"Winter Frost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wingfield R D)

1

The bitter January wind butted the rusty 'Closed' sign and swung it on the chain which guarded the entrance to the abandoned petrol station. Closed for over eighteen months, it still reeked of stale sump oil, diesel fuel and the sweaty feet smell of old rubber. Parked untidily on the forecourt by the concrete bases where the petrol pumps once stood were two police cars and a mud-splattered Ford Sierra. Detective Inspector Jack Frost leant against the Sierra, a cigarette dangling from his lips in blatant defiance of the numerous 'No Smoking' notices, stamping his feet to get the circulation going. This was all a bloody waste of time. He had hoped to spend the rest of his shift back at the station, the radiator in his office going full blast while he fiddled his monthly expenses with the added bonus of his Divisional Commander, Superintendent Mullett, being away at Head Office so no chance of him bursting in when the ink on an allegedly month-old petrol receipt was still wet. Then later, feet up in the rest room, he had planned to watch a video of the big fight. What should have been a night of sheer bliss went right up the Swannee when that slimy bastard, Reginald Todd, had marched into the station to confess to the killing of eight-year-old Vicky Stuart. Todd was a minor child molester, exposing himself in front of kids or getting them to touch him in return for sweets, but now he was claiming he had gone up into the big time, that he had raped and killed the missing eight-year-old and hidden her body somewhere in this old service station… he couldn't remember exactly where… it was dark… he was confused…!

In the background, behind the fringe of trees, came the steady rumble of traffic on the new motorway, the motorway which had drained the life blood of trade from this once bustling service station. The derelict forecourt was now a waste ground, a convenient dumping place for unwanted mattresses, sofas and other rubbish.

Frost watched the uniforms manhandle an enormous treadless tyre and bounce it across the forecourt. He should be giving them all a hand but he knew they wouldn't find anything. That time-wasting, lying bastard Todd was a pathetic nobody, revelling in a chance to be the centre of attention. Frost shivered. Never mind about sharing the hardships with the troops, it was warmer inside the car. He climbed back, just in time to get the radio message from Control. 'Vicky's mother is here, Inspector… wants to see you.' Frost groaned.

She would have heard about the confession and be anxious for news… for good news. Mrs. Stuart, a small bundle of nervous energy, stubbornly refused to face facts, and was convinced that even after nine weeks, her eight-year-old daughter would suddenly walk into the house, fit and well, hungry for her tea. Her fragile smile was always on the verge of crumbling, and she talked a lot so she wouldn't have to listen to other people telling her things she didn't want to hear. Frost suspected that when there was no-one to see, she cried a lot. He had tried to get her to accept that after nine weeks there could be little hope, but she wouldn't listen…

'Of course she's coming back, Inspector… I know it… I just know it.'

'Would you tell her…' he began and then his attention was attracted by the flashing of a torch. PC Jordan, grimfaced, over by the inspection pit was waving urgently, beckoning him over. Frost went cold. Control was still babbling away. 'Inspector… are you there?' He clicked over to transmit. 'Yes, I'm still here. Tell Mrs. Stuart to go home. I'll call on her on the way back.' He took one last drag at his cigarette, then stepped out into the cold.

'Down there, Inspector.' Jordan directed the beam of his torch into the murk of filthy, oil-filmed water at the bottom of the inspection pit where discarded tyres and cans lurked. In the centre of the debris the torch lit up a sodden bundle of dark blue cloth. On that freezing cold November afternoon when Vicky Stuart waved goodbye to her schoolmates, she had been wearing a thick, warm, blue, winter coat. Frost poked another cigarette in his mouth and sighed. 'All right, lads. Let's get her out.'

It wasn't the girl. They had hauled out a bundle of evil-smelling rags. They took everything out of the inspection pit. Vicky wasn't there. She wasn't anywhere on the service station.

Vicky's mother was at the front door even before he got out of the car. She had been watching, peeking through the net curtains, hoping to see her daughter sitting in the passenger seat next to Frost. At least, he told himself, this time he wouldn't be breaking bad news. He lived in dread of the day when he would have to. She would not face the possibility that her daughter was not coming back. She had even talked herself into believing that Frost shared her optimism. 'She's alive, Inspector. I know it and you know it. Vicky's alive.'

The brittle smile was there when she opened the door, but the eyes were anxious and she looked ten years older than when he had first seen her. 'It's good news, Inspector, isn't it… I can tell from your face that it's good news.'

If it was good news not to have found her daughter's dead body, then that's what it was. 'The man was lying, Mrs. Stuart. He knows nothing about Vicky.'

'Of course he doesn't, Inspector. We both know she isn't dead, don't we?'

He said nothing. The coward's way out, but it was pointless trying to get her to face up to facts. She was still babbling away. 'You're going to find her. Any day now you're going to come to this door and you won't have to say a word – I'll see it from your face.' All the time she spoke her hands were worrying at her apron, twisting it, screwing it into tight balls of cloth.

Frost gave his non-committal nod. 'Marvellous if it happens, Mrs. Stuart.' If it made her happy…

'And it will happen, Inspector. You and I both know it… it will happen.'

He walked back to the Sierra feeling drained. He wanted to take hold of her and shake some sense into her and shout, 'She's bloody dead, Mrs. Stuart… a kid of eight can't go missing for nine weeks without a word and still be alive.' But he couldn't do it. He climbed back in the car and drove to the station ready to kick the shit out of Reggie bastard Todd.

Reggie Todd, sitting on the bunk in the police cell, noisily slurping down the cup of tea the sergeant had brought in for him, was a thin scrawny individual with a prominent nose and a large Adam's apple that clunked up and down as he swallowed. A rattling of keys from outside and the cell door crashed open. Detective Inspector Frost stood there, his eyes blazing.

Todd's Adam's apple moved up and down rapidly and he leapt to his feet, blurting out apologies before Frost could get a single word out. 'I'm sorry, Inspector. I'm truly sorry. I made a mistake… I must have dreamt it… It was so vivid I thought it was real.'

'You'll feel a vivid pain in the goolies in a minute,' snapped Frost, 'and it will be real.'

'I deserve it, Mr. Frost… but please… I hate violence.'

'You didn't seem to hate it when you were telling us what you did to the kid. You were dribbling with excitement.'

Todd hung his head and said nothing.

Frost's lip curled with disgust. 'You will now make another statement withdrawing your phoney confession and you will then get the hell out of here and hope and pray that I don't bump into you on a dark night.' He turned on his heels and marched out of the cell.

Station Sergeant Bill Wells looked up as Frost pushed through the swing doors into the lobby. 'You should charge him with wasting police time.'

'He's wasted so much police time, I haven't got time to charge him for wasting it,' said Frost. He poked a cigarette in his mouth. 'I've got my car expenses to do. If anything important happens, like Lord Lucan walking in to give himself up, pass it over to Inspector Maud.' He looked around. 'Where is she, by the way?'

Wells gave a disdainful sniff. Detective Sergeant Liz Maud, posted to Denton a couple of months ago, had been made up to the temporary rank of inspector, while he, Bill Wells, after seventeen years in the force, was still only a sergeant. 'That jumped-up little cow…!'

Frost chuckled to himself. He loved winding the sergeant up. He tut-tutted reprovingly. 'That's no way to speak about your superior officer, Sergeant!'

Wells couldn't bite at the bait quickly enough. 'Superior? She's the same rank as me… a sergeant. She's done half the time I have, only been here five flaming minutes and she's made up to temporary inspector. What has she got that I haven't?'

'Big tits,' said Frost.

Wells jabbed a finger. 'You've hit the nail on the head there, Jack. It's sex discrimination in reverse.'

'I've never tried it in reverse,' said Frost, 'but where is she?'

'With a prisoner… a cab driver. He picked this woman up and, instead of taking her home, took her down a side street and raped her.'

'Bloody hell!' tutted Frost. 'I hope she didn't leave him a tip.'

His office was in darkness. He expected to find DC Morgan, newly posted from Lexington Division, hard at work with the crime figures, but the office was empty. He walked over to Morgan's desk and looked at the papers to check progress. They hadn't been touched since he left for the derelict filling station. Frost charged out into the corridor, almost bumping into PC Collier who was on his way to the lobby. 'Where's DC Morgan?'

'In the canteen, I think,' said Collier who knew damn well he was.

'Go up and drag the sod out. We don't pay him to drink bloody tea, we pay him to fiddle the crime figures.' His voice died. Over Collier's shoulder he could see into the open door of No. 2 interview room where a grim-faced woman in her late fifties sat bolt upright, clutching a large brown plastic handbag to her bosom. She caught his gaze and snapped her head away to stare pointedly at the far wall. She had no wish to see that rude little man.

Frost pulled Collier to one side. 'What's old mother Beatty doing here?'

'Waiting for her statement to be typed,' said Collier. 'She's the rape victim.'

'Rape victim? In her bloody dreams!' snorted Frost. 'Where's DI Maud?'

Acting Detective Inspector Liz Maud, twenty-six years old, dark hair scragged back, stared at the man on the other side of the table who was lolling back in his chair, a look of amused contempt on his face. 'Let's go over it again from when you picked the woman up from the railway station…'

The man gave a resigned shrug. 'All right, but this is the last time. The old crow phones for a cab. I picked her up, took her to where she wanted to go, dropped her off and I drove away.'

'The woman tells a different story,' said Liz Maud. 'She claims you drove round to a side street and you raped her.'

'Do me a favour,' protested the man. I'm bleeding fussy who I rape.' He gave her a smirk. 'Now if it was you, darling-'

'If it was me,' Liz snapped, 'you wouldn't have anything left to rape with.' He mimed a mocking grimace of pain as she tugged a form sheet from its folder. 'You make a habit of assaulting female passengers, don't you?'

He expelled breath in exasperation. 'If you're referring to that slag of a prostitute, then we're talking ancient bloody history.'

'Nine months ago,' said Liz. 'Recent bloody history!f you ask me.' She looked up in annoyance as the door creaked open and, without knocking, Frost walked in. What the hell did he want? She turned to the microphone. 'For the benefit of the tape, Detective Inspector Frost has entered the interview room.' She wiped a wisp of straggling hair from her forehead and glowered at him. 'Yes, Inspector?'

He beckoned her over to the door. 'A quick word.'

Her lips tightened. 'Later – I'm in the middle of an interview.'

'Now,' said Frost, stepping back into the corridor.

Eyes smouldering, she followed him out, closing the door firmly behind her. He had no business interfering in the middle of an interview. 'I very much resent-'

He held up a hand. 'Hear me out.' He lowered his voice. 'I don't think you're going to make this one stick, love.'

'No?' She gave him a superior smile. 'I've checked his form. He was convicted of assaulting two women in his cab. They couldn't pay the fare, so he beat them up – put one of them in hospital.'

Frost nodded. He knew all about that. 'But did you check the victim's form?'

She frowned. What was the fool on about? 'The victim?'

'Old mother Beatty. According to her, her drawers have been up and down more times than Tower Bridge. She's alleged rape and assault at least twelve times over the past two years, all of which have proved wishful thinking. She also reckons she gets heavy breathing phone calls, peeping Toms when she strips off in the scullery, and is being stalked.' He offered her the long computer print-out.

Liz flicked through it, lips tightening angrily. 'She sounded so genuine! I believed her.'

'She believes herself half the time,' said Frost.

Liz glowered at the interview room door. 'I could wring her bloody neck!'

'Don't be too hard on the poor cow. She's never had it… she's probably never going to get it so she has to imagine she's had it.'

'Never had it? Are you telling me she's a virgin?'

'So the doctor said the last three times she was raped.'

Liz handed back the print-out. 'So what do we do? If she insists, we've got to go ahead.'

I'll go and sweet talk the old cow,' said Frost. 'You do a bit of back-pedalling with the cabbie; we don't want him suing for wrongful arrest.' It was then he noticed how tired and drawn she looked. 'Are you all right, love?'

She glared at him. 'Of course I'm all right. Why shouldn't I be?'

'You look a bit peaky.' He was sorry he had started this.

'Just tired… and fed up at having to waste my time on phoney rape charges.' Her eyes shot daggers down the corridor in the direction of the lobby where Sergeant Bill Wells, chin cupped in hand, was reading the evening paper. 'You'd have thought our Station Sergeant would have had the common decency to have told me.' She spun on her heels and went back into the interview room.

Doreen Beatty stared stone-faced at him as he entered the other interview room. He gave her a smile and got a sour grimace in return. 'I want nothing to do with you, Inspector Frost, thank you very much. I'm definitely pressing charges and there is no way you are going to talk me out of it.'

Frost tossed the withdrawal form over to Bill Wells. 'She's dropped the charges.'

Wells gawped at the form. 'How the hell did you get her to do that?'

Frost gave a modest smile. 'I told her he couldn't have raped her as he got his dick shot off in the Gulf War – friendly fire.' 'And she believed you?'

'Not at first, but I offered to show her the bit that was left and she gave me the benefit of the doubt.' He switched off the grin. 'Why didn't you tell Liz Maud the old biddy was in the Guinness Book of Records for multiple virgin rapes?'

Wells sniffed disdainfully. 'Not my place to tell my superior officer what to do.'

Running footsteps from the stairs to the canteen and Frost's temporary assistant, DC 'Taffy' Morgan, burst through die doors into the lobby. Morgan, a stocky, dark, curly-haired little Welshman in his late thirties, had sorrowful eyes and a heart-melting whipped puppy expression he could turn on at the drop of a hat which Frost found irritating, but women seemed to find irresistible. Morgan started when he saw Frost glowering at him. 'Just popped up for a quick cup of tea, guv,' he said in his 'oozing with sincerity', sing-song Welsh voice. 'I've nearly finished those figures.' Morgan was the only officer in the station who called Frost 'guv'. Frost reckoned he'd picked it up from the police series on the telly.

'Nearly finished?' said Brest, 'You haven't touched the bloody things since I went out. Let's get one thing straight, Taffy. There's only room for one lazy bastard in this station and that's going to be me. Understand?'

Morgan hung his head sheepishly. 'Sorry, guv. I'll get on to it right away, guv.'

The desk phone rang. Morgan paused while Wells answered it. Like Frost he hated figure work and hoped this might be a call that would take him away from it.

'I'll get someone over there right away,' said Wells, scribbling an address down on his pad as he hung up.

'Another pillow case burglary, Jack. Shall I give it to Morgan?'

'No. He's got his heart set on doing the crime figures. I'll take it.' He jerked a thumb to Taffy. 'On your way, Lloyd George.'

'Yes, guv,' said Morgan, making his disappointment very apparent.

Wells watched him go and sniffed disdainfully. 'How the hell do we get all the rubbish foisted on us? First Wonder Woman, now him.'

'I've known worse,' grunted Frost. 'What's the address of this burglary?' He had a quick look at his watch. If it didn't take too long he would have plenty of time to fiddle his expenses and see the videoed title fight with the rest of the shift. Life was a joy when your Divisional Commander was away.

Police Superintendent Mullett tapped his fingers happily on the steering wheel of his Rover as he drove back from County Headquarters. An excellent meeting under the chairmanship of the Chief Constable in which Denton Division came out very well, he thought. It was a meeting for all Divisional Commanders to discuss ways of maintaining an efficient force in the face of the draconian budget cuts that had been forced upon them. The Chief Constable – quite brilliantly, thought toadying Mullett – had suggested that more work with less manpower could be achieved by increased inter-Divisional co-operation with men being seconded from Division to Division as and when required. Some of the other officers had expressed their disquiet feeling this could only reduce the efficiency of the supplying Divisions, but Mullett, not quite understanding what was involved, although sensing that nods of approval and not constructive criticism were required, had nodded until his head ached and had committed ten of his own officers to a joint drugs operation. He was now basking in the euphoria of the Chief Constable's comments: 'It is the Denton spirit that's wanted throughout the County, gentlemen – an example to you all.' The sour glances fired at him by the rest of the meeting made it clear he was in a minority, but it was not the rest of the meeting he wanted to impress.

He pulled back the sleeve of his grey pin-stripe jacket to consult his Rolex. 9.58. The others would still be in the pub, drinking, drowning their sorrows, shaking their heads doubtfully over their beers and telling each other that it might look good on paper, but it just wouldn't work in practice. However, thought Mullett, if it did fail, it would be the Doubting Thomases who got the blame, not the wholeheartedly approving Denton Divisional Commander, determined to make a go of it.

As he spun the wheel to turn into the main road he had to brake sharply to avoid a mud-splattered Ford Sierra which had anticipated the traffic lights and roared across his path. He frowned. No mistaking the car or the driver. Frost! He'd have a word with him about careless driving when he got back to the office. As the Chief Constable had so rightly said at the meeting, supported by Mullett's unstinting noddings of approval, the police should always be setting an example, not bending the rules.

He took the short cut through the red light district as he wanted to check the current position. A deputation of some of the local residents, led by the vicar, had called on him demanding that the police clean up the streets. He had delegated the task to Frost who had insolently pretended that cleaning up the streets involved picking up empty crisp packets and cleaning away dogs' mess. Mullett's lips tightened. Frost might think that funny, but he wouldn't be laughing when Mullett got back to him.

The 'girls' were out in force, grinning, wiggling and beckoning as he drove past. They had disappeared from their beats in a panic some two months ago when one of their number had been found beaten up and murdered, but had gradually drifted back.

He clicked on his radio for the local news. '… Denton police have released without charge a man they had been questioning in connection with the disappearance some nine weeks ago of schoolgirl Vicky Stuart…' Another frown. Frost hadn't had the common courtesy to contact him at County and tell him they had arrested a suspect. He had felt a proper fool at the meeting when the Chief questioned him about it and he had to phone the station to find out what it was about. He slowed down and stopped at the traffic lights. Someone tapped on the driver's window. A woman with dyed blond hair and a ridiculously low-cut dress. 'Want to be naughty, mister?'

'No I do not, madam,' he snapped, hastily jumping the lights and narrowly missing a collision to get away from her. Ignoring the angry hootings from other drivers, he turned into the Market Square. As he did so his mobile phone rang. Superintendent Harry Conley from Fenwick Division… probably still in the pub with the others, judging from the raucous laughter he could hear in the background.

'A spot of inter-Divisional co-operation wanted, Stan,' said Conley. 'Hope you can help?'

Mullett smirked happily. A chance to show what Demon could do. 'Certainly, Harry… fire away…'

A police car was parked outside the entrance to the apartment building and Frost slid his Sierra behind it. The burglary was at Flat 305 on the third floor. He thumbed the lift button, but nothing happened. A couple of swift kicks to the door hurt his foot, but failed to produce the lift, so it was the damn, stairs, when he reached the third floor he saw that the lift doors had been wedged open with a piece of wood, preventing the lift from operating. On to Flat 305 where an angry-looking woman opened the door to his ring and beckoned him in. 'The more the bloody merrier,' she said bitterly. 'No-one here when he robs us, can't move for bleeding police when it's all over.' Frost grunted his sympathy. Two uniformed men, Jordan and Simms, were already in the flat, Simms questioning an irate man who was slumped in an armchair. 'First bleeding night we go out together for ages,' he was moaning, 'and this flaming well happens.'

PC Jordan briefed Frost. 'Mr and Mrs Plummer. Went out just before eight o'clock to see the film at the Premier, got back quarter of an hour ago to find they'd been burgled.'

'The whole bloody evening was a wash-out,' wailed Mrs Plummer. 'Moan, moan, moan from him because he was missing the match on the telly. When we get back the stinking lift is out of order so we have to walk up three flaming flights of stairs to find we've been robbed, and on top of that it was a lousy bleeding film.'

'If we'd stayed in to watch the match like I wanted,' said her husband, 'this wouldn't have happened.'

She turned on him angrily. 'Oh – so it's all my bleeding fault now, is it? Just because, for once in my life, I wanted to go out.'

Frost shut his ears to the row. 'Any sign of forced entry?'

'No.' Jordan took him over to the front door. 'The letter box is in line with the latch. He probably hooked a piece of wire through and opened it that way.'

Frost nodded his grudging admiration. 'He's a clever bastard. Did you see how he wedged open the lift doors to make sure they didn't come back too soon? Let's have a look at the conjugal nest.'

He followed Jordan into the bedroom and saw exactly what he expected. One of the pillows, taken from near the double bed's headboard, had been dumped half-way down in the centre of the powder blue quilt.

'Reminds me of my honeymoon,' grunted Frost.

Jordan grinned. 'A professional job… straight in the bedroom and in and out in a couple of seconds.'

'Still reminds me of my honeymoon,' said Frost. Jordan suppressed a snigger as the husband and wife came in. Crime victims rarely saw the funny side of things.

'Look,' shrieked the woman, pointing to the bed. 'Not content with pinching my jewellery, he's taken the bleeding pillow case.'

'He always does,' Frost told her. 'It's his trademark. He uses the pillow case to bag up the loot. He arrives empty-handed – nothing on him to arouse suspicion before the burglary. He makes straight for the bedroom – which is where most people keep their jewellery – grabs the pillow case, drops the loot inside, then…' Frost walked over to the bedroom window and raised it so he could look down. Two floors below was a grassed-over area. 'Chummy drops the pillow case with the loot out of the window and walks away. If he's stopped at this stage, and we haven't been that flaming lucky yet, he's got nothing on him to arouse suspicion. Then he calmly retrieves the loot and legs it away. He only takes small stuff that he can pocket. He must have been watching the place… saw you go out and took his chance. Did you notice anyone hanging around?'

The man and his wife both shook their heads.

'If it's any consolation,' said Frost, 'you're not alone. He's done about eight blocks of flats over the Past three weeks; got away with thousands of pounds' worth of swag.'

'And you still haven't caught the bastard. Brilliant!' snarled the man.

'As soon as someone is observant enough to feed us with a description, we might have something to go on,' said Frost, 'but so far, no-one's come up with anything.' He gave the place one last look around before rebuttoning his mac, ready for the off. 'Don't touch anything… he hasn't left prints before, but there's always a first time. I'll send our lady Scenes of Crime Officer round first thing tomorrow morning to give the place the once-over.'

'Tomorrow?' shrieked Mrs Plummer. 'What about now? Time's bloody wasting.'

'She's off duty… and she's probably in bed with her pillow in the same position as yours but for a different reason. Tomorrow will be soon enough.'

Jordan's radio called. He listened and beckoned Frost over. 'Message for you from Control, Inspector. They've had a call from a couple on the next floor. Flat 410. Another burglary… sounds like the same man.'

Frost swore silently. 'You bet it's the same bloke. He's probably turned over half the flats in the building. He doesn't give a toss for what he's doing to our unsolved crime figures.' He checked his wrist-watch and groaned. At this rate he'd be working on his expenses into the small hours. 'Come on. Let's get it over with…'

The clock in the Market Square was chiming eleven as Frost nosed his Ford into the station car-park. It had been a sod of a night so far. Two more burglaries reported and investigated in the flats, making four in all… four, lots of miserable people moaning about their rotten luck and what bloody use were the police who spent too much time harassing motorists for' parking on double yellow lines and hardly any on the prevention of crime. Another four unsolved crimes for the monthly report and no further forward in catching the sod.

A list of the stolen jewellery was in his pocket, but Chummy was far too smart to use any of the local fences. Nothing from the previous break-ins had turned up.

Frost had switched his radio and his mobile phone off just in case some bright spark thought he was itching for more crimes to investigate. The rest of the night was expenses, crime figures, the big fight and then bed… He yawned. He could do with bed now. He'd been on duty since eight in the morning and was just about whacked.

At that time of night the station car-park should have been almost empty, but a large yellow and green motor coach was slewed across most of the parking spaces and he had to leave his Ford by the entrance. As he scrunched across the car-park the sound of drunken singing, shouting and the smashing of glass bellowed from inside the building. There must have been an affray at a pub somewhere. So much for peace and flaming quiet.

As he pushed open the rear doors the noise hit him like a punch in the face – drunken screeching laughter, bawdy singing, shouting and the yelling of Sergeant Wells demanding, but not getting, silence. Frost scuttled down the passage to the lobby and cautiously peeked inside. Drunks, men and youths, some near paralytic, others too full of bloody life, were sprawled all over the place and the noise was deafening. One man in the corner, eyes glazed, was performing a sinuous dance, with much pelvic thrusting, to music only he could hear. Another, egged on by the cheers of his mates, was standing on one of the benches, performing a strip-tease and was down to his bulging Y-fronts. In the corner, a sad-faced individual was quietly and copiously being sick. Red-faced and bellowing, Sergeant Wells was adding to the cacophony. 'Shut up all of you… bloody shut up!'

'What the hell is going on?' asked Frost. 'I thought I'd told Mullett not to bring his Rotary Club mates here any more.'

'Don't talk to me about flaming Mullett,' moaned Wells. 'This is all down to him!' He clapped his hands over his ears as the strip-tease finished and the applause rocked the room. 'Look at them… a coachload of football hooligans – just what I flaming well needed!' He took one of Frost's cigarettes. 'You should see what those animals have done to the toilets – you could float the Titanic on a sea of vomit and urine. There's over sixty of them and I haven't got anywhere to put them – the cells are all full.' He raised his eyes to the ceiling. 'Bloody, bleeding Mullett!',

'How does our beloved Divisional Commander come into it?' asked Frost, pushing away a drunk who was trying to put his arms round his neck. I'm already! spoken for, mate.'

'This lot been up to town for the big match -though I expect most of them were too pissed to see it. They finish off all their booze on the way back, so they get the driver to stop at that all-night off-licence just outside Fenwick. They charge in, grab everything they can carry, wines, spirits, lager, packets of flaming pork scratchings, then belt back to the coach without paying. The manager and two of his staff try to stop them and get beaten up with bottles for their trouble. The manager's in hospital with a fractured skull.'

'Boyish high spirits!' murmured Frost. 'But how did we get involved? It's Fenwick Division's problem.'

'Tell me something I don't bleeding know, Jack. By the time the Fenwick area car turns up, they've all jammed into one of the coaches, left the driver behind and gone speeding off up the motorway. The area car follows, skids on some oil and overturns. So Fenwick now wants other Divisions to come to their rescue, stop the coach and hold the drunken sods until they can pick them up. All the other Divisional Commanders are boozing away somewhere. They don't want all the bleeding aggro so they ask Joe Soap Mullett. "We'll stop it," he says. "Denton will rise to the occasion as always." So we have to pull them in and now we're stuck with the sods. Mullett's mates must be laughing their bloody heads off.'

'Still,' grunted Frost, 'it's a fine example of inter-Departmental co-operation. Mr Mullett will be delighted.'

'Then Mr bleeding Mullett can come round with carbolic and a bucket and help swab up the mess. They're discharging from every flaming orifice in here.' He gaped and pointed. 'Look at that bastard. He's peeing on the floor.'

As Wells dashed over to stop the man Frost took the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat. His hand was on the door to his office when running footsteps and his name called made him turn round. An agitated PC Collier. 'What's up, son?'

Collier was panting and could just about get the words out. 'Quick, Inspector. A fight.'

Frost frowned. 'Nothing to do with me, son – tell Sergeant Wells, he's dying for something to do.'

'I think you'd prefer to handle it, Inspector.' Collier lowered his voice. 'One of the fighters is DC Morgan.'

Bloody Taffy! Frost hurried down the corridor after Collier, nearly tripping over a sleeping drunk on the way. Then, in the dim light, he saw them. Two dark shapes, rolling and thrashing about on the floor, each trying to get on top. One of them, a man with a long Woollen football scarf twined round his neck, managed to pin the other's arms down with his knees, then began methodically banging his adversary's head on the stone floor. Frost squinted. Collier was right. The man underneath was DC Taffy Morgan and he was definitely losing.

Frost grabbed the two ends of the football scarf and pulled with all his might. The winner's face went red as the scarf tightened, eating into his neck. Choking, he released his grip on Taffy's hair to pull the scarf away. Frost jerked the man's head back, crooked an arm firmly round his neck and dragged him to his feet. 'Cuffs!' he barked. Collier snapped on the cuffs. Glowering, eyes blazing, the man watched as Frost helped Morgan to his feet. 'What the hell is going on,! Taffy?'

Morgan looked sheepish. He brushed the dust down from his clothes, dabbed at blood that dribbled from his nose and gingerly touched the back of his head. 'Nothing, guv… A misunderstanding…'

'Misunderstanding?' croaked Frost. 'He understood what he was flaming well doing – he was trying to smash your Welsh head in.'

'Let me at him and I'll finish the bloody job,' screamed the handcuffed man, a shaven-headed lout in his late twenties who kept jerking his wrists, trying to snap the handcuffs apart.

Frost peered at him. 'Don't I know you, sunshine?! He clicked his fingers. 'Kenny Leyton… robber with violence. I thought you were inside?'

'I came out last week.' Leyton's face was contorted with rage as he glared at Morgan.

'I hope you left your cell nice and clean because you'll be back again tomorrow,' said Frost. 'I'm charging you with assaulting a police officer.'

Morgan looked dismayed. He tugged at Frost's sleeve. 'No, guv. He was drunk. He didn't mean it.'

'You bet I bloody meant it,' shouted Leyton. He turned to Frost with a provocative grin. 'Come on, copper, charge me. I want to be charged. Let the court know why I want to beat his bleeding brains out.'

Frost's eyes swivelled from one to the other, Leyton furious, Morgan looking embarrassed and guilty. He jabbed a finger at Collier. 'Stay with Leyton. I'll be back in a minute.' Grabbing Morgan's arm, he pushed him into an empty office and slammed the door. 'Right, Taffy. What the flaming hell is going on?'

Morgan hung his head and mumbled to the pattern on the threadbare carpet. 'Nothing, guv. It's trivial. I don't want to press charges.'

'Trivial?' echoed Frost in disbelief. 'A convicted criminal bashing the living daylights out of a police officer? If you don't charge him, then I will.' He moved to the door, but Morgan called him back.

'Wait, guv…' The DC slumped down in a chair and put on his hangdog, little boy caught stealing the jam expression, the expression that made weak-kneed women take him to their hearts before taking him to their beds. 'It's a bit embarrassing, guv…'

'Then embarrass me,' said Frost, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

'I met this woman, see. She seemed a nice type… I didn't know she was married. Honest, guv, I wouldn't have touched her with a barge pole if I thought she was married.'

'Barge pole!' exclaimed Frost, raising his eyes to the ceiling. 'I bet you touched her with something bigger than a bleeding barge pole.' Then the penny dropped. 'You're not trying to tell me she was Leyton's wife?'

Morgan gave a shamefaced nod.

'A known criminal?' croaked Frost. 'And while he was doing time, you was doing his old lady?'

'I never knew she was his wife, guv – cross my heart.'

'Where did you meet her?'

'The Raven's Arms. I went there for a quiet drink.'

Frost snorted. 'No-one goes to the Raven's Arms for a quiet drink. OK, let's hear the rest of this Mills and Boon love story. Did she take you to her place or was it the first shop doorway you came to?'

'We went to her place, guv.'

'Double bed or single?'

'Double, guv.'

'And you didn't think to ask who usually occupied the other half?'

'You know how it is, guv, the minute their knickers come off the last thing on your mind is asking personal questions.'

Frost sighed and poked a cigarette in his mouth. 'You're a bloody fool, Taffy. Knocking off the wife of a known criminal… If Mullett gets to hear of it you can kiss your job goodbye… and Leyton wants to cause trouble.'

'I know, guv. Sorry, guv.' Morgan gave Frost his soulful, wide-eyed expression.

'You're not sorry you did it, you're sorry the bastard found you out,' sniffed Frost. He pinched out the cigarette and dropped it in his pocket. 'All right – you nip back to the office and finish off those flaming crime figures. I'll see if I can get you off the hook with Leyton. And then I'm having a word with the canteen – I don't think they're putting enough bromide in your tea.'

Morgan grinned sheepishly and slunk out.

Leyton looked up belligerently as Frost entered the interview room, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been removed. 'I'm going to get that randy sod kicked out of the force,' he snarled.

Frost sat at the table then tugged a folded computer print-out from his pocket. 'Bit of advice, sonny. Don't mess about with the police. We can play dirtier than you and there's more of us.'

'He knocked off my wife.'

'He was the only man in Denton who hadn't up to then. It was his turn.'

'She's still my bloody wife.'

Frost unfolded the print-out. 'I've been looking at that electronics warehouse job we pulled you in for – the one where the old night-watchman got beaten up.'

Leyton leant back, arms folded, and smirked. 'You couldn't touch me… I had an alibi.'

'That's right,' agreed Frost. 'You said you were in bed with your wife and she backed you up. But what if my randy police officer suddenly remembers he was in bed with her at the time and although his mind was on other things, he was pretty certain you weren't in the bed as well? That would kick your alibi right up the arse. And then I could get a search warrant and make sure some of the stolen loot was found in your house. I could probably splash a bit of the night-watchman's blood on it just to make sure.'

'You bastard… You'd plant evidence?'

'Well – we both know you did it… I'd just be giving the wheels of justice a squirt of oil.'

Leyton leant across the table. 'All right. So what's the deal?'

'You made a mistake. You thought it was DC Morgan, but it wasn't. You apologize for hitting him and he graciously accepts your apology.'

'You bastard!' said Leyton.

'Apology accepted,' said Frost.

Morgan, suitably shamefaced, sat, lips moving silently, as he transferred figures from a stack of files to the large return that County sent out monthly to waste everyone's time. Opposite him, Frost sat staring again at his car expense claim. Mileage up on last month, but purchase of petrol down by almost half. He must have made a silly mistake on last month's claim but no one in County had spotted it. Tapping the pencil against his teeth, he stared across to the facing wall for inspiration. Pinned up behind Morgan's desk was a poster displaying an enlarged photograph of eight-year-old Vicky Stuart smiling her trusting, gap-toothed smile. MISSING FROM HOME. It had been up nearly nine weeks and in spite of extensive searches and appeals over radio, TV and press, they were no further on in finding her than the day she went missing. The kid was now just another statistic for Taffy's unsolved crime return, the poster a permanent reminder of yet another of his failures. He tore his gaze away and found the bundle of blank petrol receipt forms he had accumulated from various petrol stations in the Division. He passed one over to Morgan. 'Make this out for seventeen gallons.'

Morgan squinted at it. 'Your car doesn't hold seventeen gallons, guv.'

'So I spilt some. Just do it.' Useless in many ways, nobody forged a better petrol receipt than Morgan who scribbled off the receipt, then dragged a tall, unsteady stack of files over towards him. Frost closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable to happen… A splatter of files falling all over the floor and the muttered 'Damn!' from Morgan.

'Mind you don't drop them,' murmured Frost, carefully changing a 7 to a 9.

Morgan scooped up the files. A photograph from one of them fluttered to the floor. He retrieved it, tut-tutting and shaking his head in disgust as he looked at it. 'The things some of these swine's do to women never fails to shock me, guv.'

Frost took a look. 'Nasty! That's one of Inspector Alien's old cases…' The photograph was of a naked woman, on her back in long grass, mouth distorted by a tight gag, eyes open and bulging. Red indentations round the wrists and ankles showed where she had been tied down before being beaten, burnt with a cigarette, raped, then suffocated. 'Linda Roberts,' said Frost, 'a part-time prostitute – twenty-six years old. Allen reckons she picked up a punter who liked a spot of the old sado-masochism but it went too far.'

Morgan shuddered and stuffed the photograph back in the folder. 'Did we get the bloke who did it?'

Frost shook his head. 'Not a sniff. We were afraid he might have developed a taste for this sort of thing, but so far, poor old Linda is the one and only.'

The office door opened, letting in a solid blast of noise from the lobby and a perspiring Sergeant Wells. 'Where's Wonder Woman? I've got an armed robbery for her.'

Frost looked up. 'Haven't seen her for some time… Armed robbery?'

'As if we didn't have enough on our bleeding plates. A bloke with a shotgun holds up the all-night filling station and mini-mart near the Eastern Roundabout. This old age pensioner, armed with a shopping bag, decides to do a Clint Eastwood but gets shot in the legs for his trouble…' He frowned. 'What's this?' He was looking at the petrol receipt Frost had slapped in his hand.

'Alter that 5 into an 8.'

Wells snatched up a pen and made a quick alteration. Frost frowned. 'You're a lousy forger, Bill. No wonder you haven't got on in the force.' He flashed a sly wink across to Morgan then settled back to listen to the sergeant's knee-jerk reaction.

'The reason I haven't got on in the force,' replied Wells peevishly, 'is because that bastard Mullett blocks my promotion application at every turn.' He stopped dead in mid-splutter, his eyes widening in dismay as he stared out of the window into the car-park. 'Shit!' he croaked. 'What's he doing here at this time of night?'

Frost twisted his head round to see what Wells was staring at. A blue Rover was coasting into the carpark towards the Divisional Commander's designated parking space which was now blocked by the football supporters' coach. They watched, dumbstruck, as the car stopped, reversed, and was manoeuvred into a less prestigious position. Mullett got out, glared at the offending coach, then strode purposefully into the station looking for someone to blame.

Wells was about to dash off to warn everyone that the Divisional Commander was paying one of his sneaky visits when Liz Maud came in. 'I believe you are looking for me, Sergeant?'

'Yes, Acting Inspector, I was,' replied Wells, bridling because he detected she had over-emphasized the word 'sergeant' to rub his nose in the difference in their ranks. "

Liz stabbed out an icy stare. 'In case you are unaware of it, Sergeant, there is no such rank as acting inspector. The correct address is "Inspector". What have you got?'

Glowering, Wells filled her in with details of the armed robbery and watched her leave.

'Stuck-up bloody cow!' he snarled.

'She looks a bit peaky,' said Frost.

'Too much of the other, if you ask me!' said Wells.

A sage nod from Frost. 'Affects me the same way, Bill. I'm having to cut it down to five times a night now.'

Wells grinned and darted off to the lobby.

'A tasty bit of stuff that Liz Maud,' observed Morgan, head raised from his paperwork. 'Not a great looker, but you can sense hidden fires.'

'You'll feel hidden fires if she kicks you up the arse,' said Frost. 'She's already spoken for, mate, so don't try anything on.' There had been a smouldering affair between Liz and DC Burton which seemed to have cooled off of late. 'Stick to ex-cons' wives, Taffy, they're more your mark.'