he?”
“Of course he is,” beamed Frost. “He’s going to be fine.” He gave her a reassuring pat.
They walked on.
“Why raise her hopes?” asked Webster. “He’s going to die.”
“Then you bloody tell her,” said Frost.
Tuesday Night Shift (5)
“I can’t give you any sort of description,” said the man. “I never saw him.”
“You must have seen something,” said Wells. “How are we supposed to arrest him if we don’t know what he looks like?”
The phone rang.
“Answer that, would your Ridley,” yelled Sergeant Wells. “I’m attending to someone.”
The man he was attending to had been robbed at knife-point while drawing cash from the automatic cash dispenser at Bennington’s Bank. “He stuck a knife in my back,” said the complainant, “then he grabbed the money and ran. By the time I’d plucked up courage to look around, he’d gone.”
“Was he short, tall, fat, thin, white, yellow, or what?” asked Wells.
“All I can tell you is he was a bloody fast runner,” said the man. “He went off with my money like a dose of salts.”
The phone kept ringing.
“Excuse me a moment, sir,” said Wells. He pushed open the door to the corridor and shouted, “Ridley!”
The toilet gurgled and roared, then Ridley appeared, doing up his belt.
“The bloody phone’s ringing,” snapped Wells. “You know I’m here on my own.”
“I’m entitled to go to the toilet, aren’t I?” argued the constable.
“Not when we’re short-staffed, you’re not.” He turned back to the man. “And how much did you say was taken, Mr Skinner?”
“Forty-five pounds. Nine five-pound notes.”
“Any idea where Mr Frost is?” called Ridley, holding the mouthpiece against his chest.
“You’re on Control,” snapped Wells. “You’re supposed to know where everyone is.” It was really getting far too much. Every available man had been commandeered by Mr Allen after the rape attempt in Denton Woods. Even young Collier had been roped in, leaving only Wells and the controller, PC Ridley, to run the entire station. He wasn’t good enough to go to their lousy party, but he was good enough to run a division almost single-handed.
“There’s been a robbery and a coshing over at The Coconut Grove. They got away with more than five thousand quid.”
“Hard bloody luck,” said Wells. “This gentleman’s lost forty-five pounds, and he was here first.”
The lobby doors crashed back on their hinges, and in bounded Frost in his party suit with the sodden trouser legs and his everyday mac and scarf. With him was the new bloke, the bearded ex-inspector Webster.
Ridley waved the phone. “Mr Frost!”
While Webster went on to the office to make a start on the crime statistics, Frost ambled over to Ridley. “Yes, Constable?”
“Robbery at The Coconut Grove, Mr Frost.”
“Sorry, I’m only doing bodies down public lavatories tonight,” replied the inspector. At Ridley’s look of reproach, he sighed and said, “All right. Take the details.” He crossed to the corridor and yelled, “Webster! We’re going out again.” Then he caught sight of Wells struggling to get a report form into the typewriter. “Everything all right, Sergeant?”
“No, it bloody well isn’t,” snarled Wells, “and I’m too busy for small talk.”
“I’ve seen a lady with rouged nipples,” said Frost.
“Are you going to take my details?” demanded the man who had been robbed.
“Just a moment, sir,” said Wells, waving him off as if he were intruding on a private conversation. “You saw what Jack . . . ??”
Before it had time to blink at being brought out into the light, the crime statistics return was stuffed back into the filing cabinet and Webster was once again behind the wheel of the Ford Cortina, driving off into the night. As the car skirted the woods, they could see the firefly dots of torches dancing among the trees, where Allen’s team continued its painstaking
“Of course he is,” beamed Frost. “He’s going to be fine.” He gave her a reassuring pat.
They walked on.
“Why raise her hopes?” asked Webster. “He’s going to die.”
“Then you bloody tell her,” said Frost.
Tuesday Night Shift (5)
“I can’t give you any sort of description,” said the man. “I never saw him.”
“You must have seen something,” said Wells. “How are we supposed to arrest him if we don’t know what he looks like?”
The phone rang.
“Answer that, would your Ridley,” yelled Sergeant Wells. “I’m attending to someone.”
The man he was attending to had been robbed at knife-point while drawing cash from the automatic cash dispenser at Bennington’s Bank. “He stuck a knife in my back,” said the complainant, “then he grabbed the money and ran. By the time I’d plucked up courage to look around, he’d gone.”
“Was he short, tall, fat, thin, white, yellow, or what?” asked Wells.
“All I can tell you is he was a bloody fast runner,” said the man. “He went off with my money like a dose of salts.”
The phone kept ringing.
“Excuse me a moment, sir,” said Wells. He pushed open the door to the corridor and shouted, “Ridley!”
The toilet gurgled and roared, then Ridley appeared, doing up his belt.
“The bloody phone’s ringing,” snapped Wells. “You know I’m here on my own.”
“I’m entitled to go to the toilet, aren’t I?” argued the constable.
“Not when we’re short-staffed, you’re not.” He turned back to the man. “And how much did you say was taken, Mr Skinner?”
“Forty-five pounds. Nine five-pound notes.”
“Any idea where Mr Frost is?” called Ridley, holding the mouthpiece against his chest.
“You’re on Control,” snapped Wells. “You’re supposed to know where everyone is.” It was really getting far too much. Every available man had been commandeered by Mr Allen after the rape attempt in Denton Woods. Even young Collier had been roped in, leaving only Wells and the controller, PC Ridley, to run the entire station. He wasn’t good enough to go to their lousy party, but he was good enough to run a division almost single-handed.
“There’s been a robbery and a coshing over at The Coconut Grove. They got away with more than five thousand quid.”
“Hard bloody luck,” said Wells. “This gentleman’s lost forty-five pounds, and he was here first.”
The lobby doors crashed back on their hinges, and in bounded Frost in his party suit with the sodden trouser legs and his everyday mac and scarf. With him was the new bloke, the bearded ex-inspector Webster.
Ridley waved the phone. “Mr Frost!”
While Webster went on to the office to make a start on the crime statistics, Frost ambled over to Ridley. “Yes, Constable?”
“Robbery at The Coconut Grove, Mr Frost.”
“Sorry, I’m only doing bodies down public lavatories tonight,” replied the inspector. At Ridley’s look of reproach, he sighed and said, “All right. Take the details.” He crossed to the corridor and yelled, “Webster! We’re going out again.” Then he caught sight of Wells struggling to get a report form into the typewriter. “Everything all right, Sergeant?”
“No, it bloody well isn’t,” snarled Wells, “and I’m too busy for small talk.”
“I’ve seen a lady with rouged nipples,” said Frost.
“Are you going to take my details?” demanded the man who had been robbed.
“Just a moment, sir,” said Wells, waving him off as if he were intruding on a private conversation. “You saw what Jack . . . ??”
Before it had time to blink at being brought out into the light, the crime statistics return was stuffed back into the filing cabinet and Webster was once again behind the wheel of the Ford Cortina, driving off into the night. As the car skirted the woods, they could see the firefly dots of torches dancing among the trees, where Allen’s team continued its painstaking
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