DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

about twenty-five, dark hair cut short, black leather jacket. I’ve never seen him before. What’s this all about, Mr. Frost? I’m the innocent victim of a brutal crime. I’m entitled to sympathy, not harassment.”
    The summonsed ambulance pulled up outside the shop. Sammy gave a sigh of relief. It would take him to the peace and quiet of the hospital and away from these searching questions.
    “Send the ambulance away,” Frost instructed the two policemen, ‘then get back on patrol. Webster and I can handle it from here.”
    Glickman’s face fell. “I need hospitalisation, Mr. Frost. I’m feeling bad. It’s delayed reaction from the shock.”
    “I’ll get the police surgeon to have a look at you when we lock you up,” said Frost. He said it so matter-of-factly that at first Glickman couldn’t believe what he had heard. Then he did a double take as the import struck home.
    “Lock me up? What are you talking about?”
    “Terribly sorry, Sammy,” said Frost, ‘but the sovereigns are stolen property. We’ll have to book you for receiving.”
    Glickman’s eyes, magnified behind the lenses, opened wide with feigned amazement. “Stolen property in my shop? I can’t believe it. He said they were family heirlooms.”
    “So they were,” said Frost. “Heirlooms of the family he nicked them from.”
    “On my dear mother’s funeral plot, Mr Frost, if I had the slightest idea they were stolen, I would never have touched them.”
    “How much did you give for them?” asked Frost.
    The pawnbroker’s tongue crawled around his lips which had suddenly become very dry. “Thirty pounds each . . . one hundred and fifty nicker the five.”
    “Thirty lousy quid!” scoffed Frost. “And you didn’t know they were stolen? That’s less than half of the market value.”
    “I offered him a low price, Mr. Frost, expecting he’d push it up higher. That’s business. But he said, “Provided it’s in used fivers, you’ve got yourself a deal.” So, if he was happy I was happy. I gave him the fivers, and he gave me the sovereigns - all fair, square and above board.”
    “Tell me the rest, Sammy.”
    “The rest, Mr. Frost?”
    “Thirty quid is a bulk price. He must have told you he had a lot more.”
    “Really, Mr. Frost. I’d have known it wasn’t above board if he said he had a lot.”
    Frost shook his head in disappointment. “OK, Sammy, we’re booking you for receiving stolen property.”
    “Now hold on, Mr. Frost . . .” Suddenly his shoulders drooped. “All right. He said he had about fifty more. They were mine at the same price providing it was in used fivers. I didn’t have fifteen hundred quid in cash. I said I’d get it from the bank. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”
    Frost grinned broadly. “Then I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Sammy. The minute he puts his foot inside that door, you will phone the station and you will make certain he doesn’t leave your shop until the fuzz arrive. If we catch him, I’ll drop the receiving stolen property charge, if not, you’ll be eating Her Majesty’s porridge for a very long time.”
    “I’ll co-operate with you in every way I can, Mr. Frost.”
    “I knew you would, Sammy. Now put your coat on. We’re going walkies to the cop shop.”
    The pawnbroker was crestfallen. “The station. But you said . . .”
    “To look at some mug shots,” explained Frost. “To see if you can’t pick us out the bloke with the shooter. It’s part of co-operating with us every way you can.”

    Glickman sat in Frost’s office hunched over yet another book of photographs that the bearded detective constable had dumped on the desk. His head was aching and the cup of stewed tea they had reluctantly provided to help him swallow the aspirins for his headache was sending acid ripples across his stomach. He wished he’d never admitted he could identify the gunman so he could now be indoors, in his cosy little flat above the shop, filling in his insurance claim form.
    He sighed at the unfairness of life and opened the latest book, screwing his eyes as the monotonous rows of criminal faces shivered in and out of focus. He had looked at so many photographs he was now beginning to doubt his ability to recognize the man with the shooter even if he saw him face to face. A cough from the bearded detective prodded him to hurry so the current album could be replaced by yet another. The world seemed to be jam-packed with photographed criminals.
    A creak as the