"I owe him nearly four hundred quid," said Stringer, his eyes still fixed on the floor.
Frost whistled silently. "Four hundred quid! It's .going to take a hell of a time repaying that with the odd pennies from my drawer and the occasional quid from a drunken tramp."
"I'm paying him back twenty pounds a week, sir. I have to give my mother money for my keep, then there's the hire purchase on my car. I'm only left with a couple of quid in my pocket."
"I see. So any extra little pickings would be a Godsend. Pity you didn't come and tell me, son. I've got more than enough on Sammy Jacobs. But that's not all, is it?"
"No." Stringer spoke to the ground. "He says a score a week isn't enough. He wants the lot repaid, otherwise he's going to the Divisional Commander. I haven't got that sort of money."
Frost sniffed. "I suppose Sammy suggested a way out?"
"Yes, sir. He wanted some information. If I get it to him, he'd let me off the debt."
Frost felt the corner of the desk boring its way into his buttock. He stood up and rubbed himself. "What information?"
"He wanted to know when we were going to pull the beat constable off his normal foot patrol to keep watch at Bennington's Bank. As you know, he's being pulled off tonight."
"And you told him?"
"Yes, sir."
Frost clapped his hands together with delight, then dialed Detective Sergeant Hanlon on his internal phone. "Hello, Arthur - Jack Frost. Sad news. You're going to have to forgo your nightly connubials. I've had a tip-off-something big. This Bennington's Bank business, it's just a decoy to draw our chap from his usual beat so someone can pull off a job undisturbed. I've no details, so we'll have to play it clever. We pretend we don't know. The constable stays watching the bank, but you and a couple of your best men are lurking in the vicinity of where the beat copper usually is between, say, two and three in the morning . . . If I knew the exact address I'd have given it to you, Arthur - even I am not that bleeding dim. No--with the search for the kid we can't spare any more men. We keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best. I'll be in touch." He swung the phone by the cord and flicked it back into the cradle.
Stringer was now sitting up straight. He seemed to have pulled himself together. "What happens now, sir?"
Frost twitched his shoulders. "That's entirely up to you, son. I've got enough on my plate with missing kids, ransom demands, and talking spirits. I'll just say this. You've been a bloody fool and you've been found out by a dim old fool like me, so you haven't been very clever, have you? If you want to keep out of trouble never put yourself in a position where crooks like Sammy Jacobs can blackmail you. Do you want to stay in the Force?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then buzz off and behave yourself from now on. And from time to time you might repay the odd copper you've pinched from me. My top drawer's always available - all contributions gratefully received.''
The phone gave an urgent ring. It was the station sergeant.
"Frost. Oh - thanks. I'm coming now. What? Oh, just a private matter, nothing that concerns anyone but him and me. I'll tell him."
He dropped the phone back and looked at the young man.
"Better get back, son. The station sergeant's got a job for you."
"Right sir . . . and thanks - "
But Frost had gone, his footsteps clattering up the corridor. Stringer picked up the cups with a shaking hand. He felt like bursting into tears. The open desk drawer gaped accusingly at him as he passed.
The van bumped in and out of snow-covered potholes and the two policemen in the back, with the shovels and the tarpaulins, cursed as they slithered and cannoned into each other. Frost, wedged tightly between the driver and a dark mustached young constable, was able to do little more than grunt with each jolt.
"Park by those trees," he said. "We walk from here." The mustached copper was looking queasy. "What's up, son - car sickness?"
A brisk shake of the head. "No, sir - it's just that I don't like the idea of digging up a body."
Frost snorted derisively. "It's the winter, son, not the summer. Cor, I remember my first body. All decomposing and rotten . . . half the face eaten away by rats and the weather hot and sticky. I'd have given anything for a nice fresh corpse in the winter. You don't know how lucky you are."
They waded through thigh-deep drifts at Dead Man's Hollow and Frost cursed himself for not having the foresight to grab a pair of Wellingtons like the rest of his digging party who, properly dressed for the occasion, plodded stoically behind him.
"Right. The first thing to do is to clear the snow away."
The snow was light and fluffy, all bulk and no substance, like candy-floss, and it was tiring, unsatisfying work, but at last an area was cleared behind piled, shoveled snow.
"What now, sir?" asked the driver, breathing heavily and resting on his shovel.
"Don't look all knowing at me, son," snapped Frost. "I reckon it's a bloody waste of time as well but I wasn't going to call the Divisional Commander a twit to his face and risk not getting a Christmas card. What's the ground like?"
In reply the driver struck the earth with his shovel. It rang, frozen solid. Digging would be an illegitimate cow's son.
Frost wound his scarf to just below his eyes. "Prod around lads. If anyone's been digging recently there should be traces." He poked a cigarette through a gap in the scarf and watched them work. His feet were so cold they hurt.
An excited voice." Inspector!''
The torch beam picked out broken ground . . . raw earth mixed with decayed leaves where the top surface had been turned over. A patch about eighteen inches square. The others clustered around to study the discovery.
"Well," snapped Frost, his hands deep in his pockets for warmth, "it won't get any bloody bigger by looking at it. Get digging!"
"Hardly big enough for a grave," ventured the mustached constable.
"It may be small," said Frost, "but it's all we've got."
The man who found it carefully shoveled out loose earth, the torch, like a stage spotlight, following his every movement.
Frost lost interest. "Just our luck it's some camper's rubbish. If so, you can have my share." The cold had found its way under the folds of the scarf and was chewing and worrying at his scar. The wind started to keen softly at the back of its throat and branches rustled.
"I've hit something!" called the digger. Then. "Sir!"
Frost spun round. The cigarette fell from his mouth.
The beam of the torch held it fast - yellow, dirt-encrusted, but unmistakable. Poking obscenely through the earth was the skeleton of a human hand.
Frost broke the shocked silence and swore softly. "Just what we bloody-well need!"
The driver dropped to his knees and examined it closely.
"It's human, sir."
"Of course it's bloody human. Anyone else would have been lucky enough to get a dead horse or a cow, but I have to get bloody human remains."
The earth was too hard for shovels so one of the constables was sent back to the van for some pickaxes, and also to radio Search Control to tell them that the spirits had given a false lead so far as Tracey Uphill was concerned.
In the distance the sound of a car pulling up, then approaching voices, one of them a woman's - Clive Barnard and W.P.C. Hazel Page.
"Hello, sir - found something?" asked Clive.
"A hand, " said Frost. "Why - have you lost one?"
The men moved out of the way so the newcomers could view the discovery.
"Well, if you've finished admiring it," said Frost, "what did auntie have to say?"
Clive paused for a moment to heighten the dramatic effect of his bombshell. "Farnham hasn't been to his aunt's for at least three weeks and he wasn't there Sunday."
Frost lit another cigarette. "I knew he was a liar the minute I saw him. You never can trust randy sods - present company excepted, of course."
"Shall I bring him in, sir?"
Frost considered, then shook his head. "
Let him sweat until tomorrow. I'm more interested in old Mother Wendle. How did she know something was buried here?"
"She's a clairvoyant, sir."
"If the lady wasn't here, I'd say 'shit'," snapped Frost. "I don't believe in ghosts and I don't believe in Father Christmas. She knew it was here and I want to know how she knew."
A crashing and a cursing as the policeman bringing the picks slipped and fell. He limped toward them and shared out the tools, then told the inspector that Control was sending a doctor and an ambulance.
"A doctor?" said Frost, nearly losing another cigarette. "Oh, yes, we're not supposed to presume death are we? We're so bloody thick we don't know a dead body when we see one. All right lads, get his chest uncovered . . . the doctor might want to use his stethoscope."
It was hard going, even with the pickaxes, as they had to chip away carefully to avoid disturbing the position of the bones.
"Who do you think it was, sir?" asked Hazel.
"Probably some old tramp who crawled here to die years ago. No relatives, no one's missed him, but we're going to have all the bother of trying to find out who he was."
Hazel tucked her head deeper into her greatcoat collar. "It'll be difficult to discover the cause of death now, sir."
Frost nodded. "You're right, love. The police surgeon likes a lot more meat on a corpse than we've got here. Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time we had to get the body of this fat woman out of the house? She'd died in her bath - stark naked she was and - "
Clive cut in quickly before another doubtful story was launched. The inspector was forgetting a lady was present.
"If death was natural causes, sir, who buried him?"
Something soft fluttered down and wetly kissed the inspector's cheek. It was snowing again. He asked Hazel to return to the van and radio Control to send the marquee used that morning for the dragging party. Then he remembered he hadn't answered Clive's question.
"Who buried him? No one, I'd say, son - leaves and mould naturally built up over him. No one comes near this part of the woods. It's got an unsavory reputation, like the toilets in the High Street."
"But surely someone must have come across it," Clive persisted. "I mean . . . a dead body!"
"We're not nosey down here, you know - not like you lot in London. And don't forget, he'd be stinking to high heaven after a few days - enough to put anyone off who wasn't frightened of the snakes already. People would have thought he was a dead animal and kept clear."
The earth, loosened by the pickax, was being gently scraped away. A cry from the constable sent Frost running over again. "What do you make of this, sir?"
Frost made nothing of it. Encircling the wrist was a band of metal to which was fastened a length of steel chain. The other end of the chain buried itself deeply in the rock-hard earth and no amount of pulling would prise it free.
And then, something even more puzzling. By scraping away the earth, more and more of the arm bone was uncovered, but then, before the elbow was reached, the arm just stopped.
They didn't have a complete skeleton. Just a hand, part of an arm, and the metal wristband . . . and the chain.
Frost decided that animals must have dragged the arm away from the rest of the body and his diggers were spread out over a wider area to prospect for the remainder.
The snow was falling in great white fluffy flakes and would soon cover the excavation. A distant car door slammed and they hoped it was the promised marquee, but the approaching light bobbing along the path was carried by Dr. McKenzie, the little tubby police surgeon.
"Who's in charge here? Oh - it's you, Inspector Frost. I should have guessed. If you had to find a body in a Godforsaken hole like this, did it have to be during a snowstorm?" He wiped the snow from his glasses and peered down at the excavated arm, then shook his head solemnly. "You've called me too late, I'm afraid . . . a few minutes earlier and I could have saved him."
"I tried to give it the kiss of life," remarked Frost, dryly, "but it stuck its fingers up my nose. Well, come on Doc - time of death?"
The doctor licked a flake of snow from his nose. "You know as well as I do, Jack . . . years . . . ten, twenty, perhaps longer. You'll need a pathologist."
Frost held the doctor by one arm and led him out of earshot of the others. "Do we really need a pathologist, Doc? Couldn't you just say he died of natural causes and let it go at that? Honestly, I've got enough work to keep me going for a month, even if I applied myself - which I rarely do. I don't want to be sodding about with this ancient relic." He offered the doctor a cigarette as a bribe.
Grunts and clangs as pickaxes bit. The doctor accepted a light. "I couldn't say natural causes, Jack - for one thing, how do you explain the chain attached to the wrist? In any case to tell you anything definite I'd need a darn sight more than half an arm. It'll require all sorts of tests and soil analysis. Your forensic boys will take it in their stride. I'm only a G.P. If it's not broken bones or constipation I'm out of my depth. I give a letter for a specialist, and that's what you want - a specialist." He coughed with the cigarette still in his mouth, spraying the inspector with hot ash. "I'm off home. I'll let you have my report."
"What report?" demanded Frost. "You haven't even examined it."
But the doctor was already moving off. "You want the pathologist. Besides, its snowing and he's paid a lot more than I am."
Frost swore silently at a man who would desert him after accepting one of his cigarettes. There was a cry from the mustached P.C. He'd found what looked like the rest of the skeleton. It was some eight feet away from the hand. Clive was sent running back to the radio car to ask for a pathologist. Half-way there he met the men bringing the marquee.
By the time the pathologist and the forensic team turned up, the marquee had been erected and the canvas was flapping with sounds like rifle-shots, as the wind searched it out for weaknesses.
The pathologist, tall and cadaverous in a long black overcoat, had brought his medical secretary along - a faded, puffy-eyed beauty, who recorded her master's comments in the loops and angles of Pitman's shorthand. The pathologist seemed to find the wristband and chain more interesting than the human remains.
"I'd like to know what's on the other end of that chain, Inspector."
A busy beaver from Forensic got to work and began scraping away with practiced, economical movements, until enough chain was uncovered to permit a firm grip to be taken. He pulled. The earth released another three feet of chain, then held the rest fast. More patient scratching with a trowel, then some work with a pickax.
The end of the chain was fastened to a metal box, about 2'6" x 1'6" x 4" deep.
Frost plucked the pathologist's sleeve. He thought he knew what it was.
"Could he have been here since the war, Doc?"
The great man winced at the "Doc". "Possibly, Inspector. But I've done no tests yet so anything is a possibility until proved otherwise. Why do you ask?"
"I think I know what that thing is. It's a sort of metal attache case. They were used during the war for confidential dispatches, chained to the courier's wrist. We had some plane crashes here during the Blitz - British and German.
Could he have been thrown - or fallen - from a plane blowing up in the air, perhaps?"
The pathologist pushed his lower lip into his mouth and sucked hard. "Again - possible. There's no telling how long the remains have been here." He dropped on one knee and scraped some dirt away from a rib. "If he fell you'd expect to find broken bones, but until we can get some of this encrusted dirt off . . ."He stood, rubbing the tips of his fingers. "When it's completely uncovered and photographed I'll have it moved to the crime lab for a thorough examination. I'll be able to give you facts then instead of theories. Oh - and I'd like all the surrounding earth crated up and sent for tests."
"All of it?" asked Frost.
"Well - where the arm and the rest of the skeleton have been lying, down to a depth of about three feet."
The inspector'
s cigarette dropped. "That's going to take some digging, Doc."
"Yes," agreed the great man, drawing on his gloves, "but it's necessary. Oh, and you might let me have a complete list, with dates, of all the air crashes that occurred in this vicinity during the war years."
"Certainly, Doc," said Frost, wondering where the hell he could obtain useless information like that. He gave orders for the earth to be crated, then quickly tiptoed out with Clive before the pathologist could think of any more stupid jobs.
The wind hurled handfuls of snow at them as they trudged back to the car, where Hazel was waiting. There had been calls galore for the inspector, she reported. Would he report back?
"Control here, Inspector. Can you return to the station at once, please? The Divisional Commander wishes to see you urgently."
Frost groaned. Gawd, he thought, what have I done wrong now?
Mullett was boiling with rage. He couldn't wait for Frost to close the door behind him before he started.
"I found this on your desk, Inspector," and he held up the envelope containing the crime statistics. Frost looked at it with horror, then dropped wearily into a chair and swore to himself as vehemently as Mullett was shouting at him. The bloody crime statistics! In the ecstacy of getting the sodding things completed last night, he'd completely forgotten to post them off . . . nosey bastard had to find them on his desk . . .
Mullett was beside himself. He, the Divisional Commander, had made a promise to County, had instructed Frost that the statistics must go off, and now.he had to bear the odious, stinging humiliation of being shown incapable of getting his own men to carry out a specific order.
Frost half closed his eyes and let the scalding tirade wash over him. Didn't the bloody tailor's dummy have better things to do than poke his ugly nose in other people's desks? And if he was so bloody clever, how come he didn't know who had smashed the rear of his car?
A timid tap at the door halted the lashing tongue in mid invective, and Miss Smith looked in to wish the commander goodnight. No need to look at the clock - the hands would be quivering at 6:10 exactly. Mullett snatched up the envelope and handed it to her. "As Inspector Frost is incapable of obeying the simplest order, perhaps you would kindly drop this in the County postbag on your way out." Frost blew her a kiss behind the commander's back and she scuttled out with a brick-red face.
Frost 1 - Frost At Christmas Page 15