angrily. ‘This is haddock.’
‘They didn’t have cod,’ lied Morgan, who had forgotten what Frost had asked for.
Frost reached for the door handle. ‘Do you want me to go back there and check?’
Morgan looked shamefaced. ‘Sorry, Guv. Actually, I forgot.’
Frost had just settled back in his seat when the sound of angry voices floated across the square He wound down the window, but couldn’t make out what was going on. ‘Nip over and check that, Taff.’
A couple of minutes later, Morgan was back.
‘It’s that tom, Guv. The punter has only got thirty quid and she wants forty.’
‘Not for her bleeding body, surely?’ grunted Frost. ‘She must be throwing in her car as well. So what’s the hold-up?’
‘The machine keeps rejecting his card. They’re both getting stroppy.’
‘This isn’t going to be my night,’ gloomed Frost. ‘I’m in the excrement with fat-guts Skinner, arrests we don’t want are cropping up all over the bleeding place, and you bought me haddock instead of cod.’ He snatched his mobile up at the first ring. ‘Frost?’ It was Fortress Building Society. He listened. ‘What? . . . Where? . . . Thanks.’ He chucked the mobile up in the air with delight, but missed catching it so had to scrabble for it on the floor. ‘Foot down, Taffy. He’s bitten the bait. The card is currently being used to withdraw cash in Minton Street.’ He groaned. The cashpoint Jordan had had to leave unwatched.
Morgan couldn’t get the engine to fire and kept fiddling frantically with the ignition. ‘If we’re out of flaming petrol - ’ began Frost, but was cut short as the engine spluttered then suddenly roared to life with a jerk, sending his haddock and chips flying all over the car.
He brushed chips from his mac as the car sped round to the main road. He was right. The bloke must be a rank amateur. Surely he might have guessed that the police would be watching all the cashpoints. And Frost couldn’t believe his luck. Catching the sod on the very first night of the stake-out. Minton Street was only a couple minutes away, but just to be on the safe side he radioed through to Jordan, who with any luck should be on his way back now and approaching from the opposite direction. If chummy wasn’t still at the till, they would stop and search any pedestrian or motorists in the vicinity. There would be very few people around at this time of night.
As they turned the corner into Minton Street, Frost scrubbed the windscreen with the sleeve of his mac. ‘I can see him. The bastard is still there.’
The dimly lit area around the cashpoint showed a man checking some notes then stuffing them into his pocket. Seemingly unaware of the approaching car, he turned down a side street.
‘Left, left,’ screamed Frost as Morgan missed the turn and had to brake sharply and skid the car round. There was a sickening crash and the tinkle of broken glass. Morgan had hit one of the parked cars. ‘It was his fault,’ yelled Frost . ‘Drive on.’ As they turned into the side street they could see the rear lights of a car driving off into the night.
‘Tally ho!’ cried Frost. He snatched up the radio handset and alerted Jordan that the suspect was heading his way. At the T-junction Taffy slowed as Frost, eyes squinted, scoured left and right. ‘There!’ Tiny pinpricks of red in the distance, then the sound of a police siren Jon had spotted the car and was in pursuit. The pinprick of red was followed by a flashing blue light.
‘He’s slowing,’ radioed Jordan triumphantly. ‘He’s stopped . . . he’s bloody stopped!’
Frost punched the air in delight. ‘We’ve got him, Taff!’ He screwed up the greasy chip bag and hurled it through the car window as they drove towards the flashing blue light of a parked Allegro. Jordan was opening the door as Frost’s car pulled up behind.
‘What the flaming hell
‘They didn’t have cod,’ lied Morgan, who had forgotten what Frost had asked for.
Frost reached for the door handle. ‘Do you want me to go back there and check?’
Morgan looked shamefaced. ‘Sorry, Guv. Actually, I forgot.’
Frost had just settled back in his seat when the sound of angry voices floated across the square He wound down the window, but couldn’t make out what was going on. ‘Nip over and check that, Taff.’
A couple of minutes later, Morgan was back.
‘It’s that tom, Guv. The punter has only got thirty quid and she wants forty.’
‘Not for her bleeding body, surely?’ grunted Frost. ‘She must be throwing in her car as well. So what’s the hold-up?’
‘The machine keeps rejecting his card. They’re both getting stroppy.’
‘This isn’t going to be my night,’ gloomed Frost. ‘I’m in the excrement with fat-guts Skinner, arrests we don’t want are cropping up all over the bleeding place, and you bought me haddock instead of cod.’ He snatched his mobile up at the first ring. ‘Frost?’ It was Fortress Building Society. He listened. ‘What? . . . Where? . . . Thanks.’ He chucked the mobile up in the air with delight, but missed catching it so had to scrabble for it on the floor. ‘Foot down, Taffy. He’s bitten the bait. The card is currently being used to withdraw cash in Minton Street.’ He groaned. The cashpoint Jordan had had to leave unwatched.
Morgan couldn’t get the engine to fire and kept fiddling frantically with the ignition. ‘If we’re out of flaming petrol - ’ began Frost, but was cut short as the engine spluttered then suddenly roared to life with a jerk, sending his haddock and chips flying all over the car.
He brushed chips from his mac as the car sped round to the main road. He was right. The bloke must be a rank amateur. Surely he might have guessed that the police would be watching all the cashpoints. And Frost couldn’t believe his luck. Catching the sod on the very first night of the stake-out. Minton Street was only a couple minutes away, but just to be on the safe side he radioed through to Jordan, who with any luck should be on his way back now and approaching from the opposite direction. If chummy wasn’t still at the till, they would stop and search any pedestrian or motorists in the vicinity. There would be very few people around at this time of night.
As they turned the corner into Minton Street, Frost scrubbed the windscreen with the sleeve of his mac. ‘I can see him. The bastard is still there.’
The dimly lit area around the cashpoint showed a man checking some notes then stuffing them into his pocket. Seemingly unaware of the approaching car, he turned down a side street.
‘Left, left,’ screamed Frost as Morgan missed the turn and had to brake sharply and skid the car round. There was a sickening crash and the tinkle of broken glass. Morgan had hit one of the parked cars. ‘It was his fault,’ yelled Frost . ‘Drive on.’ As they turned into the side street they could see the rear lights of a car driving off into the night.
‘Tally ho!’ cried Frost. He snatched up the radio handset and alerted Jordan that the suspect was heading his way. At the T-junction Taffy slowed as Frost, eyes squinted, scoured left and right. ‘There!’ Tiny pinpricks of red in the distance, then the sound of a police siren Jon had spotted the car and was in pursuit. The pinprick of red was followed by a flashing blue light.
‘He’s slowing,’ radioed Jordan triumphantly. ‘He’s stopped . . . he’s bloody stopped!’
Frost punched the air in delight. ‘We’ve got him, Taff!’ He screwed up the greasy chip bag and hurled it through the car window as they drove towards the flashing blue light of a parked Allegro. Jordan was opening the door as Frost’s car pulled up behind.
‘What the flaming hell
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