A Touch Of Frost (48 page)

The Chief Constable marched briskly over, slapping his gloves against his leg. “A quick update please, Mr. Mullett.” Mullett had just started to explain when the Chief caught sight of Frost. “Good Lord! Is that Inspector Frost?”

Frost, his body wet with sweat and all his limbs aching, had reached the back door. He stretched up until his hand touched the door handle. Tentatively he turned it. The handle turned, but the door was double-bolted from the inside. Stan wasn’t stupid! He wished he’d worked out the problem of how to get inside before he took this mad plunge. A fine bloody fool he’d look if, without even getting over the first hurdle, he now had to worm his way back and face Allen’s wrath.

The next thing to try was the kitchen window. Pressing tight against the wall, he eased himself up and edged toward it. It was an old-fashioned sash type, and by pressing his face against the pane he could see the catch was fastened inside. To unfasten it he would have to break the glass, but could he break it without attracting the attention of Stan and his shotgun? He looked around him for something to use. In the flower bed at his feet was half a brick. He pulled it out and slipped off his mac, which he wrapped around it.

Allen, squinting through night-glasses, couldn’t make out what Frost was up to. It was Ingram, radioing through, who gave him the answer. “He’s going to break the window, sir.”

The bloody idiot! As soon as Eustace heard the glass break, he could take it out on the hostages. He might even lean from the window and shoot Frost . . . The temptation to let this happen was quickly dismissed, and Allen felt ashamed for even considering it. They would have to provide a distraction—and quickly. He radioed through to all surrounding units. When he gave the signal they were to sound their horns and their sirens and keep them going until ordered to stop. This, he hoped, would drown the sound of breaking glass, or at least divert Eustace long enough for Frost to get inside.

The field glasses to his eyes, Allen watched. Frost had the wrapped brick balanced in his hand. “Allen to all units . . . Stand by.”

Frost shut his eyes, turned his head, and swung back the brick . . .

“Now!” screamed Allen. The cacophony shredded the night air into a thousand pieces.

“Stop that bloody noise!” screamed Eustace, dragging the woman again to the window.

“Off,” said Allen. Abruptly the noise stopped.

The contrasting silence was so tangible it could almost be touched. Gritting his teeth, Frost slipped his hand through the broken windowpane and reached for the catch. A needle of broken glass slashed his wrist. Damn. He felt warm blood trickling down. He flicked the catch back, then scrabbled for the bottom of the window, which creaked peevishly as he raised it. Up with his knee to the sill, the jab of more broken glass, then he was over and inside the dark kitchen.

“He’s inside,” cried Allen. They now had no contact with him. All they could do was wait and see.

“Well done, Mr. Allen,” said the Chief Constable.

“Yes . . . well done,” added Mullett hastily.

From his vantage point across the road, Ingram again called Allen on the radio. “Sir. I have a clear, uninterrupted view of Eustace by the window. Permission to fire?”

“No, damn you,” snapped Allen. “Only at my specific command.” He turned to the Chief Constable. “I’m trying to bring this to a successful conclusion without a single shot being fired—by the police, sir.”

“I quite agree,” said the Chief Constable, nodding.

“All the way,” echoed Mullett, feeling rather left out of things.

Frost crouched in the darkened room and wished the gash on his wrist would stop its sticky trickle. It felt as if gallons of blood were pumping out and it reminded him of the way ancient Romans committed suicide. His knee felt wet, sticky, and gritty from embedded chunks of glass. All in all he had made rather a mess of his spectacular entrance.

A door faced him. He limped over to it and cautiously pushed it open. He could make out carpeted stairs leading to the upper rooms. Good. The carpet should deaden the sound of his approach. His impromptu plan was to creep into the room, get behind Stan, and throw him to the ground so he couldn’t use the shotgun. He fought several different versions of this encounter in his mind, but somehow they all seemed to end up with Stan on top of him and the shotgun barrel rammed halfway up his nose. But this was no time for pessimism.

He padded to the foot of the stairs and listened. All seemed quiet above. He tried the first stair, carefully placing his foot well to one side to avoid any creaking. Then the other foot. A splash of blood plopped to the stair carpet, marking his progress. He paused and listened. Nothing!

The next stair, then the next. His approach was absolutely soundless. The SAS couldn’t have done it any better.

He raised his head for the final stair and his heart suddenly stopped. The terrified face of a woman was staring at him. An arm encircled her neck. Jammed under her chin, the barrel of a shotgun. Behind her, a twitching Stanley Eustace, his finger quivering on the trigger.

“Shit!” said Frost. “I didn’t think you could hear me.”

“One move out of turn, Mr. Frost,” said Stan, “and I’m pulling this trigger.” And he pushed the barrel even more tightly under the woman’s chin. “Now, come up!” Frost had never seen the man as uptight as this before. He was a hairbreadth from breaking point.

“All right, I’m coming,” said Frost. “Don’t do anything daft.”

Pulling the woman back, Stanley led Frost into the bedroom. On chairs against the wall were two terrified young boys.

Eustace took the gun from the woman’s throat and pushed her away from him. “Go and sit down with your kids—and not a move, do you hear? Not a move and not a word.” He swung the gun around to cover Frost.

“Sadie sent me,” said Frost. “She said you’d be pleased to see me. I wouldn’t have come had I known it would be like this.”

“I want a car,” said Eustace. “A getaway car. And they’ve got to promise not to come after me.”

“Sadie said if I came up here, you’d let the hostages go,” said Frost.

“No. I need them!” His finger kept touching the trigger then moving off.

“You don’t need them, Stanley. If you want a hostage, you’ve got me. Besides, you haven’t the slightest intention of harming them, and those kids ought to be in bed.”

Allen put down the phone. “Eustace says he’s letting the woman and the kids go, but Frost remains.”

“That’s excellent news,” said Mullett.

“Is it?” muttered Allen. “All we’ve done is swap one set of hostages for another. We’re back to where we started.”

“Jack Frost will get Stanley to come out, don’t you worry,” chimed Sadie. “He won’t let you bastards kill him.”

PC Collier, watching the garden, called out excitedly to Allen. “The hostages are coming out now, sir.”

Frost was reaching for his cigarettes. “Stan, if I take out a fag, will you promise not to blow my head off.”

The gun moved with Frost’s hand as it dived into his pocket. The gunman shook his head when the packet was offered to him. “Given it up.”

Frost clicked his lighter. “Wish I could, Stanley.” He sucked on the cigarette and let the smoke fill his lungs, then slowly exhaled. “You’ve got to give yourself up some time, Stan. Why not now?”

“I want a car, petrol . . .”

Frost waved his hand impatiently. “You know bloody well they’re not going to give it to you. They’ve got the press and the TV cameras out there, all waiting for the happy ending—with the crook losing and the police coming out on top. Mr. Mullett’s hoping for a different happy ending—you blowing my brains out. But there’s no way they’re going to let you get into a motor and drive away.”

The man’s entire body started to shake. “If the bastards want a fight, I’ll give them one. They framed me. I never touched that copper.”

The waiting and the hanging about was making Mullett impatient. “What’s going on, Allen?”

Allen wished Mullett would get back to the office and stop being a pain. All this standing behind him and fidgeting and expecting things to happen just because the great Chief Constable was there was getting on his nerves. He radioed Ingram. “What’s happening, Sergeant?”

“Mr. Frost is by the window, sir, Eustace well back, the gun trained on the inspector. No chance of a shot at the moment, sir, I might hit Mr. Frost. Hold on, sir—something’s happening . . .”

“As God is my witness,” said Eustace, the finger on the trigger shaking dangerously, “I never touched that copper. I never even saw him that day. You’ve got to believe me.”

“Stanley,” said Frost uneasily, “with a gun rammed in my gut I’m prepared to believe anything.”

Stanley laughed. An overwrought laugh. “It’s not even bloody loaded, Mr. Frost.”

“What?”

“I fired my last cartridge half an hour ago. It’s empty—look.” His finger tightened on the trigger to demonstrate.

Frost’s arm swung out to knock the gun away, just in case Stan was mistaken, but even as he moved the explosive blast hammered at his ears. Stanley stared, open-mouthed, in horror, pointed an accusing finger at Frost and pitched forward, vomiting blood, the red stain on his chest spreading, spreading . . .

“Get an ambulance!” shouted Frost as armed police charged into the room. He cradled Stanley’s head in his arms. Outside a woman was screaming uncontrollably—Sadie Eustace.

“You silly sods!” yelled Frost. “The gun wasn’t loaded. You silly sods . . .”

Ingram had fired the shot.

They carried Stanley’s body out on a stretcher, the red blanket pulled up to cover his face. As Frost emerged Sadie lunged at him. “You bastard—you let them kill him.” Webster and a woman police officer held her back. Frost walked on. There was nothing he could say to her.

Back in the room, the postmortem.

“It wasn’t even loaded,” said Frost.

“I didn’t know,” said Ingram. “I saw him pulling the trigger. I didn’t know.”

“You’re not expected to know, Sergeant,” snapped Allen. “If a killer points a gun at a police officer and then pulls the trigger, you are entitled to assume the gun is loaded.”

“I quite agree,” said Mullett. “The person reproaching himself should be you, Frost. You placed this entire operation in jeopardy because of your cheap tactics. We’ll talk about this further in my office, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir,” said Frost. Stan dead. Sadie widowed. That was all that mattered. He sat in a chair and lit a cigarette.

“We’d better see the press now,” said Mullett to Allen. He sighed. “Pity that damn shotgun wasn’t loaded. It would have made a splendid story.” They went out together.

Frost dribbled smoke and peered at Ingram through the haze. The sergeant looked shattered.

“I thought he was going to kill you. I saw him pulling the trigger. I didn’t know the gun was empty.”

“Sit down,” said Frost. “I think we ought to have a talk.”

Ingram sat.

“It’s a mess, isn’t it son?” said Frost.

“Yes,” muttered Ingram.

“I was hoping a bloke called Dawson had done it,” said Frost. “Dave Shelby had been knocking off his wife. But Dawson had an alibi. He was in some shooting contest until late evening.”

“Oh,” said Ingram.

Frost lit a second cigarette from the first. “He belongs to the same shooting club as you do. In fact you were both down for the clay pigeon shooting contest that afternoon, but you left early didn’t even go in for your heat. The club secretary told me. He said you left just before five with your shotgun tucked under your arm.”

“I wasn’t feeling well enough to shoot,” said Ingram.

“So the secretary said,” agreed Frost. He reached in his pocket for the packet of photographs and put them on the small table in front of him. “Shelby was knocking your wife off as well, wasn’t he?”

The sergeant sprung up. “How dare you, you swine . . . !”

“You don’t have to put on an act for me, son,” said Frost wearily, “I’m an unworthy audience.” He sorted through the photographs and pulled one out. “This is Shelby with Dawson’s wife. It was taken on Tuesday afternoon. If you turn it over you’ll see that these instant pictures all carry a printed number. This is number seven.” He sorted through to find another which he turned facedown. “This is number eight, which means it was taken after the other one.” He flipped it over. “The lady with Shelby—it’s your wife, isn’t it?”

Ingram stared at the photograph. Two nude figures interlocked. He didn’t say anything.

“That must have been taken Tuesday night,” Frost went on. “It couldn’t have been much later because the next day he was dead.”

The detective sergeant seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the photograph.

Frost went on. “You were at the party Tuesday night so Shelby had the coast all clear. He’d parked his patrol car out of sight near the toilets and was on his way up to your place when he noticed the grille was broken. He was just about enough of a policeman to investigate, and he found Ben Cornish’s body. He was all fidgety that night. I thought he’d been up to something, but he was just anxious to be on his way for a spot of fun with your Stella and his camera.”

Ingram picked up the photograph, then turned it facedown. “I never knew this was going on,” he said.

With tired sadness, Frost shook his head. “You did, son. That’s why you killed him.”

“Eustace killed him,” said Ingram. “Shelby’s notebook was found near his car.” He waved away Frost’s offered cigarette.

“The grass in that field was wet with dew,” said Frost. “The notebook was supposed to have been lying there all night, but it was bone-dry. I never twigged at the time, but I’m a slow old sod. It was dumped there a few minutes before it was found and by you, my son.”

“No,” said Ingram.

Frost dabbed at the gash on his wrist. “It’s difficult to get rid of every trace of blood. You’ve probably scrubbed and scrubbed the inside of your motor, but I bet it wouldn’t take Forensic long to find what you’ve missed. Shelby must have been bleeding like a pig.”

Jagged blue flashes from outside as the press took photographs of Allen and Mullett.