DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

Charlie Alpha.
    The monotonous shrill of an alarm bell cut through the air. A small crowd of sightseers was being pushed away from the entrance to a shuttered shop by a uniformed police constable. Above the shop door a stout iron bracket supported the universal pawnbrokers’ trademark, three brass balls. A fading painted wooden sign announced s. glickman, jeweller and pawnbroker. The premises had a shabby, down-at-heel appearance and didn’t look nearly prosperous enough to warrant the attention of an armed robber.
    They darted from the car to the shop, the uniformed man giving a nod of recognition to the inspector. Inside, their feet scrunched over shards of broken glass that powdered the carpet.
    It was a tiny, dingy shop. A couple of paces and they were at a glass-fronted counter, its shelves stripped bare of the jewellery it once held. On the wall, to the left of the counter, a shattered glass showcase containing a mess of broken glass, cheap watches, and cigarette lighters. The wall showcase to the right of the counter contained nine-carat gold chains and pendants and appeared to be untouched.
    The fat man in the shiny blue-serge suit dabbing blood from his face was Sammy Glickman, the owner. Balding, middle-aged, tiny shifty eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, and a few more chins than the usual allowance, Glickman was slumped on a chair in front of his counter. A police officer, PC Keith Sutton, was questioning him, jotting down his replies.
    The sound of the alarm bell was magnified in the enclosed space of the shop. “Can’t someone turn that bloody thing off?” pleaded Frost.
    Holding his now crimson and soggy handkerchief tightly against his forehead, the pawnbroker fished a bunch of keys from his pocket, sorted one out, and offered it to Webster. “There’s a switch under the counter . . . left-hand side.”
    Webster killed the alarm. It died immediately but the ghost echo of its high-pitched ringing still scratched at their ears.
    The shop was too small to hold four men comfortably, so Frost instructed Webster to go with the other officer and start knocking at doors to find out if anyone saw anything. “Have a look in the road for a licence plate,” he called. “You never know your luck.”
    There was now room to move and Frost was able to get close enough to the pawnbroker to examine his injuries.The forehead wound was little more than a deep cut. “The radio reported you were shot, Sammy,” said Frost, sounding disappointed. “I was expecting to find you with your head blown off.”
    “Another couple of inches and it could have been, Mr. Frost,” Glickman replied.
    “I’ve sent for an ambulance, Inspector,” said Sutton, ‘but it’s not very serious.”
    The eyes behind the thick lenses focused indignantly on the constable. “Not very serious? I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. He fired straight at me.”
    “He missed you, though, didn’t he?” observed Frost, moving behind the counter to poke at the damaged showcase. “And you’re hardly a small target.” Amongst the fragments of shattered glass and the cigarette lighters he spotted some flattened lead pellets. He picked one up with his finger and thumb and displayed it to the constable.
    “Yes, sir, I did notice,” said Sutton, sniffing. These damn plainclothes men seemed to think the uniformed branch was blind. “Shotgun pellets. The man fired a warning shot as he was leaving. A splinter of flying glass caused the damage to Mr. Glickman’s forehead.”
    “It could have gone in my eye,” moaned Glickman. “Blinded me for life.”
    “It could have gone up your arse,” snapped Frost, ‘but it didn’t, so let’s stick to what actually happened.” He dug out his cigarettes and offered the packet around, then had a nose around the shop, pulling at drawers, prodding at showcases. He opened a door behind the counter, and his nose wrinkled at the musty smell of old clothes. Clicking on the light, he faced dusty shelves piled with brown-paper parcels, old suitcases, and hangers full of outdated garments. He returned to the shop, where he examined the security bars and locks fitted to the inside of the main door and shop window. “He got nothing from the window display, then?” he asked.
    “Only from the counter,” said Sutton. “Mr. Glickman said he was in and out in a flash.”
    Frost nodded, then sat on the corner of the counter, swinging his leg. “Right, Mr. Glickman. Tell me