Night Frost

Friday night shift (1)

Police Sergeant Bill Wells shivered and turned the lobby thermostat up to full in the hope that it would encourage the radiator to belt out some more heat. A waste of time, because as soon as Mullett came in, he’d complain about the lobby being like a tropical greenhouse and would turn the thermostat right down again. It was all right for him, with his 3-kilowatt heater, but let him try working in this draughty lobby with the door opening every five minutes and that gale-force wind roaring through.

The lobby door slammed open, the wind roared through, and there was Jack Frost, his scarf wound round his face to cover his nose. He was unwrapping himself when Burton pushed through the swing doors carrying the sergeant’s tea.

‘What news on Ronnie boy?’ asked Frost, warming his hands on the radiator.

‘He drove to the hospital at 7.22 and brought his mother back home,’ said Burton.

‘His mother? I thought they were keeping her in over night?’

‘She couldn’t have been as bad as they thought.’

‘I knew the old cow was faking. So where’s Gauld now?’

‘Indoors. Collier’s watching the house.’

The phone rang. Wells answered it, then pulled a face at the mouthpiece. The caller was Mullett. ‘Mr Frost, sir?’ Frost shook his head vigorously ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment.’

‘I won’t be in until later,’ said Mullett. ‘I’m feeling a bit under the weather. What have we got on the menu?’

‘There’s this threatened gang violence when the pubs shut, sir. Can I call on other divisions for assistance if necessary?’

‘It shouldn’t be necessary,’ replied Mullett. ‘Put every available man on to it.’

‘Mr Frost is going to need much of the available man power to keep tracks on Gauld, sir,’ persisted Wells.

‘You must give Mr Frost every assistance possible, Sergeant. Both operations are top priority. I’m relying on you to ensure that each operation does not hamper the effects of the other.’

A click as he hung up, leaving Wells spluttering helplessly at the dead phone ‘Both top priority and neither must hamper the success of the other! He knows it’s flaming impossible, that’s why the bastard’s staying away. Why is it always me?’ He swung indignantly round to Frost. ‘You’re the senior officer. You should have taken the call.’

‘I wasn’t here,’ said Frost. ‘I heard you tell him.’ He hurried off to collect Gilmore, leaving Wells staring at an empty mug and slowly realizing that the inspector had drunk his tea.

PC Collier champed at the cheeseburger. He was parked at the end of the little cul-de-sac, tucked tightly behind a cream-coloured Ford Consul whose owner had decided it would look better in green, but had abandoned the idea after painting just the front wing. The car radio, on which he reported every fifteen minutes that there was nothing to report, was turned down low so that its stream of messages were not audible to passers-by. His eyes were fixed on the house in mid-terrace. Gauld’s house. Parked opposite the house, but out of sight from Collier’s position, was Gauld’s Vauxhall Astra.

He twisted his wrist so he could see his watch. A quarter to ten. He’d been stuck down this side turning for some two hours. In mid-bite something made him pause. Movement reflected in the rear-view mirror. Two men, keeping tight to the wall, stealthily approaching, obviously up to no good. Collier sank down in his seat so his head was below the window and waited. Suddenly the car echoed like a drum as someone pounded a fist on the roof and jerked the door open.

‘Are you playing peek-a-boo, Collier?’

He grinned sheepishly and kicked the yellow polystyrene food container out of sight under the dash. It was Detective Inspector Jack Frost with the new chap, Gilmore. ‘I spotted you coming, sir. Thought you were villains trying door handles.’

The car lurched as Frost and Gilmore climbed inside and settled themselves down on the back seat. “What’s happening.

‘Nothing, sir. He’s still inside. Went in with his mother just after eight. Hasn’t come out.’

Frost’s nose began to twitch suspiciously. ‘Can I smell cheeseburger?’

Collier blushed. ‘Yes, I did have one, sir.’

‘Did you cook it in the car,’ asked Frost, innocently, ‘or was it delivered?’

‘Delivered?’ frowned Collier, not sure what the inspector was getting at.

‘You didn’t bloody go off watch to get it, did you?’ barked Gilmore.

‘I’ve had nothing to eat for hours. I wasn’t gone more than five minutes.’

‘Five minutes!’ repeated Frost, sadly. ‘A lot can happen in five minutes. I could have five women in five minutes — on an off day. Is his car still there?’

Collier craned his neck, but the Ford Consul blocked his view. ‘I think so,’ he stammered.

‘You think so?’ exploded Gilmore. ‘If you’ve blown this, Collier…’

‘Nip out and see,’ said Frost, trying not to let his anxiety show. Collier was soon back and Frost’s heart nose-dived as he read the answer in the young constable’s white face.

‘His car’s gone, sir. A couple of kids said he drove off about five minutes ago.’

‘You stupid fool!’ yelled Gilmore.

‘It’s my fault,’ said Frost, ‘I should have had two men in the car, not one.’ He leant forward to grab the handset. ‘Frost to Control, receiving?’ He barked out his orders for all cars, all patrols, to be on the lookout for Gauld’s Vauxhall and to report the sighting immediately.

Half-way back to the station, Frost smote his forehead with his palm. ‘The Oxfam shop! He might try to burn the evidence there.’ He radioed through to the station requesting a man on permanent watch at the Oxfam shop.

‘I haven’t got anyone to spare,’ protested Wells.

‘Just do it,’ said Frost, switching off the set before Wells could reply.

As they roared past a public house they noticed a gang of youths pouring out of an old van and making for the public bar. They seemed to be spoiling for a fight.

He sat in Control, listening to the stream of radio messages, a mound of mangled corpses of half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray at his side. He hardly looked up when Wells banged a cup of tea in front of him.

‘Bloody Collier,’ snarled Wells. ‘He must choose the busiest flaming night of the week to sod things up.’

‘I sodded it up,’ said Frost, lighting another cigarette an offering the packet to Wells. ‘Collier didn’t have the experience and I shouldn’t have left him on his own.’

PC Lambert, the officer on Control duty, twisted his head. ‘Inspector! Punch up at the Denton Arms. A gang of yobbos smashing the place up. Can I send a couple of cars?

‘Send one,’ said Frost. ‘I need all the rest.’

‘One won’t be enough,’ protested Lambert.

‘It’s better than sod all,’ Frost told him. ‘Tell it to drive with its sirens screaming full blast. With a bit of luck the pub will empty before they burst in.’ He tossed his cigarette packet across to Lambert. ‘And I want them back searching for Gauld’s car as soon as they’ve mopped up the last drop of blood and guts from the sawdust.’ He sipped his tea and shuddered at the taste while Control directed Charlie Able to the pub.

No sooner was that task completed than Control was in trouble again. ‘Serious domestic at Vicarage Terrace. Neighbours report couple seem to be smashing the happy home up. They can hear kiddies crying. I’d like to send a car.’

‘You’re car-mad,’ admonished Frost. ‘Haven’t you got a foot patrol who could handle it?’

‘It will take a quarter of an hour for the foot patrol to get there. There’s kiddies involved!’ protested Control.

‘The kids won’t get their throats cut. Some senior citizen will if we don’t find Gauld quickly. The bastard’s going to try it on again tonight, I just know it.’

Anxious squawks from Control’s headphones. Lambert turned a permanently worried face to Frost. ‘The fight at the pub is getting out of hand, sir. It’s sprawled into the street. Windows have been smashed and they’re damaging cars now.’

Frost sighed. ‘All right, son. You handle it. Send what you want.’ His mouth felt stale and bitter. The last thing he wanted was another cigarette, but he lit one up. Nothing was going right.

It was Burton who saved the day. Control switched the call to the external loudspeaker.

‘Have located Vauxhall Astra registration K, Kansas, X, X-Ray..’

‘Sod the phonetic spelling, Burton,’ yelled Frost, snatching the handset from Control. “Where is the bastard?’

‘He’s parked half-way down Wedgewood Street. I only spotted him by chance.’

At Frost’s raised eyebrows, Control indicated Wedgewood Street on the large-scale map. A derelict side street in an area scheduled for demolition. ‘I can’t think what he’s doing down there, Inspector. All the houses are boarded up and empty.’

Frost nodded and went back to Burton. ‘You got him in full view?’

‘Yes, I’m parked right at the end with my lights off. I don’t want him to see me.’ A pause, then, ‘Damn!’

‘Now what?’

‘He’s turned his lights off. There’s no street lamps down there. It’s pitch black.’

Frost peered up at the wall map. ‘He’s got to pass you to come out.’

‘Only if he stays in the car. If he goes on foot he can cut through any of the empty houses.’

‘Right. We can’t be sodded about any more. If he’s still in the car, arrest him and bring him back here… parking without lights.. any excuse you can think of. And hurry.’ Frost drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited. Then a crackle from the loudspeaker.

‘Have subject car in view.’

‘But is the sodding subject in the sodding subject car?’ demanded Frost.

A pause. Then, ‘Subject car is empty… repeat empty.’

‘Shit,’ moaned Frost, ‘repeat 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 tires 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 some where…’ 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 some thing 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.’

Frost stripped cellophane from a fresh packet of cigarettes and passed it around as he quickly briefed them. ‘My guess is that Burton went in one of these empty houses after Gauld. The flooring’s rotten, the stair treads and banisters are broken, so he could have fallen and hurt himself. But that doesn’t explain his radio.’ He held it up and showed it to them. ‘We found it on the pavement, there, and it frightens the shit out of me. Anyway, sod the speculation until we find him. Take a house each and be careful… they’re bloody death traps.’

He took the middle property himself, the one nearest to where they had found the smashed radio. It reeked of damp and decay. His torch beam blinked feebly into the blackness, picking out rotting floorboards and slimy rubbish. A door to his right was closed. Warily he turned the handle and pushed. A groaning creak as it swung back on to an empty, dead, urine-smelling room. He moved on, things rustling and scurrying in front of him. To his left, stairs with broken jagged banisters lurching outwards. Another door in front of him. He kicked it open. The kitchen, piled high with rubbish and smelling of bad drains and cats and rotting food.

Back to the hall and up the stairs, testing each tread care fully before putting his weight on it. Half-way up he stopped and held his breath as he listened. A creaking. There was someone up there. There it was again. The soft creak of a floorboard. ‘Burton?’ He waited. Silence. No! A rustling, then another floorboard creaked. His torch kept flickering. The beam shuddered and died. He gave the casing a welt with the flat of his hand which frightened it into brief life again before it died finally a second time.

He waited to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and took another step. Then he froze. Something. He stopped dead, ears sharply focused for the slightest sound. Silence. Silence that screamed in the blackness. But there was something someone up there. ‘Burton?’ If it was Burton, why the hell didn’t he answer?

He rammed the useless torch in his pocket and fished out his matches. Up the stairs to the landing. The match burnt his fingers. Swearing softly, he shook it out and struck another. A door, slightly ajar, to his right. He nudged it open with his foot, then poked the hand with the match inside. He nearly dropped the match. On the floor, in the flicker of the flame, a face. Another match. God, it was Burton, his face a sweat-soaked dirty white, his lips mumbling incoherently.

Frost dropped to his knees on to a puddle of something wet which soaked his trousers. Another match. He was kneeling in a pool of blood. Burton’s hands were clasped round his stomach. A red trickle oozed from between slippery, red fingers. He was trying to say something. Frost brought his head down to Burton’s lips. ‘Gauld. The bastard stabbed me.’ His eyelids flickered and closed.

‘Up here!’ yelled Frost at the top of his voice. He tugged out his radio. ‘Control. Burton’s been stabbed. Get an ambulance over to Wedgewood Street… now!’

The ambulance men adjusted the strap around the red-blanketed Burton, then wheeled the trolley up into the ambulance. One of the uniformed men hopped in the back with it.

‘Got a stack of your chaps in Casualty,’ the ambulance driver told Frost cheerfully as he climbed into his seat. ‘Blood and broken noses everywhere. A bunch of yobbos breaking up a pub or something.’

Oh, sod! thought Frost. I’d forgotten all about that. He radioed through to the station.

‘We’re being massacred,’ Wells told him. ‘Things are getting out of control and bloody Mullett’s not answering his phone in case he should have to make a decision.’

Gilmore tugged at Frost’s sleeve. ‘Gauld’s been spotted. He’s got into that building site.’ He pointed in the direction of the giant crane.

‘Damn,’ said Frost. There were a hundred places Gauld could hide in in the sprawl of the building site. Back to the radio. ‘We know where Gauld is. Without more men we’ll lose him. Pull more people out from the pub.’

‘I can’t,’ insisted Wells.

‘Just bloody do it. Then phone County and get reinforcements from other divisions,’ said Frost.

‘Mullett won’t like that. He’ll do his nut.’

‘Sod Mullett. Just do it.’

Wells hesitated. ‘If it blows up in our face, will you take the can back, Jack?’

‘Don’t I always?’ said Frost.

The building site covered almost twenty acres and would eventually house a hypermarket, shops, and two tower office blocks which, at the moment, were skeletons of scaffolding and girders. The car picked its way along a muddy, temporary road to the main gates.

Chain link fencing encircled the area. A notice in red warned Keep Out. Guard Dogs Loose On This Site. The main gates were locked and chained, but there was a smaller gate to one side which sagged where it had been kicked in. Beyond the gate a brown and white shape twitched and whimpered in the mud. The knife-ripped guard dog.

Gilmore’s radio reported the arrival of reinforcements. Three pub-battle-scarred warriors were in position at the back entrance of the site, ready to move in from there. ‘It’s not enough,’ said Gilmore.

‘As the bishop said to the actress, son, it may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got.’ He took the radio and warned the newcomers to be careful. Gauld had a knife and was prepared to use it. ‘Right. Let’s go in.’

Near the entrance stood a green-coloured Portakabin. Frost tried the handle. Locked. He flashed a torch through a window. Desks, phones and drawing boards.

Other torches bobbed in the distance as the rest of his thinly stretched team carried out the search. The site was littered with hills and mountains of building materials; earthenware drainage pipes, concrete blocks, bricks on pallets covered with polythene sheeting, bag after bag of cement. And then there was machinery. Bulldozers, earth-moving equipment, cranes, and overshadowing everything, a giant skyscraper of a crane on its tower of scaffolding. The muddy ground had been churned into a Somme battlefield by the wheels of countless lorries.

It was a slow, laboured search. Heavy items had to be man-handled out of the way, planking covering drainage trenches removed, builders’ huts forced open and searched, canvas and polythene sheeting stripped away. They squeezed between stacks of splintery timber shuttering, crawled under wooden sheds and, finally, mud-caked, dishevelled and disheartened, there was nowhere else to look and Gilmore was wearing his ‘I told you so’ smirk

They gathered round Frost who was dishing out cigarettes, forming a tight circle as he struck a match to stop the rising wind from blowing it out. ‘Now what?’ asked Gilmore.

‘We go back and search again, son.’

‘He could be miles away.’

Frost’s chin poked out stubbornly. ‘No. He’s here. Laughing at us. I know it.’ He held up a hand. ‘I thought I heard something.’ Someone’s radio was burbling away about casualties and ambulances and shortage of manpower. ‘Turn that thing off.’ The offending radio was silenced. ‘Now listen.’

They listened. The wind, working itself up into a paddy, rattled chain link fencing, flapped polythene sheeting, and made the temporary overhead telephone wires sing and hum. Almost 200 feet above them, the jib arm of the giant crane, with its warning light on the far end, creaked and groaned and shrieked as if in pain.

A sudden clatter. All heads turned. Jordan grinned sheepishly. He had knocked over a stack of empty lubricating oil drums.

Frost shook his head. Whatever he thought he’d heard wasn’t going to repeat itself. Then he clicked his fingers. ‘The crane. We haven’t looked up there!’ Heads turned up and up and up. The distant warning light, a pin-prick of bright against the night sky, seemed almost another star.

‘It’s bloody high,’ croaked Jordan.

‘Yes,’ agreed Frost, now wishing he hadn’t suggested it. The damn thing seemed to go up and up and up for ever.

A yell from Gilmore. ‘Someone’s up there!’ And as the moon elbowed through black clouds, there was Gauld, on the ladder, nearly 100 feet up, clinging for dear life and looking down at them.

Making a megaphone with his hands, Frost yelled up into the night sky. ‘You can’t get away now, Gauld. We’ve got you. Come on down.'

The wind fielded Gauld’s defiant reply and hurled it away

‘He’s coming down,’ exclaimed Jordan.

‘He’s not,’ said Frost. ‘He’s going higher.’

Necks craned, they watched until he was swallowed by blackness. ‘Let’s have some lights,’ Frost ordered.

With much difficulty an area car zigzagged, bumped and slid its way towards the crane, and then a powerful spotlight sliced upwards, cutting a steamy white swathe in the night sky and picking out the doll-man as he climbed up and up.

Gauld was nearly at the top of the ladder and could see the platform of the driver’s cab just above his head. He gripped the rungs tightly with hands that the wind was trying to tear loose. Above him the jib groaned and whined and shuddered. He heaved himself up on to the small platform outside the cab. The protective metal handrail seemed flimsy and inadequate and he kept well back as he looked down, eyes squinting against the blinding spotlight beam. The police were still staring up at him, the one in the dirty mac yelling something which any fool should realize couldn’t be heard at this height. One of the uniformed men was running from a car with something in his hand. A loud-hailer.

‘Be sensible, Gauld. You can’t go anywhere. Come on down.’

Pointless shouting. They wouldn’t hear him. But the cop was right. He couldn’t go anywhere. They had him trapped. God, how had it all gone wrong?

‘Come on down, Gauld.’

The fool was yelling again. Come on down? He ventured another look over the edge. Just looking made him dizzy and he pressed back against the cab, his hands scrabbling for something to hold on to. If they wanted him, they’d have to bring him down.

Above him the jib gave another tortured scream of pain, then another sound pierced the night. A two-tone siren.

The fire engine halted outside the gate and a bearded fireman made his way across to the inspector. He looked angry. ‘You called a vet for that dog? It’s still alive, you know.’

‘He’s on his way,’ snapped Frost, annoyed with himself for not attending to it. He signalled to Jordan who moved out of earshot and radioed through to Control. Frost pointed to the crane platform. ‘We want to get up there. Would your turntable ladder reach?’

The fireman squinted up, then shook his head. ‘You’d need a bleeding helicopter to get up there.’ He moved to the ladder lashed to the scaffolding and gave it a shake. It didn’t seem very firm ‘That’s the only way up.’

‘Sod that for a lark,’ said Frost. ‘Take me up on your turntable ladder as far as it goes. I’ll see if I can’t sweet-talk the bastard down.’

The turntable platform gave a jerk, then the ground suddenly hurtled down and Frost had to grab the rail to steady himself as the ladder zoomed upwards. Briefly he chanced a look down, then quickly pulled his eyes away and concentrated on staring straight ahead at the bolts and nuts and rusted metal of the scaffolding as they zipped past.

After what seemed ages, the ladder slowed and juddered to a halt and the fire officer tugged Frost’s sleeve. ‘As far as we go.’

Frost looked down. Toy cars, tiny people, miles and miles away. He looked up. Lots more scaffolding roaring up to the sky and the white blob of Gauld’s face staring down at him. ‘There’s nowhere to run,’ shouted Frost. ‘Chuck your knife and we’ll bring you down.’

Gauld yelled something, but the wind snatched and tore the words to shreds. Then the blob of his face withdrew and they couldn’t see him any more.

‘Now what?’ asked the fire officer.

Frost’s neck was aching from craning upwards. He lowered his head. In front of him was the flimsy metal ladder which Gauld had climbed. It didn’t look very safe and was rattling in the wind. He shivered. ‘If we both went up, we could overpower him.’

‘Not our job to overpower nutters with knives,’ said the fire officer, firmly. ‘Disarm him and you can have as many of my men as you like. Until then, you’re on your own.’

Sod it, thought Frost. Let’s pack it in and starve the bastard into submission. But he’d come this far. He wanted to get it over and done with. Fumbling at the buckle, he released the safety belt. ‘Help me across to the other ladder.’

The fireman looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

‘I never know what I’m bleeding doing,’ said Frost.

The gap between the platform and the scaffold ladder grew markedly wider as he looked at it. Before common sense made his nerve fail he ducked quickly under the rail, holding it tight with one hand, and plunged forward in the blind hope his other hand would find something to hang on to. He managed to find one of the ladder rungs and squeezed it to death as he released his grip on the guard rail and grabbed at the same rung. He was now hanging over the gap, feet on the platform, hands on the ladder rungs and definitely at the point of no return.

‘You’re doing fine,’ called the fireman unconvincingly. ‘Now hold tight and swing your feet forward.’

He didn’t need to be told to hold tight. The skin over his knuckles was paper thin and the bones threatened to burst through. He swung forward, his feet kicking about as they tried to find the rungs. They found only space… pulling, plunging space. He was hanging by sweat-slippery hands, kicking wildly and he was terrified. Then he felt hands grabbing his ankles and placing his feet on a narrow rung. He managed to croak a word of thanks to the fireman and froze to the ladder, heart hammering, his face pressed against the cold metal, not wanting to look up or down or left or right, just wanting to be back on the ground, looking up at some silly sod doing what he was doing and telling everyone what a prat the man was.

‘Anything wrong?’ The fireman sounded anxious.

‘No,’ lied Frost. ‘Just catching my breath.’ He forced one hand to release its grip and move further up the rail. Then the other. One leg lifted and found the next rung. This was easy. As long as he didn’t look down, this was easy. It was just like climbing a ladder a couple of feet off the ground. But confidence cloaked near-disaster and he almost screamed when his foot slipped from the rung and he had to hug the ladder, shaking, feeling the ladder rattle like chattering teeth against the scaffolding. He forced himself to press on, rung by rung, his body stiff and rigid, leg muscles aching with the effort. ‘I’ll be fit for sod all when I get up there,’ he kept telling himself, trying to erase the mental picture of himself sprawled on the gantry, gasping for breath, while Gauld slowly hacked away at his windpipe. But even that prospect was currently preferable to going down, which meant moving backwards, descending the ladder in reverse. God, he was never going to get down again.

‘You’re doing fine!’

The voice seemed to come from a long way down. He risked a glance and saw the top of the man’s helmet floating in space below his feet. With an effort he forced himself on.

There was one frightening section which required him to swap from one ladder to another, holding with one hand to the first and reaching out for the next and swinging across. But not far now, thank God. He must be near the top. The teeth-setting grinding and squealing of the jib, like a giant fingernail scratching down a blackboard, screamed in his ears.

The ladder stopped and his sweat-blurred eyes were level with a wooden platform. His hands seemed fused to the ladder, but he tore them free and flung himself forward on to the gantry where he rolled across to huddle up tight to the side of the cab, keeping as far from the edge as possible.

‘Are you all right?’ A faint voice calling from a hundred miles down.

‘I’m fine,’ he yelled, not feeling it. A quick fumble through his pocket for a cigarette, turning his back to the hurricane force wind which, at this height, was making everything shake violently Far away to his left were the winking dots of light from the Lego town of Denton. His radio squawked.

‘Inspector!’ It was Gilmore from the smug safety of the firm ground. ‘Gauld’s round the other side of the gantry to you. Just seems to be standing there.’

‘Not much else the poor sod can do,’ he answered. He’d almost forgotten about Gauld, the whole purpose of this nightmare climb. Another squawk from the radio. Gilmore back again. ‘Mr Mullett is here, Inspector. He’d like a word.’ Mullett! Trust Hornrim Harry to be in at the kill. All ready to take the credit should the operation prove a success, and to dissociate himself from it in the more likely event of failure. The thought of realizing a long-held ambition to defecate on Mullett from a great height flashed across his mind as he waited.

'What’s the position, Inspector?’

‘I’m just about to go round and talk him down.’

‘Good. Let’s tie this up neat and tidy. Bring him down safely, and do it by the book.’

Stupid sod. How the hell do you get a knife-wielding mass-murderer down from a 200-foot crane by the book? He stuck the radio back in his mac and dragged himself to his feet. The wooden platform creaked and gave slightly under his weight, then the whole structure lurched and the stars danced in the sky as the wind pounded the jib. Through the cracks between the planks he could see straight down to the swaying, yawning black of the bottomless drop. One last drag of his cigarette before he flipped it away. The wind caught it and hurled it over the side where it nose-dived down to oblivion, spitting red sparks.

He inched round to the other side, keeping tightly to the solid reassurance of the driver’s cab. And there was Gauld, his back to the rail, hair streaming, legs braced against the force of the pummelling wind. ‘Keep away from me!’ In his upraised hand something bright reflected the twinkling blood gobs of the warning light at the end of the jib.

Frost leant against the cab and wearily shook his head. ‘It’s all over, son. You’ve got nowhere to go.’ He waited for a response, eyeing the man warily. If Gauld decided to put up a fight, there wasn’t much he could do. There was hardly room for a punch-up on this barely 2-foot-wide platform. They’d probably both end up over the edge, splashing blood, brains and guts all over Mullett’s patent leather shoes.

Gauld moved forward, the arm with the knife still raised, a manic grin clicking on and off. Then his face crumpled and tears streamed. ‘Why didn’t you leave me alone?’

Shit, thought Frost. Don’t make me start feeling sorry for you, you murdering bastard. He kept his eye firmly on the blade and edged forward a fraction. Gauld, the guard rail pressing into his back, couldn’t retreat. He could only move forward.

‘The knife!’ said Frost firmly, optimistically holding out his hand.

Again the flickering, manic grin. Gauld scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand to wipe off the tears. His eyes glinted slyly and the knife-hand shook. ‘You want the knife? You want the bloody knife?’ He held it out. ‘Here it is. Take it.’

‘Don’t try anything,’ warned Frost, ‘or I’ll push you over the bloody edge.’

Gauld raised the knife higher, then, as Frost steeled himself, flung it far out into the night where it spun and glinted before vanishing into the void. ‘It was only a penknife. You couldn’t cut bloody butter with it.’

A cold trickle of relief, but Frost moved warily towards Gauld who looked as if he still had a few aces hidden up his sleeve. Tugging out his radio he let the firemen know it was safe for them to come up and give him a hand.

‘You’ve got him?’ cried Mullett’s excited voice. “What’s the position?’

‘Later,’ snapped Frost. ‘I’ll tell you bloody later.’ He clicked off the set and felt for the handcuffs, still watching Gauld like a hawk.

‘I panicked,’ said Gauld, suddenly. ‘I had the knife in my hand and I panicked.’ He glared at Frost. ‘It was your fault. Why didn’t you leave me alone?’

Frost frowned. What the hell was the man talking about? ‘My fault?’ He now had the handcuffs and reached for Gauld’s arm.

‘Of course it was your flaming fault,’ yelled Gauld, snatching his arm away. ‘You hounded me. You frightened the shit out of my mother. That’s why it happened.’

Frost’s mind raced, trying to make sense of all this, but then the wind suddenly wailed and hit the crane jib with a tremendous punch, wrenching the gantry round until the anchor chains braked it with a shuddering jerk Frost was flung to the floor of the gantry, the stars zip-panning across the sky. And through the creakings and squeals and resounding clangs, the sound of a man screaming.

In an instant he was up on his feet, trying to regain his balance on the shaking platform. Gauld. Where was Gauld? The guard rail where he had been standing was broken and a section dangled down. Still that screaming. And yells from below as firemen clambered up the ladder.

‘Help me!’

Frost leaned over the edge. A spotlight from the fire appliance on the ground blinded him. He shielded his eyes with his arm. Someone on the ground saw what was happening and yelled for the beam to be directed downwards. It slid down and locked on to a screaming, pleading Gauld who was clinging by his fingertips to the protruding edge of a girder just below the platform, feet kicking wildly in a futile effort to find a foothold before his fingers gave way.

‘Hold on!’ roared Frost. A stupid thing to say. What else could the poor bastard do? He flung himself down on the gantry, kicking into a gap in the planking to wedge in the toes of his shoes. With the platform cutting into his stomach he leant out over the edge and reached down.

Below him, the white, upturned face of the dangling man who was whimpering with terror. It didn’t seem possible that Frost could reach him. The thudding of firemen’s feet on the ladder over on the far side was getting louder. He prayed that they would hurry. Way, way below, tiny dolls held out a circular white canvas, only part of which protruded from an overhanging section of the scaffolding. A tiny, inadequate, very missable target.

He groped and stretched. The bitter, cutting wind stung his cheeks, roared pain into his scar, and gradually sucked the feeling from his bare hands. He gritted his teeth and stretched further. Something. Cold flesh. Icy cold knuckles gripping raw-edged metal scaffolding.

‘Take my hand!’

Gauld moaned and gave a feeble shake of the head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Don’t sod me about,’ shouted Frost. ‘Take the bloody thing!’

Gauld’s hand fluttered, then snatched. Frost grabbed at wet, blood-slippery fingers, cut by the saw-edge of the metal. It was not a secure grip, but the first fireman was now up on the platform and could take over. As long as Gauld didn’t release his other hand, Frost could sustain him. ‘Wait,’ he yelled down.

But Gauld wasn’t going to wait. He wanted to be pulled to safety. He let go of the girder and snatched up at Frost, but he couldn’t reach and his body started to swing and his fingertips just brushed the hand Frost was straining out to him and his life depended on Frost holding on to his cut and bleeding fingers.

Frost could feel him going. He gripped tighter, but this squeezed more blood from Gauld’s torn hand. Slippery blood. The fireman flung himself alongside Frost, but even as he did so, Gauld was screaming. Frost, free arm flailing, desperately tried to find something to hold. Gauld’s hair raced through his fingers and the white terrified face grew smaller, smaller, smaller, still screaming. He screamed as he fell. He screamed as he hit and bounced off the protruding girder which broke his back He screamed as he smashed into the ground. After he was dead, after his heart stopped pumping blood out of his broken body, his screams still rang and rang round and round the building site.