DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

report, Inspector,” he announced briskly. “The blood on the ground and the blood splashed on the car is group B, which is Police Constable Shelby’s group. The quantity of blood spilt suggests the wounding must have been extensive. Obviously, without knowing the area of the wounding, we can’t be more specific. From the quantity of pellets we have recovered it seems pretty definite that only one cartridge was fired, and from the flattening of the pellets and the spread, I think we can safely say that the gunman was not much more than nine feet away from the patrol car. In other words, he would have been standing about . . . here.” He moved to a point some nine feet away and marked it with his heel. “Our reconstruction is that the other car had already stopped. Shelby got out of his vehicle and walked toward the other car. The gunman climbed from his car and shot your policeman, who fell to the ground, bleeding extensively. The gunman then dragged Shelby to his own car and drove off with him.”
    Frost looked down at the darkening pool which sluggishly reflected the overhead lights. “Any idea how long the blood has been there?”
    “I’m sorry, Inspector, I should have said. About four to five hours.”
    Frost nodded gloomily. This would tie in with the time Stan Eustace was speeding away from the pawnbroker’s.
    “We’d like to take the car back for detailed examination,” said another of the Forensic team.
    “Sure,” agreed the inspector, trying to work out what he should do next. Everyone was looking for the red Vauxhall Cavalier, and until that was sighted all he could do was wait.
    Two more cars pulled up. Mullett emerged from his silver grey Rover at the same time as Allen and Ingram climbed out of their black Ford. Like an army detachment, all keeping perfect step, they marched purposefully toward Frost.
    “Nasty business,” said Mullett after peering into the abandoned Escort and examining the blood puddle. Allen, not trusting the garbled version he would get from Frost, took the situation report direct from Forensic before bustling back to join the Divisional Commander.
    “Anyone who has lost that amount of blood is going to need medical treatment, and damn quickly,” Allen snapped. “I take it you’ve warned all doctors and hospitals, Frost?”
    “Yes, I did manage to think that out for myself,” said Frost.
    “Hospitals and doctors all advised.”
    Missing with his first barrel, Allen fired the second. “And you’ve got a car watching Eustace’s house? He’s bound to try and sneak back.”
    Bull’s-eye! thought Frost ruefully. “Actually we were just on our way there.” He began to move toward the car.
    “No. You stay here,” said Allen, thinking what a feather in his cap it would be if he were the one who arrested Eustace. “This requires a police marksman, like Sergeant Ingram.” He swung around to Mullett. “We’ll need to draw a revolver from the armoury, sir. Would you arrange the necessary authorisation?” And with the Divisional Commander’s agreement, he yelled for Ingram to join him and trotted off to his car.
    Good bloody riddance, thought Frost, watching them drive away.
    “Nasty business,” said Mullett again.
    A squawk from a car radio. One of the uniformed men picked up the handset and answered the call, then waved and yelled, “Mr Frost. Control wants to speak to you urgently.”
    “Right,” said Frost, leaving Mullett with Webster, neither of whom could think of a thing to say to the other. Mullett dredged his mind for some innocuous small talk. “Getting on all right?” he said at last.
    “Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Webster tonelessly, his eyes fastened on Frost, who was leaning against the car, the handset to his ear, his expression revealing that something was terribly wrong.
    Frost walked slowly back to the Commander, his face grim. “Mr. Mullett,” he said.
    Mullett felt the cold of approaching bad news and shivered. “Yes, Frost?”
    “PC Shelby, sir. They’ve found him in a ditch about three miles from here, just off the new Lexington Road.”
    “Is he all right?” whispered Mullett. A silly question because he already knew the answer. The expression on Frost’s face simply screamed it out.
    Frost looked down at the blood on the lane. “No, sir. He’s dead.”

    “That must be him,” said Webster as the car headlights picked out the figure of a man flagging him down. The man in a thick overcoat and muddy boots was a