DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

Stan, nothing at all. But he wished Sadie wouldn’t look at him like that. He sighed and shot the salted peanuts into his mouth.
    “All right, Sadie, what exactly do you want me to do?”
    “Get Stan out of there alive, Jack, and name your price.”
    “My price is 20 for a short time, 50 for all night, but I’m willing to do it for free if you treat me gently.” He stood up.
    “You’ll do it?” gasped Sadie.
    “If I can, love, but a lot depends on Stan. If he blasts my brains out as I come up the stairs, then I might have to let you down.”
    “No chance of that, Jack. He trusts you.”
    “Then he’s a bigger fool than I take him for.”
    He unhooked his mac from the coat peg, then slowly wound the scarf around his neck, hoping that Wells would come crashing in at the last minute, like the United States Cavalry, to announce that Eustace had given himself up.
    “I’m going to get myself into trouble, son,” he told Webster as he fastened the final button. “If you want a laugh, come with me. If you want to keep your nose clean . . . stay here with Sadie.”
    “I’m not bloody staying here,” said Sadie defiantly. “I’m going with you.”
    “What’s your plan?” asked Webster.
    “Plan?” said Frost. “Since when did I ever make plans? I shall just barge in and hope for the best.”
    Webster reached for his coat. “I’ll come with you.”
    “You’re a bloody fool, too!” said Frost.

    The situation at Farley Street had suddenly worsened. Eustace was showing signs of cracking up. Allen’s last attempt to talk to him had ended with the gunman screaming abuse, waving the gun wildly, and showing all the signs of losing control. There was now serious concern for the safety of the hostages. Indeed, Eustace had reiterated his threat to kill them one by one if the car wasn’t ready and waiting at the stroke of midnight.
    Allen was now pinning his hopes on a plan to get some men inside the house by hacking a way through to the roof space from the premises next door. This was proceeding very slowly, as the task needed to be performed silently, and the midnight deadline was fast approaching.
    And as if there wasn’t enough to worry about, he now had that half-wit Frost to contend with. The man had barged in with some harebrained scheme involving his getting inside and talking Eustace out.
    “No way, Frost. I don’t want any bloody heroes, thank you. The man’s trigger-happy and cracking up. He’s itching for an excuse to kill someone.”
    He moved away and radioed the men working on the roof space for a situation report. “We’re getting there slowly,” he was told, ‘but we keep hitting snags. There’s pipes and steel joists all over the place.” When he turned around again, Frost had gone.
    “Where’s Mr. Frost?” he demanded of the constable guarding the entrance to the back of the garden.
    The constable pointed. “In the garden, sir. Trying to get to the house.”
    “Why the hell didn’t you stop him?”
    “Stop him, sir? He said you had given permission.”
    “Mr. Allen!” Ingram was calling over the radio. “I can see someone in the garden, sir.”
    “I know. It’s that bloody fool Frost!”
    Frost was flat on his face, inching toward the back door. Stan wasn’t a killer. He knew he wouldn’t fire, just as he had known that doped-up kid at the bank wouldn’t fire, the one who had put the bullet hole through his cheek.
    He was crawling through wet grass and wished he had never started this. Something tugged at his neck. He froze, then, very slowly, looked around. A rose bush had snagged his scarf. He unwound it from his neck and left it behind.

    Inspector Allen was aware of someone hovering at his side, trying to attract his attention. “I’m busy,” he snapped. Then he saw the gleaming silver. “Sorry, Superintendent . . . didn’t know it was you.”
    “What’s the position? . . . Is that Frost? You surely haven’t allowed Frost . . . ?”
    Allen cut him off. “I told him not to, sir . . . specifically told him not to. He disobeyed my order and now I’m wasting my time trying to prevent him, and the hostages, being killed through his own stupidity.”
    Mullett’s jaw set. This was intolerable. This was the last straw. He could feel the nerve in his forehead starting to pulsate. “Get him out of there,” he snapped.
    “We can’t, sir,” replied Allen. “He hasn’t got a radio. If we yelled out to him, it would attract Eustace’s