A Killing Frost (42 page)

   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 Citroën 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 Citroën. 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.’

   ‘You’re doing surveillance as well? Who the hell gave you permission to do surveillance? Have you finished compiling those lists that I gave you?’

   ‘No, sir.’

   ‘Didn’t I say you were to do no other duties until you’d finished everything I’d allocated you?’

   ‘Yes, but Inspector Frost - ’

   ‘You don’t take orders from Inspector Frost, you take them from me. This is a bloody waste of time. I’m the only one who authorises surveillance overtime and this is unauthorised. Clear out of here right now, the pair of you, and tell Inspector Frost I want to see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

   ‘Yes, Chief Inspector,’ mumbled Jordan.

   ‘Now!’ yelled Skinner. ‘Clear out of here now!’ He waited for Kate Holby to return to her car and for Jordan to reverse and leave the car park. As Jordan did so, he noticed a flashily dressed woman in Skinner’s car, obviously waiting to be taken into the club. He doubted she was Skinner’s wife. No wonder he wanted the surveillance discontinued.

   Jordan was backing out when, to his horror, he saw Kelly and Malone leaving the club and making for the Citroën. Kelly had his arm round the woman, who didn’t seem very well. This was confirmed when she turned her head and vomited all over the tarmac.

   ‘Shit! They’re leaving early.’ He snatched up his mobile to warn Frost.

The loft was tightly crammed with junk and looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for years. The floorboards were crumbling with dry rot and Frost nearly put his foot through to the ceiling below. A quick flash around with his torch revealed nothing. He climbed down and brushed dust and cobwebs from his coat. He checked his watch. One thirty. Plenty of time. Kelly never left the club until two at the earliest.

Jordan had lost Kelly’s car. He was so sure Kelly was heading for home that he had overtaken him in case he saw he was being followed. He tucked into a lay-by and waited. And waited. Shit! They must have turned off down one of the side roads, but where the hell would they be going at half one in the flaming morning? Hoping and praying Skinner wasn’t listening in, he radioed all area cars asking them to keep a look-out for Kelly and to report back as soon as they saw him.

   He had tried to ring Inspector Frost on his mobile phone to warn him, but all he got was a recorded message that the person called was not available and would he like to leave a message. Typical! Frost had switched the damn thing off. He tried Frost’s radio. ‘Inspector Frost, come in please . . . Please . . . come in . . .’

Why Frost suddenly decided to look in the airing cupboard was a complete mystery to him. His experience of his own airing cupboard was that when you opened the door the contents cascaded out all over the floor and had to be rammed back with much swearing; He tentatively opened the door, his torchbeam crawling over neatly folded towels and sheets. On the bottom shelf lay a pile of assorted items in a card board box. He pulled it out and examined the contents. Creditcards, chequebooks, cheque-guarantee cards, all in different names - clearly the spoils of theft.

   As he was pushing the box back, he another one at the back of the shelf. He pulled it out half-heartedly and lifted the lid. Wrist watches, cheap jewellery, assorted credit cards and . . . His heart stopped. At the bottom of the box was a phone. A Nokia mobile phone. The same make, model and colour as Debbie, Clark’s missing mobile.

Taffy Morgan had just finished off a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and was chucking the screwed-up bag out of the window when he suddenly heard a muffled voice.

   ‘Inspector Frost, come in please . . .’

   Where the hell was it coming from? The glove compartment. He opened it and there was the pocket radio Frost should have taken with him. Morgan pulled it out and answered the call.

   ‘For Pete’s sake, get hold of Inspector Frost!’ yelled Jordan. ‘Kelly’s left the club. We think he’s on his way home.’

Hands trembling, Frost carefully wrapped a handkerchief around the mobile, took it out and examined it more closely under the light of his torch. It was switched off, so he clicked it on. What next? There was no indication of the phone’s number. On his own mobile there was a way to bring the owner’s number up on the screen, but he couldn’t remember how it was done and didn’t want to press keys randomly in case it messed things up. He brought up the menu. The battery level was very low - it looked ready to die at any minute. He switched it off quickly. If the phone was dead there was no way he could find out if it was Debbie’s.

   Think, think, think! How could he check? There was a way. There had to be. Right. He had Debbie’s mobile number on him somewhere. If he phoned the number and the mobile rang, that would prove it was her phone and he had the bastards. He rummaged through his pockets to find the scrap of paper with the number scribbled down, then scuttled back to the bedroom to use the bedside phone. As his hand went to pick it up, it rang.

Jordan’s radio spluttered. ‘Charlie Baker calling. We’ve just spotted Kelly and the woman driving away from the twenty-four-hour chemist in Market Square. Do we follow?’

   ‘Don’t follow,’ said Jordan. ‘See if you can get to the house before them. Park round the back behind Taffy Morgan. I’ll let you know if I want any more help.’

   He drove as quickly as he could to Kelly’s house, still trying to work out how to warn Frost, who hadn’t got his radio or mobile. He braked sharply at a public telephone box with a couple of yellowing, tattered phone directories dangling from a chain. He dashed in. The kiosk stank of urine and the floor was littered with stale, damp papers and takeaway containers. Most of the pages had been torn out of the directory; but he hoped Kelly’s number was there. It was! He rammed 20p in the slot and dialled Kelly’s number. It rang and rang. ‘Answer the flaming thing,’ hissed Jordan. ‘You’ve got to get your arse out of there bloody quick.’

Frost froze. The shrill ringing of the phone sounded as if it could be heard halfway down the street. ‘Stop, you sod, stop,’ he muttered angrily. But the damn thing went on and on and on . . .

‘The bloody fool’s not going to answer!’ cursed Jordan, slamming down the phone. Charlie Baker wouldn’t be there yet and the minutes were ticking away. There was nothing for it, desperate measures were called for. He’d have to involve accident-prone Taffy Morgan.

The ringing stopped. The subsequent silence screamed. Frost waited for a couple of seconds, then lifted the receiver. He shone his torch on the girl’s number and dialled. A pause. He waited, holding his breath. A woman’s voice announced, ‘
The person you are calling is unavailable. If you would like to leave a -
’ Damn. Of course. He’d switched the damn thing off to conserve the battery. He hung up, switched on the mobile and waited for it to register. He dialled again. ‘
The number you are calling has not been recognised . . .’

   Double shit. He flicked his torch at the scrap of paper. Damn, he’d transposed the last two numbers. He drew a deep breath and, carefully checking each digit, slowly and deliberately he dialled again. One digit to go when . . .

   Banging, crashing, then footsteps thudding up the stairs.

   Bleeding hell! Kelly was back and no one had warned him. He clicked off the torch and stood stock still, holding his breath, his heart going ballistic, in the dark.

   The footsteps stopped outside the bedroom door.

   ‘Guv . . . Where are you? It’s me - Morgan!’

   Frost sighed with relief. Taffy bloody Morgan! ‘You frightened the shit out of me, you Welsh sod. What are you doing here?’

   ‘Get out quick, Guv. They left early. They’ll be here any minute.’

   ‘So why didn’t you phone me?’

   ‘Your phone is switched off. Come on, Guv.’ He tugged at Frost’s sleeve to hurry him up.

   A car drew up outside.

   Frost twitched back the curtains and took a quick peek at the street below. Flaming arse holes! Kelly’s car was reversing into the drive.

   ‘The back way,’ hissed Frost. ‘It’s our only chance.’

   The sound of a key turning in the lock downstairs.

   Frost froze. Too bloody late. There was no way they could get down the stairs and out with out being seen.

   ‘Guv,’ bleated Morgan.

   Frost flapped a hand to silence him. ‘Keep bleeding quiet and pray.’ What excuse could he use . . . they’d heard a burglar so they broke into the house the back way? Sod it. Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a flaming lamb. He dialled the last digit. And nothing happened. He’d risked everything for sod all.