Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  As Ingram was phoning through to Control, Allen gave Frost an unfriendly nod, then moved to his Immediate Action in-tray. “Phone call 16.37. Sadie Eustace to Inspector Frost. Tape Index 033.” He grinned mockingly at Frost. “What was that about, Inspector? Were you and Sadie arranging another clandestine assignation?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t use such long words,” said Frost. “You know what an ignorant sod I am.”

  Friday night shift

  Ken Jordan gently coasted Charlie Alpha down the side street, past the public toilets and into the empty parking space alongside four other parked cars. Seven o’clock in the evening and time for an unofficial coffee break. He leaned back in the driving seat and stretched his arms as his observer, Ron Simms, unscrewed the top of a thermos flask and the smell of strong, hot coffee filled the area car.

  Taking their plastic cups with them, they climbed out of Charlie Alpha to stretch their legs. The night was chilly and there was a fresh wind blowing. “Isn’t that where they found that tramp’s body?” asked Simms, nodding his head toward the red-bricked building with its creaking enamelled sign.

  “Yes,” muttered Jordan, but he wasn’t looking in that direction. His eyes, ever alert, had detected a movement inside one of the parked cars, a grey Honda. It was as if someone had quickly ducked down because he didn’t want to be seen. Jordan drained his coffee, took a torch from the door pocket, and strolled across for a closer look. The beam of his torch flared on the wind-screen. A face jerked up. The engine coughed, then roared, and the Honda leaped forward, forcing Jordan to jump to one side. He spun around, catching sight of the driver’s face as the car sped past.

  “After him!” he yelled to Simms, clambering inside Charlie Alpha.

  “What’s all the panic?” asked Simms as the police car, its siren wailing, bulleted after the Honda in hot pursuit.

  “It’s Stanley Eustace!” shouted Jordan. “Radio Control and tell them we need all the assistance they’ve got.”

  The red dots of the Honda’s rear lights were increasing in size. They were gaining on him. Closer and closer. Soon they would be able to pass him, to swing in front and force him to stop.

  The road took a sharp curve. The rear lights of the Honda suddenly disappeared. Around the bend at full speed, tyres screaming in agony.

  No sign of the Honda. The road shot straight ahead. You could see for miles, but the Honda had vanished.

  Simms twisted his head to look through the rear window. “Back there!” he yelled. Far behind them, getting smaller and smaller as they roared on, was the Honda. It crouched on the grass verge, lights off, driver’s door open. Jordan slammed on the brakes and the Sierra shuddered to a stop.

  “Three units on their way to assist you, Charlie Alpha,” radioed Control. “You are reminded that the suspect is armed and dangerous.”

  “What shall we do?” asked Simms, warily eyeing the grey car, which appeared to be abandoned.

  “We don’t just sit here like bloody Charlies,” snapped Jordan, reversing back to the other car. They got out and cautiously approached. There was a rustling in the grass to one side of them, and before they could turn, a shotgun barrel was rammed into Jordan’s face.

  “Don’t force me to do anything stupid,” said Stan Eustace, the gun shaking in his hand, his trigger finger twitching. He looked tired, frightened, and desperately dangerous. “Facedown on the grass.”

  They flung themselves, facedown, on to the wet grass.

  “Move and I’ll blast your heads off,” croaked Eustace.

  They stared at wet grass. A rustling sound. Simms jerked up his head. A shot blasted out. He banged his face down, hugging the ground as tightly as he could.

  The slam of a car door. A car driving off at speed. Silence. Simms carefully lifted his head to see Charlie Alpha disappearing into the distance. They leaped up and raced to the Honda, then stopped dead. The front tire was flat and peppered with shotgun pellets.

  “Shit!” said Jordan.

  Faintly at first, from a long way off, came the sirens of approaching police cars. Jordan moved out to the centre of the road to flag them down.

  Jack Frost ambled into the station about eight o’clock, hoping he might catch Mullett. The news of the arrest of the Denton rapist should have put the Divisional Commander in a sufficiently good mood to allow the inspector more men to help with the Ben Cornish investigation. No-one seemed able to whip up much enthusiasm over the death of a junkie dropout who was living on borrowed time anyway.

  “He’s been in and gone out again,” Johnny Johnson told him. “He’s with Mr. Allen at the house.”

  “What house?” asked Frost. “The house at Pooh Corner? The house that Jack built? The house of ill repute?”

  “I thought you knew,” said the sergeant, delighted he had someone to break the news to. “It’s Stanley Eustace. They’ve got him cornered in a house on Farley Street. Allen’s in his element police marksmen, the press, television cameras. Stanley’s broken into this house and is holding a family at gunpoint. It’s a hostage situation.”

  Detective Inspector Allen was leaving nothing to chance. He opened up a detailed street map of the area and went over the various points one more time with Detective Sergeant Ingram. “Are all the adjoining houses empty? Has everyone been evacuated?”

  “Most of them,” said Ingram.

  “Most of them? I told you to shift all of them, Sergeant.”

  “The family in number 25 refuse to leave, sir.”

  Allen’s voice rose.” Refuse? Who said they had a choice? Get them out. I don’t care how, but get them out.”

  Ingram delegated this task to a uniformed constable, then looked up as a police car, flanked by two police motorbikes, screeched up with the rifles and handguns from County HQ armoury.

  “Right, Sergeant. Issue the guns,” ordered Allen. “And make sure our marksmen are positioned exactly where I indicated. And emphasize that they are not, repeat not, to fire a single round unless they have my explicit authorisation. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Ingram. He handed out the Smith and Wesson specials to the five police marksmen, keeping a Ruger .222 rifle for himself. Ammunition was carefully counted out, allocated, and signed for. He made sure they all knew their locations, repeated Allen’s instructions, then sent them out to take up position.

  Ingram’s own position was in the top room of a house across the street. From this vantage point his telescopic sight could shrink the distance across the road and the garden and let him look directly into the top back room of number 57, where Eustace was holding his hostages.

  Allen had arranged for the street lamps to be turned off and for batteries of spot lamps to be directed to the back of the hostage house. If Eustace looked out he would only be able to see the blinding glare and the darkness beyond. He checked with his radio that the marksmen were all in position and again reminded them they were only to fire on his express command.

  He turned his head impatiently as a black van edged its way along the cleared side street. The uniformed man whose job it was to turn back traffic had waved the van on. Didn’t the fool have the sense to check with him first? The van pulled in to the kerb and an officious looking swine strode out. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am,” snapped Allen. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Inspector Emms, Communications. What’s the situation?”

  “The situation,” said Allen, ‘is that we have a police killer armed with a shotgun holding a woman and two children hostage in the top back room of that house over there. He’s threatening to kill them all if we don’t meet his demands - a Concorde to take him to Rio or some such rubbish.”

  “Have you made contact with him?”

  “Only through the loud hailer. He won’t let us get near.”

  “You’ve got to make voice contact,” said Emms. “You’ve got to establish rapport.”

  “You’re not teaching a bunch of bloody rookies,” snarled Allen. “I
know what we ought to do. At the moment we can’t do it.”

  Emms looked up to trace the direction of the overhead phone lines. “There’s a phone in the house. I can wire you into it. If he picks up the receiver, he’ll be directly through to you.”

  “The phone is downstairs. Our man is upstairs. I can’t see him trotting down just to see who’s ringing him, but wire it in anyway.”

  “Right,” said Emms, pleased to have the chance to show off his expertise. He disappeared into the back of his van.

  Allen’s walkie-talkie paged him. “Reporter from the Denton Echo would like to talk to you, Inspector.” Allen’s first thought was to tell the man to go to hell, but, on reflection, it wouldn’t do him any harm to get his name in the papers. “Send him over,” he said.

  The communications expert emerged from the van. In his hand he held a telephone on a long length of cable which trailed behind him. “It’s ringing,” he announced proudly, offering the handset to Allen.

  “When I want you to ring him, I’ll bloody well tell you,” said Allen, snatching the phone. He listened. The ringing tone, on and on and on. He looked for someone to take the phone over. “You . . . Constable!”

  PC Collier came forward. Allen pushed the phone at him. “Listen to this. It’s ringing in the house. I don’t suppose he’ll answer, but if he does, keep him talking and let me know immediately.”

  A man in a duffle coat ran down the street toward him. “Mr. Allen? My name’s Lane - chief reporter Denton Echo. What’s the story?”

  “The man with the gun is Eustace, Stanley Eustace, but I don’t want his name published. There are other, more serious, charges pending.”

  The reporter lifted his pencil from the page. “What charges?”

  “Strictly off the record, Mr. Lane, the charge will be the murder of Police Constable David Shelby, but that is not for publication at this stage.”

  Lane nodded. Nothing linking the armed man with any other of fences could be printed as it could prejudice the chances of a fair trial. “Who are the hostages?”

  “Mrs. Mary Bright, thirty-four, separated from her husband, and her two children, Bobby, seven, and Scott, eight.” Allen looked over Lane’s shoulder to Collier, still holding the phone tightly to his ear. “We’ve got a direct line through to the house. It’s ringing, but he won’t answer. I’ll try the loud hailer again in a minute.”

  Allen squinted as car headlights hit his face and another car pulled up. Parley Street was starting to look like a public car park. He was about to yell for it to be moved on when he saw Mullett climbing out.

  Mullett marched briskly over. He nodded to Allen, then raised an inquiring eyebrow at the reporter.

  “Mr. Lane, chief reporter, Denton Echo,” Allen told him.

  Mullett clicked on his professional smile. “Mullett - two 'l's and two ‘t’s - Superintendent Mullett, Commander of Denton Division.” While the reporter was writing that down he asked, “How do you intend to play this, Inspector?”

  “As long as the hostages are in no danger, sir, we’re prepared to sit tight and hang it out. We hope to commence a dialogue with Eustace soon, when I’ll try and get him to release the children. Our aim is for a peaceful conclusion.” Allen said this loudly for the reporter’s benefit and was pleased to see his words being taken down verbatim.

  “It might be better,” Mullett told the reporter, ‘if you put that down as if I had said it. It’s my directive, and Mr. Allen is acting in accordance with it.” Allen fumed inwardly.

  “He’s still not answering the phone, Inspector,” said Collier, whose ear was starting to ache.

  “Quiet everyone,” called Allen. “I’m going to try and make contact.” He thumbed the switch and raised the loud hailer to his mouth. His amplified, metallic voice reverberated over the back gardens. “Eustace. This is Detective Inspector Allen. I’d like to talk to you.”

  From his vantage point in the opposite house, Ingram, squinting through the telescopic sight, saw movement inside the room. He clicked on his radio and reported to Allen. “He’s coming to the window, sir.”

  A terrified woman was pushed to the window. She turned her head away from the blinding glare of the lights. Eustace was well behind her, his arm crooking her neck, the shotgun in his free hand. Ingram shifted the sight slightly to the left and the crosspiece was dead centre of Eustace’s forehead. “There’s enough showing, sir. I think I can get him.”

  “No, Sergeant,” snapped Allen. “There will be no shooting. Confirm.”

  “Confirmed, sir. No shooting.” Ingram sounded disappointed.

  “Listen to me,” shouted Eustace in the darkness, his voice shaking. “I’m only going to say this once. You’ve got thirty minutes. I want a car with a full tank, I want it left outside, then you all piss off.”

  “Release the woman and the kids, Stan, then we can talk about it.”

  “No. They come with me. You’ve got thirty minutes.”

  Allen took a chance. He raised the loud hailer to his mouth and, as he talked, started to walk toward the house. He wanted to be able to talk without shouting. The loud hailer was forming a barrier between them. “Do you want any food, Stan? We can have it sent in. In fact . . .” A shot blasted out and pellets splattered high on the far wall. The woman screamed. The children inside the room started crying.

  “No farther, Mr. Allen. I’m cornered and I’m desperate and I’ve got nothing to lose. Just get me the car and stop ringing that bloody phone.”

  Allen retreated back to his old position. “Cut the phone,” he ordered.

  The woman was dragged away from the window.

  “What do you think?” Mullett asked.

  Allen scratched his head. “I don’t know, sir. My every instinct tells me to rush him. I’m sure he won’t harm the woman or the kids.”

  “He’d use the gun,” said Mullett. “If not on the hostages, then on our men, and I’m not having anyone hurt. We’ll sweat it out. Time is on our side. Hello, who is this?”

  A patrol car skidded up. PC Kenny and a woman got out.

  “It’s Sadie Eustace, Stan’s wife. I’m hoping she can talk some sense into her old man.”

  Sadie, an old coat flung hastily over a blue dress, almost ran over to Allen, her eyes crackling with anger at the sight of the armed men and the press and the spotlights. “What are you bastards doing to him?”

  “Now take it easy, Sadie,” soothed Allen. “He’s got a gun and he’s taken hostages.”

  Sadie turned her back on Allen and appealed directly to Mullett. “I’ll get him out. Let me go in there and talk to him.”

  Mullett looked over her shoulder to Allen, who firmly shook his head. “I’m sorry,” said Mullett. “I can’t let you go in there.”

  “Why not? He won’t harm me. I’m his wife.”

  “The point is, Sadie,” said Allen, ‘you might try to help him.”

  She spun around to face him.” For Pete’s-bloody-sake! I want to help him. That’s the whole point of the exercise.”

  Allen smiled his thin smile. “You might try and help him get away, Sadie. If you were with him, he’d have an extra hostage, extra bargaining . . . and you’d be a hostage we could never be sure was on our side.”

  “You’ve got to trust someone, Inspector.”

  “Forgive me, Sadie, if I can’t trust you. You can talk to him on the phone if you like. We’ve got a direct line through. Try and persuade him to release the hostages and then come out with his hands up.”

  She nodded her agreement. Allen clicked on the loud hailer. “Stan. Go down to the phone. Sadie’s here. She wants to talk to you.” Stan’s voice shouted out into the darkness. “Are you really there, Sadie?”

  “Yes, Stan,” she shouted back. “I want to talk.”

  She took the phone and waited for her husband to go down the stairs with the hostages. Allen stepped back, and when he was well out of earshot he raised the radio to his mouth and very quietly called Special Units 3 and 4. Once Eust
ace was distracted by the phone call, he wanted to try and sneak some men inside the house. When he had issued his instructions he moved back. Sadie was speaking to Stan.

  “Stan, it’s me, Sadie. You’ve got to give yourself up.”

  “And spend the rest of my life in the nick for something I didn’t do?”

  “But Stan . . .” A movement caught her eye. Allen appeared to be signalling to someone in the back garden. She turned her head. Three men, one with a revolver, were inching forward toward the back door.

  “There’s one thing I should mention, Stan,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “There’s a cop with a shooter creeping up to the back door.”

  Allen spun around, furious, his eyes blazing. He made a chopping motion for Emms to cut the connection. At that instant there was a splintering of glass as a gun barrel smashed through the downstairs window. The blast of the shotgun split the darkness, and a small shrub to the right of the approaching armed policeman disintegrated.

  “Get back!” bellowed Stanley. “The next shot goes into the hostages.”

  The three policemen scuttled back.

  Allen, white with anger, turned to Sadie, “You stupid cow.”

  “You stinking bastard,” returned Sadie, equally furious. “You used me, you bugger.”

  Mullett charged over. “What happened?”

  “He fired at one of our men.” The walkie-talkie buzzed. Allen raised it to his ear. “But he’s OK, sir, not a scratch.”

  “Right,” said Mullett. “We sit tight. We play it cool. We make no more moves.”

  Ingram called Allen over the radio. “Eustace is back in the top room with the hostages. The kids are crying, the woman looks as if she’s passed out.”

  “And what is Eustace doing?” asked Allen.

  “Keeping well back, sir, pacing up and down. I think I could get a shot at him, sir. He’s away from the others.”