lurching from side to side. Flashing blue lights and the wail of a siren signalled the approach of a pursuing area car, hot on its tail. Jordan and Simms. She ducked back in the shadow until it sped past, then slunk over to her own vehicle and on to the scene of the armed robbery.
Wells gawped in disbelief as Jordan and Simms escorted the violently protesting drunken driver into the lobby. Most of the football hooligans were in the coach, but a hard core had refused to co-operate and were lying on the floor, having to be manhandled one by one by perspiring police officers. All a flaming game to them, but Wells was close approaching the end of his tether and now another bloody drunk.
'We've arrested him for drunken driving, Sergeant,' reported Jordan.
'Thank you very much,' croaked Wells. 'Another bleeding drunk — just what I'm short of.' He kicked out savagely at one of the prostrate football fans who was tugging at his trouser leg, trying to topple him over.
'He was veering all over the road, Sergeant — a danger to other motorists — and he refused to be breathalysed.'
The man squinted at Wells through drink-bleared eyes. 'I was coming here anyway, officer. I want to report a serious crime.'
Wells turned the page of the charge book. 'Hard luck — we've got all the crimes we can handle tonight… Name?'
'Never mind my name,' slurred the man. 'I've been robbed… over four hundred quid. I pay my rates — you bloody investigate.'
'Yes — you bloody well investigate,' yelled the man on the floor staggering to his feet. 'We're all witnesses. The gentleman's made a genuine complaint. He's entitled to justice.'
'You'll get justice round the bleeding ear-hole if you don't shut up,' snapped Wells, signalling for Collier to drag the man out to the coach before he flopped down again. He turned to the drunken driver. 'All right. What's your name?'
'Hughes. Henry Hughes.'
'And what happened?'
'She stole my wallet, all my credit cards and over four hundred quid in cash.'
'Who stole them?'
'This tom… this flaming tart.'
Frost, darting through the lobby on his way to the canteen, stopped and turned back. This sounded good for a laugh. 'A prostitute?' he asked.
Hughes nodded. 'The cow pinched my wallet.'
'Tell me about it.'
'She was swinging her handbag on the corner of King Street. She wants forty quid. I say OK, so we drive back to her place.'
'And where was her place?'
'Clayton Street.'
Frost nodded. A lot of toms did their business in short-let rooms in Clayton Street. 'What number?'
'I don't know. I just followed her in. I didn't look at the number. I wasn't going to write her a bleeding letter.'
'Then what?' prompted Wells who wanted to get this over.
'We had it away. Forty quid She wasn't worth forty bleeding pence. I've had inflatable dolls with more reaction than her. Sod forty — I gave her twenty and that was generous.'
'I bet that pleased her?' murmured Frost.
The man blinked at the inspector. 'The cow started screaming and shouting. The names she called me… Anyway, I didn't want the hassle of clouting her one, so I ignored her and stamped out.'
'Then what?' asked Frost.
'I gets into my car and drives off. I'd just turned the corner when I realized my naming wallet was missing. That cow had taken it!'
'Are you sure it was her who took it?' asked Wells.
'There was only me and her in the bleeding room. She must have nicked it from my jacket pocket while I was putting on my shoes.'
'What did you do then?'
'I was back there like a streak of greased lightning. She must have known I was coming back because the door was locked. I kicked and banged and swore, but she wouldn't open up.'
'Probably thought you were a Jehovah's Witness,' said Frost.
'It's not bloody funny,' snarled the man. 'I want her arrested and I want my money back.'
'Arrest her? You don't even know the number of her flat,' said Wells.
'I'd know it if I saw it again. Take me there.'
Wells jabbed a thumb at the two uniformed men. 'Take him there.'
Before they could move there came the sound of a struggle from the corridor and the thud of running feet. The man PC Collier had been dragging to the coach suddenly burst in and promptly sat himself down on the floor with his arms folded, a dishevelled PC Collier following, just too late to stop him. A roar of approval from other drunks on the floor. Wells winced and raised his eyes to heaven. The internal phone rang. He snatched it up. 'What is it?' he barked, quickly changing his tone when he realized it was the Divisional Commander. 'Oh. Sorry, sir. Yes, sir… I'm doing the best I can, sir… Yes, sir.' He banged the phone down. 'Bloody Mullett! He causes all the trouble, now he wants us to keep the noise down — it's giving him a headache. I'll give the bastard a headache.' He yelled for Jordan and Simms to bring Hughes back. 'Leave him and get these other sods into the coach.' He turned to Frost. 'And Mullett wants to know where the crime statistics return is.'
As if on cue, Morgan poked his head round the door and waved a sheaf of papers. 'I've done the return, guv. All you've got to do is sign it.'
Frost scribbled his signature, not bothering to check the figures which meant little to him anyway. 'Good boy, Taff. As a reward you can visit a prostitute with this gentleman and get his wallet back.' He quickly filled him in. 'And bring her straight back here — no freebies on the way.'
'And bring him back as well,' called Wells, indicating Hughes. 'He's on a drunken driving charge.' He watched Jordan and Simms manhandle another football fan out. What a peaceful flaming night this was turning out to be… And it wasn't over yet.
The cashier at the petrol station mini-mart was shaking, sobbing and almost incoherent, so Liz had to rely on the statement taken from her by PC Lambert to find out what had happened. All she could remember was this man, his face covered by a black ski mask, suddenly bursting in with a shotgun, firing it up into the ceiling, then ordering her to empty the till into a carrier bag. An old man who was pottering about in the DIY section suddenly came charging down the aisle, hollering and shouting, hurling whatever came to hand from the shelves at the armed robber. He chucked a can of paint which shed its lid and spilt all over the robber's coat, then hurled himself at the man and tried to wrestle the gun away. In the struggle, the shotgun went off leaving the old boy writhing on the floor, screaming with pain. The robber snatched up the carrier bag of cash and fled. The cashier remembered hearing a sound of an impact as if the getaway car had hit something before roaring away.
The victim, grey-faced and clearly in shock, was being carefully lifted on to a stretcher. 'He's not too badly hurt,' one of the ambulance men told Liz. 'Give the hospital a ring in an hour or so after they've taken the pellets out. He should be able to talk to you then.'
Harding from Forensic was on his knees by the chalked outline of the shot man, carefully avoiding the pool of blood which had mingled with a puddle of white paint, tingeing it pink. He beamed up at Liz. 'Clues galore. White paint over his clothes, of course — we'll be able to match it if you catch him — and I reckon the gunman got hit with some of his own shotgun pellets.'
'How do you know?' asked Liz, bending as he pointed to the main pool of blood.
'The victim was shot and fell here — this is his blood. But there's more blood further along.' He ringed with blue chalk some splashes of blood nearer the exit. 'We can safely assume this came from the gunman. Lucky for us we can match the DNA should you catch him. Unluckily for him, he's bleeding pretty badly and will almost certainly require medical attention.'
Liz radioed the station where Bill Wells, sighing audibly at being dragged away from something more important than a lousy armed robbery, reluctantly agreed to contact all hospitals and doctors.