shit! I suppose he hasn’t got out just to have a pee or something innocent like that?’
‘No sign of him anywhere,’ said Burton.
With a weary grunt, Frost flopped back in his chair. ‘Right, son. This is what you do. You immobilize his car . . . wee in his petrol tank, let his tyres down, anything, just so he can’t use it. We don’t want him driving off the minute your back is turned.’
He waited nervously sucking at his cigarette until a blast of static from the loudspeaker announced Burton to report that he’d immobilized the car.
‘Good boy. Still no sign of him?’
‘No, sir. No sign of anything. It’s a ghost street – just empty houses. Hold on . . .’
‘What is it?’ asked Frost excitedly.
‘I thought I saw a light in one of the houses. It flickered like someone striking a match. I’ll go and take a look.’
‘Be careful,’ ordered Frost. ‘And keep in touch.’ He lit a fresh cigarette and fidgeted in his chair as he waited. Gilmore came in with two more mugs of tea. ‘Thanks, son.’ He stirred it with a pencil, feeling vaguely worried. Why the hell was Burton taking so long? He hesitated about asking Control to call the detective constable. Burton might be stalking his prey and a police radio sounding could give the game away. He stared up at the big wall clock, just above Lambert’s head. He’d give Burton another two minutes before asking Control to radio. But before fifty seconds were up he had one of his feelings . . . one of his icy cold fingers scraping the back of the spine feelings. ‘Call him,’ he barked. ‘Now!’
‘Control to Burton, come in, please . . .’ Lambert flipped the switch to receive. A crackle of empty static from the loudspeaker. He tried again. ‘Control to Burton . . . are you receiving . . . over?’ More empty static. ‘He doesn’t seem to be responding, Inspector,’ said Lambert, redundantly.
‘Keep bloody trying,’ yelled Frost from the door. ‘Come on, Gilmore. Let’s get over there.’
The traffic light changed to red and Gilmore slowed to a halt with Frost grunting his impatience as they waited. As soon as the cross-road was clear he ordered Gilmore to jump the lights. They passed a huge building site with skeleton tower blocks and giant cranes. Frost peered through the side window. ‘Wedgewood Street should be along here somewhere . . .’ They nearly missed it. ‘There!’
Slamming on the brakes, Gilmore backed the car and turned into a dark side road. A dead street of empty windowless houses. Burton’s car stood by the corner. Further down the road another car. A grey Vauxhall Astra.
At the top of his voice Frost repeatedly shouted, ‘Burton!’ The empty houses flung his words back.
‘On the pavement – there!’ Gilmore pointed to something black and rectangular.
They ran over. It was a police radio, its casing smashed and caved in as if it had been stamped on. When Frost picked it up his hand touched stickiness. He stared at his fingers. Blood, fresh and ruby red that glittered in the ray of Gilmore’s torch. Frost yanked his own radio from his pocket and fumbled for the transmit button. He blurted out instructions to Control. ‘I want every available officer to come immediately to Wedgewood Street.’
‘There isn’t anyone to send,’ answered Control. ‘They’re all out. There’s a near-riot at the Denton Arms.’
‘Call them away and send them here . . . now! We’ve got an officer in trouble!’ He switched off before Control could come up with any more stupid objections.
All of the houses had been boarded up with corrugated galvanized sheeting blanking out the windows and heavy planking nailed across the front doors. But on quite a few of the properties vandals had torn away the planking and kicked in the doors. Frost poked his torch beam tentatively into one of the houses and ventured inside. The passage was thick with debris and breathed a sour, mildewy smell. As he shuffled in, the debris moved as rats squealed and scuttled to safety. He lashed out his foot to hasten them on their way. Before he could proceed further the sound of a car, then the slamming of doors. Back to the street where PC Jordan and four other uniformed men were waiting with Gilmore. Five men! Was this all Control was sending?
‘We’re stretched to the limit,’ Jordan told him. ‘The pub fight is getting right out of hand.’