DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

only looking for Stan, then?” asked Frost. “He isn’t keeping his options open?”
    “Why should we look for anyone else?” asked Ingram in a puzzled voice.
    Frost didn’t answer. He shuffled over to the other side of the room to look at the various notices fastened to the cork bulletin board: duty rosters; search areas; phone numbers of off-duty men, a list headed Police Marksmen with names and phone numbers. Frost saw that Ingram’s name was on this list. “Why police marksmen?” he inquired.
    “Eustace is armed,” replied Ingram wearily. He wished the inspector would go. He was tired. He didn’t feel like talking or answering questions. He just wanted to go somewhere quiet. For the past three nights he had hardly had any sleep.
    “I don’t want him killed,” said Frost.
    Ingram nodded. “I’ll let Mr. Allen know.” A green light flashed and the spools of the Revox began to revolve. Another call coming through on Sadie’s phone. Ingram turned up the volume control. The ringing tone. A click as the receiver was lifted.
    Sadie’s voice. “Denton 2234.”
    A man’s voice, tired, despondent. “Sadie. It’s Stan. Did you talk to him?”
    Sadie’s voice, shouting. “Hang up, Stan. They’ve tapped the line.”
    Click. The dial tone. Silence. The tape recorder switched itself off.
    Behind them the door opened and closed. They turned to see Detective Inspector Allen. “We’ve found Stan Eustace’s old car,” he told Ingram. “It was abandoned under the railway arches, so he’s obviously nicked something else. Advise all units.”
    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