered in the ray of Gilmore’s torch. Frost yanked his own radio from his pocket and fumbled for the transmit button. He blurted out instructions to Control. ‘I want every available officer to come immediately to Wedgewood Street.’
‘There isn’t anyone to send,’ answered Control. ‘They’re all out. There’s a near-riot at the Denton Arms.’
‘Call them away and send them here… now! We’ve got an officer in trouble!’ He switched off before Control could come up with any more stupid objections.
All of the houses had been boarded up with corrugated galvanized sheeting blanking out the windows and heavy planking nailed across the front doors. But on quite a few of the properties vandals had torn away the planking and kicked in the doors. Frost poked his torch beam tentatively into one of the houses and ventured inside. The passage was thick with debris and breathed a sour, mildewy smell. As he shuffled in, the debris moved as rats squealed and scuttled to safety. He lashed out his foot to hasten them on their way. Before he could proceed further the sound of a car, then the slamming of doors. Back to the street where PC Jordan and four other uniformed men were waiting with Gilmore. Five men! Was this all Control was sending?
‘We’re stretched to the limit,’ Jordan told him. ‘The pub fight is getting right out of hand.’
Frost stripped cellophane from a fresh packet of cigarettes and passed it around as he quickly briefed them. ‘My guess is that Burton went in one of these empty houses after Gauld. The flooring’s rotten, the stair treads and banisters are broken, so he could have fallen and hurt himself. But that doesn’t explain his radio.’ He held it up and showed it to them. ‘We found it on the pavement, there, and it frightens the shit out of me. Anyway, sod the speculation until we find him. Take a house each and be careful… they’re bloody death traps.’
He took the middle property himself, the one nearest to where they had found the smashed radio. It reeked of damp and decay. His torch beam blinked feebly into the blackness, picking out rotting floorboards and slimy rubbish. A door to his right was closed. Warily he turned the handle and pushed. A groaning creak as it swung back on to an empty, dead, urine-smelling room. He moved on, things rustling and scurrying in front of him. To his left, stairs with broken jagged banisters lurching outwards. Another door in front of him. He kicked it open. The kitchen, piled high with rubbish and smelling of bad drains and cats and rotting food.
Back to the hall and up the stairs, testing each tread care fully before putting his weight on it. Half-way up he stopped and held his breath as he listened. A creaking. There was someone up there. There it was again. The soft creak of a floorboard. ‘Burton?’ He waited. Silence. No! A rustling, then another floorboard creaked. His torch kept flickering. The beam shuddered and died. He gave the casing a welt with the flat of his hand which frightened it into brief life again before it died finally a second time.