'The slip road running along Denton Woods.'
'Denton Woods? What the hell was he doing there?'
'No idea. We had a call from a motorist, wouldn't give his name. He told us where to find him. Said the kid ran straight out in front of his car, didn't give him a chance.'
'And how is the boy?'
'He's in intensive care, Jack. They don't expect him to pull through.' Wells paused. 'Someone's got to break the news to the parents.'
Frost looked back at the house. He didn't want to go back in there with this sort of news. 'A road accident? Traffic should do it.'
'With the search for the girl, we're thin on the ground, Jack — and you are on the spot.'
'Yes. Always in the right place at the wrong bleeding time.'
'Then you'll do it?'
'Yes, anything for a laugh.'
He took one last drag on his cigarette, pitched it out into the darkness, then went back to the house and jammed his thumb in the doorbell.
PC Jordan bumped the area car along the pot-holed short cut which would take them out of the woods and back on to the main road. He and Simms should have had their meal break half an hour ago but this hit and run accident had held them up. The mist was thickening and visibility shrinking fast. Simms had his head stuck out of the side window to ensure they didn't end up in the ditch running alongside the lane. Suddenly he pulled in his head. 'Stop the car!'
Jordan braked. 'What is it?'
'A car, no lights, parked among the bushes.'
Jordan groaned. 'Top bleeding marks for observation.' His stomach was rumbling, begging for food. 'All right, but let's make it quick. I'm starving.'
They climbed out and walked back to a dark grey BMW, not more than a year old. The doors were locked and no sign of the driver. Simms felt the bonnet. 'It's not been here long.'
'Joy-rider?' suggested Jordan.
'Joy-riders don't lock the bleeding thing up when they leave it. Better check it out.' While Jordan radioed Control Simms shone his torch inside. A mobile phone on the passenger seat next to a briefcase, nothing else.
'Not reported stolen,' said Jordan, giving the tyres a perfunctory kick. 'Can we go and get something to eat now?'
'The owner probably doesn't know it's missing yet,' said Simms. 'You don't abandon an expensive motor like this in the middle of the woods.'
'Perhaps it broke down?'
'He's got a mobile phone. He'd phone for assistance and wait in the warm.' He lifted his hand for silence. 'Did you hear that?'
From behind some bushes, a groan then the sound of someone being violently sick.
'Just what I wanted to give me an appetite for my supper,' moaned Jordan.
They waited by the BMW until a short, pasty-faced man in his early thirties, wearing a sheepskin-lined leather jacket, staggered from the bushes, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief and dabbing sweat from his forehead. He started when he saw the two policemen, but managed to force a weak grin. 'I've been sick,' he explained.
'So we heard,' said Simms, holding out a hand. 'Driving licence, please, sir.'
The licence confirmed that the man was Patrick Thomas Morris, the registered owner of the car. Hoping that was the end of it, Jordan edged back to the area car, but Simms hadn't finished. His nose twitched. 'Have you been drinking, sir?'
The man looked even more unhappy. 'Drinking? No — a beer… just one beer…'
'I'm sure you're right, sir,' said Simms, 'but I'm sure you want us to check.' He fetched a breathalyser. Jordan watched anxiously while Morris blew into the mouthpiece. Let it be negative, he pleaded silently. I want my flaming supper. He suppressed a groan as the crystals changed colour.
Simms showed it to the man. 'More than one beer, sir — you must have miscounted. I'm afraid you will have to accompany us back to the station.'
'No — please.' The man was clasping his hands together beseechingly. 'I only had one beer while I was driving, I swear. But I then felt sick, so I stopped and took a sip of brandy to settle my stomach.' He pulled a flask from his hip pocket to show them. 'I wasn't going to drive any more. I was going to sleep it off in the car, I swear.'
Simms shot a questioning glance to Jordan who shrugged, indicating, I'm hungry — let the poor sod go.
Simms chewed it over, then nodded. What the hell. If they drove him back to the station he'd probably be sick all over the back of the area car and by the look of his greenish face there was a lot more to come up before the night was out. 'It's your lucky night, sir-' he began, but stopped in mid-sentence. Jordan, on his way back to the area car, was beckoning him over urgently. 'What's up?'
Jordan pointed. The front nearside wing of the BMW was dented and the headlamp glass shattered. 'Shit!' hissed Simms. They returned to the man, who was trying to appear unconcerned. 'Spot of damage to the front of your motor, sir. Haven't been in an accident, have you?'
'What, that?' The man attempted a weak laugh. 'Did that this morning — hit the gatepost when I drove out of the garage.'
'And been driving around all night with only one headlamp?' tutted Simms. 'That's a very serious offence.' His voice hardened. 'You didn't do it when you hit the boy, by any chance?'
'Boy? What boy?' Sweat was beading his forehead.
'The boy in intensive care. The boy you hit and sent flying… or are you too bloody drunk to remember?'
The man dabbed his face with his handkerchief again. 'I don't know what you're talking about, officer. I haven't hit anyone.'
'I think,' said Simms, taking his arm and steering him into the area car, 'we'd better take a little drive down to the station.'
The interview room was warm, almost too warm, but a welcome change for PC Collier who had been out pounding the beat in the cold. The man was pacing nervously up and down, from time to time mopping sweat from his face with a none-too-clean handkerchief. 'How much longer?' he demanded.
'The inspector should be here soon.'
'You've been saying that for the past half-hour. This is all a mistake. Do you think I could hit someone and not know it? I want a solicitor.'
'Ask the inspector when he comes in,' said Collier.
The door crashed open as an untidy individual backed in carrying a mug of tea on which was balanced a greasy-looking sandwich. He plopped down in a chair and beckoned the man to sit opposite him. 'Frost,' he announced. 'Detective Inspector Frost. Sorry to have kept you waiting.' He looked at the arrest report and took a bite at the sandwich. 'Mr Patrick Morris, is it?'
'Yes… and I want to protest. This is all a terrible mistake.'
'I'm sure it is,' agreed Frost, 'but don't worry. I've asked our Forensic boys to see if the blood on your car's headlamp is the same group as your gatepost.'
The man stared at Frost, his face scarlet with rage. 'You bastard!' he spat.
'Sticks and stones,' reproved Frost gently.
Morris fluttered an apologetic hand. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' His head sank down. 'I wasn't even going fast; just pootling along. The kid came straight at me. He didn't give me a chance.'
'He was sober, you were drunk,' said Frost.
Morris pushed himself up to shout at Frost. I was not drunk.'
'And I'm not bloody deaf,' said Frost, wiping his mouth after a swig of tea. 'Please sit down.'
Morris sat. 'I'm sorry… I'm sorry.' He leant over to Frost. 'I'm an oil company representative in line for promotion. One drink-driving offence and I lose my job. Do you think I'd risk that? I was not drunk. I was stone cold bloody sober. I had the brandy afterwards.'
'Drunk or sober, you knocked an eleven-year-old kid down and you didn't stop.'
'I couldn't afford to get involved; my job-'
