DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

robbery.”
    “The bullet missed me by inches,” said Glickman, putting in his two-penny-worth.
    “And we’ve got a lead on those sovereigns,” added Frost, determined to throw in all the pluses.
    Mullett drew in his breath. “All I am interested in, Frost, is the hit-and-run. I must have something positive to tell Sir Charles Miller. Put the house-to-house inquiry in hand right away.”
    “Right away, sir,” Frost assured him, putting his thumb to his nose and waggling his fingers as soon as the door closed behind his Divisional Commander. Then he stood up and declaimed dramatically: “She was only a stripper’s daughter, so very good and kind - No stain upon her character, but a mole on her behind.”
    Webster’s scowl deepened. How childish could you get? He squinted at his wristwatch. Nearly five past seven. He smothered a yawn and felt tiredness creeping over him. Hardly any sleep last night, already on duty for ten hours solid and they still had the house-to-house inquiries about the stolen Jaguar to make. He wouldn’t see the inside of his rented room much before midnight. Later he would realize what an optimistic estimate that was.
    The phone rang. Frost listened and frowned. “Thanks,” he grunted, “I expected as much.” He hung up. “The red Vauxhall Cavalier,” he told Webster. “It was reported stolen at three o’clock this afternoon.” He stretched out his arms and yawned openly. “As soon as Sammy has identified the man with the golden gun, we’ll go home. I could do with an early night.” Webster reminded him of the house-to-house, but Frost wasn’t interested. “That can wait. We’ve got more important things to do than waste time trying to clear that little snot. No, we’ll have an early night.” He stared pointedly at Webster’s beard, then began to sing “Does Santa Claus sleep with his whiskers over or under the sheets . . . ?”
    Glickman’s shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter. He thought the inspector was a real card. The bearded one had no sense of humour and was so easily riled. Glickman’s eyes travelled over a page filled with sneering punks and scowling skin-heads. He licked his finger and turned the page.
    He stared. He blinked. Then stared again.
    “It’s him!”
    Frost and Webster leaned over his shoulder. “This one!” insisted Glickman, jabbing a pudgy finger on the glossy black-and-white.
    “Are you sure?” Frost asked doubtfully.
    “I’m one hundred fifty percent sure,” claimed the pawnbroker. “You can’t get any surer than that.”
    The photograph was of a rather hopeless-looking individual with tight curly hair and a mournful expression. Webster read out his details. “Stanley Eustace, aged forty-seven . . .”
    “I know who it is,” cut in Frost, who had found his matches but seemed to have lost his cigarettes. “Useless Eustace. He’s a petty crook, shoplifting, breaking and entering, nicking cars, stripping lead from church roofs. He usually gets caught because he’s so bloody stupid. But he’s never used a shooter in his life.”
    “Well, he used one this afternoon,” Glickman said positively. “Can I go home now?”
    No spare cars were available, so Glickman, bitterly complaining, was left to find his own way home. Frost then asked Webster to bring the Cortina around to the front. They were off to pick up Stan Eustace.
    Webster hesitated. “He’s armed and dangerous. Hadn’t we better take some reinforcements with us ... and a couple of police marksmen?”
    But Frost scorned this suggestion. “I know him, son. I’ve nicked him enough times. He’s harmless. The gun was only for show.”
    “For show!” exclaimed Webster. “He nearly blasted that showcase from the wall.”
    “Probably got his finger caught in the trigger,” said Frost airily. “You can stay in the car if you like. I’ll go in the house and drag him out.”
    He was slipping on his mac when an agitated Johnny Johnson poked his head in. “Sorry to interrupt you, Inspector, but you haven’t seen Dave Shelby on your travels, have you?”
    “No,” replied Frost, ‘not since he delivered sexy Sue to us at The Coconut Grove round about two o’clock. Why?”
    The station sergeant rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “I’m dead worried, Jack. Since he left you he hasn’t made any routine calls, hasn’t contacted us or answered his radio. He was supposed to report to me, here, at seven - he’s only doing a part-shift - but he didn’t