DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

to as tight an area as possible, so we can get to the decoy before he can harm her.”
    Mullett studied the map over Allen’s shoulder. “You’re pinning all your hopes on him operating in the same area as last night. Those woods are vast. You could all be over the west side while he’s raping victims to the east.”
    “To cover the entire area, sir, would require so many men there wouldn’t be room for the rapist to get in. If the bait’s attractive enough, I’m hoping he will come to us.”
    “How many men are you talking about?” asked Mullett.
    “About fifteen or twenty.”
    “I don’t know,” said Mullett evasively as he returned to his chair. “There’s too much left to chance. And the overall cost would be terrific - fifteen or twenty men, all on overtime. I’m under severe pressure from County to cut down on our manpower costs. Let me show you the memo they sent me.” He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the memo with “Strictly Confidential’ typed in red capitals across the top.
    Allen barely gave it a glance. He didn’t want to see these stupid pieces of paper. “Then you’re saying we do nothing at all, sir? We simply sit back, twiddle our thumbs, and wait for our man to pick his next victim. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”
    Mullett could feel the wall pressing hard against his back. “What can I do?” he said weakly, waving the memo like a flag of truce. “We’ve got to cut down on expenditure. I mean I could authorize it, and you could waste night after night, fifteen men all on overtime, expenses soaring and nothing to show for it. County would crucify me.”
    “Let’s restrict it to five nights only, then, sir.”
    “Three,” countered Mullett, feeling he was scoring a victory.
    “Fair enough, sir. Three,” agreed Allen. “And then we can decide whether to extend it or not.”
    “But let me see a costing first,” called Mullett as Allen made for the door.
    “Of course, sir,” smiled the inspector. “I’ll have it on your desk in half an hour. I’ve already started working it out.”

    “This is how we found it, Inspector,” said PC Kenny, leading Frost and Webster into Tommy Croll’s rooms.
    The two rooms were a chaotic mess with upholstery slashed, drawers pulled out, cupboards yawning open and their contents strewn all over the floor. The mattress in the bedroom had been dragged from the bed and knifed, its lacerations bleeding horsehair. A heap of clothing tumbled from the wardrobe had a snowy coating of feathers from ripped pillows. In the kitchen the contents of packets of soap powder and corn flakes had been spewed all over the floor where they scrunched noisily underfoot.
    “It’s been done over, sir,” said PC Kenny.
    “Funny you should say that,” said Frost, “I was thinking the same thing myself.” He kicked at a tin of baked beans which rolled to rest against some broken slices of bread. “No sign of Croll, I suppose?”
    “No, sir. His landlady downstairs didn’t even know he was out of hospital.”
    “Does she know who did this?”
    “No, sir. Says it happened while she was out.”
    Frost picked up a battered transistor radio from the floor. “Well, there’s no mystery about who did it - a couple of Harry Baskin’s heavies searching for the stolen money and putting in the frighteners at the same time.” He plugged in the radio and clicked it on. An angry crackle followed by a blue flash. He switched it off. “We’ll have to find Tommy before Baskin’s boys get hold of him. We don’t want him ending up like his mattress, with his innards poking out.” He told Kenny to ask Control to put out a priority signal that Croll was to be found and brought in immediately for questioning in connection with the robbery at The Coconut Grove.
    Their next stop was at the house of the other security guard, Bert Harris, who lived in one of the newly built houses east of the main Bath Road. Harris, a cropped-haired, thickset man in his late twenties, sported a black eye and a bruised nose, souvenirs of his reprimand from Harry Baskin the previous night. He didn’t seem at all pleased to see the two policemen.
    “It’s not really convenient, Mr. Frost,” he protested, but the inspector pushed past him.
    “We don’t mind if it’s a bit untidy, Bert.” He opened the lounge door and peeped inside. A carbon copy of Croll’s place with slashed upholstery and emptied cupboards. “Looks like my house on a good day,” commented