Winter Frost

Jordan braked. 'What is it?'

'A car, no lights, parked among the bushes.'

Jordan groaned. 'Top bleeding marks for observation.' His stomach was rumbling, begging for food. 'All right, but let's make it quick. I'm starving.'

They climbed out and walked back to a dark grey BMW, not more than a year old. The doors were locked and no sign of the driver. Simms felt the bonnet. 'It's not been here long.'

'Joy-rider?' suggested Jordan.

'Joy-riders don't lock the bleeding thing up when they leave it. Better check it out.' While Jordan radioed Control Simms shone his torch inside. A mobile phone on the passenger seat next to a briefcase, nothing else.

'Not reported stolen,' said Jordan, giving the tyres a perfunctory kick. 'Can we go and get something to eat now?'

'The owner probably doesn't know it's missing yet,' said Simms. 'You don't abandon an expensive motor like this in the middle of the woods.'

'Perhaps it broke down?'

'He's got a mobile phone. He'd phone for assistance and wait in the warm.' He lifted his hand for silence. 'Did you hear that?'

From behind some bushes, a groan then the sound of someone being violently sick.

'Just what I wanted to give me an appetite for my supper,' moaned Jordan.

They waited by the BMW until a short, pasty-faced man in his early thirties, wearing a sheepskin-lined leather jacket, staggered from the bushes, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and dabbing sweat from his forehead. He started when he saw the two policemen, but managed to force a weak grin. 'I've been sick,' he explained.

'So we heard,' said Simms, holding out a hand. 'Driving licence, please, sir.'

The licence confirmed that the man was Patrick Thomas Morris, the registered owner of the car. Hoping that was the end of it, Jordan edged back to the area car, but Simms hadn't finished. His nose twitched. 'Have you been drinking, sir?'

The man looked even more unhappy. 'Drinking? No — a beer… just one beer…'

'I'm sure you're right, sir,' said Simms, 'but I'm sure you want us to check.' He fetched a breathalyser. Jordan watched anxiously while Morris blew into the mouthpiece. Let it be negative, he pleaded silently. I want my flaming supper. He suppressed a groan as the crystals changed colour.

Simms showed it to the man. 'More than one beer, sir — you must have miscounted. I'm afraid you will have to accompany us back to the station.'

'No — please.' The man was clasping his hands together beseechingly. 'I only had one beer while I was driving, I swear. But I then felt sick, so I stopped and took a sip of brandy to settle my stomach.' He pulled a flask from his hip pocket to show them. 'I wasn't going to drive any more. I was going to sleep it off in the car, I swear.'

Simms shot a questioning glance to Jordan who shrugged, indicating, I'm hungry — let the poor sod go.

Simms chewed it over, then nodded. What the hell. If they drove him back to the station he'd probably be sick all over the back of the area car and by the look of his greenish face there was a lot more to come up before the night was out. 'It's your lucky night, sir-' he began, but stopped in mid-sentence. Jordan, on his way back to the area car, was beckoning him over urgently. 'What's up?'

Jordan pointed. The front nearside wing of the BMW was dented and the headlamp glass shattered. 'Shit!' hissed Simms. They returned to the man, who was trying to appear unconcerned. 'Spot of damage to the front of your motor, sir. Haven't been in an accident, have you?'

'What, that?' The man attempted a weak laugh. 'Did that this morning — hit the gatepost when I drove out of the garage.'

'And been driving around all night with only one headlamp?' tutted Simms. 'That's a very serious offence.' His voice hardened. 'You didn't do it when you hit the boy, by any chance?'

'Boy? What boy?' Sweat was beading his forehead.

'The boy in intensive care. The boy you hit and sent flying… or are you too bloody drunk to remember?'

The man dabbed his face with his handkerchief again. 'I don't know what you're talking about, officer. I haven't hit anyone.'

'I think,' said Simms, taking his arm and steering him into the area car, 'we'd better take a little drive down to the station.'

The interview room was warm, almost too warm, but a welcome change for PC Collier who had been out pounding the beat in the cold. The man was pacing nervously up and down, from time to time mopping sweat from his face with a none-too-clean handkerchief. 'How much longer?' he demanded.

'The inspector should be here soon.'

'You've been saying that for the past half-hour. This is all a mistake. Do you think I could hit someone and not know it? I want a solicitor.'

'Ask the inspector when he comes in,' said Collier.

The door crashed open as an untidy individual backed in carrying a mug of tea on which was balanced a greasy-looking sandwich. He plopped down in a chair and beckoned the man to sit opposite him. 'Frost,' he announced. 'Detective Inspector Frost. Sorry to have kept you waiting.' He looked at the arrest report and took a bite at the sandwich. 'Mr Patrick Morris, is it?'

'Yes… and I want to protest. This is all a terrible mistake.'

'I'm sure it is,' agreed Frost, 'but don't worry. I've asked our Forensic boys to see if the blood on your car's headlamp is the same group as your gatepost.'

The man stared at Frost, his face scarlet with rage. 'You bastard!' he spat.

'Sticks and stones,' reproved Frost gently.

Morris fluttered an apologetic hand. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' His head sank down. 'I wasn't even going fast; just pootling along. The kid came straight at me. He didn't give me a chance.'

'He was sober, you were drunk,' said Frost.

Morris pushed himself up to shout at Frost. I was not drunk.'

'And I'm not bloody deaf,' said Frost, wiping his mouth after a swig of tea. 'Please sit down.'

Morris sat. 'I'm sorry… I'm sorry.' He leant over to Frost. 'I'm an oil company representative in line for promotion. One drink-driving offence and I lose my job. Do you think I'd risk that? I was not drunk. I was stone cold bloody sober. I had the brandy afterwards.'

'Drunk or sober, you knocked an eleven-year-old kid down and you didn't stop.'

'I couldn't afford to get involved; my job-'

'Sod your bloody job. The kid's in intensive care. You could have done something to help him.'

'The man in the other car came running over. I left it to him.'

Frost's head snapped up. 'What other car?'

'An old banger — a blue Vauxhall Astra. It was parked up on the verge. When I hit the boy the Astra driver dashed over to him. There was nothing I could do to help so I phoned for an ambulance on my mobile.'

'Yes,' snapped Frost, 'a great humanitarian gesture. Remind me to nominate you for the Nobel Prize.' He dropped the crust from his sandwich into the mug of tea and pushed it away. 'Describe the man.'

'Middle-aged — forty-five to fifty. Darkish hair, going bald.'

'Clean-shaven?'

'Yes, I think so. It all-'

'I know — it all happened so fast,' said Frost, finishing the sentence for him. 'Build?'

'Average.'

'Clothes?'

'A suit. A dark suit, I think.'

'A suit!' exclaimed Frost. 'Well, that saves us looking for a man in a dress.'

'If I could tell you more, I would,' snarled Morris. 'It's in my own interest that you find him. He'll confirm I wasn't speeding and the kid didn't give me a chance.'

'Then you'd better hope we do find him,' said Frost, 'because at the moment I don't rate your chances at all.' His cigarette end joined the sandwich crust in the mug of cold tea. He stood up and nodded at Collier. 'The constable will take your statement.'

Bill Wells was hovering outside the interview room, waiting for him. 'Initial report from Forensic, Jack. Glass from the headlamp definitely matches up with the glass found at the scene.'