Frost at Christmas

by RD Wingfield

  Two battered enamel mugs were produced for the guests, blown free of dust, and filled with strong, viscous tea.

  Frost introduced Clive as his smart young assistant from London.

  "Just taking him around Denton to show him where all the toilets are," he explained. "Nothing worse for a rising young cop than to be taken short and caught peeing in the gutter." He pointed in the direction of the grimy window. "If you're ever in really dire straits, son, there's one at the end of the platform. You can find it easily in the summer because of the flies buzzing over it. These lazy sods, paid a king's ransom by British Rail, spend all their time guzzling tea instead of cleaning it out."

  "We daren't go in for a week after you've used it," accused the bald booking clerk. "Anyway, what are you here for?"

  Frost swallowed a mouthful of tea. "Were you lot on yesterday afternoon?" They nodded. "I'm trying to trace a man aged about thirty-five, bearded, travels here every Sunday, arriving around two o'clock. Travels back about four."

  The fat ticket collector had a bout of coughing and splattered ash from his homemade cigarette over his waistcoat. "Vaguely remember him," he said.

  "Light brown hair?" said a voice. "Dark coat and a scarf?" Frost wheeled round. It was the taxi-driver.

  "I pick him up every Sunday, 2:15, regular as clockwork--apart from yesterday. He was an hour late. Said they'd canceled his usual train."

  Frost rubbed his hands in delight. "Where did you take him?"

  "Same place as always--top of Church Lane."

  The inspector could have hugged himself. Church Lane was but a short distance from Vicarage Terrace and the rosy, mirrored ceiling of No. 29.

  "That's the bloke." He turned to the railwaymen. "What station did he come from?"

  "I don't know what station," said the lanky porter, "but the only train canceled yesterday was the 1:47 from Cranford, stopping at all stations."

  "That's right," said the booking clerk. "The driver didn't turn up. The next train was the 2:47."

  "I've got him!" said the ticket collector. "Bearded fellow.... I've placed him now." He dived under the table and produced a large tin that once had held Huntley and Palmer's biscuits but was now filled with small packets containing the daily hauls of collected tickets. He rummaged and found a torn half of green pasteboard, which he handed to Frost. "That's his ticket!"

  The outward half of a cheap day return from Lefington, a small village some twelve miles down the line.

  A bang shook the door and it was crashed open by a bowler-hatted gentleman with a military mustache and a brick-red angry face. He glared at the tea party. "Isn't anyone on duty in the ticket office? I've been waiting more than five minutes."

  "Just coming," said the bald man and bolted out after him.

  "Bloody passengers," observed Frost. "They seem to think the railway's run for their benefit. Well, we're getting somewhere. We know he came from Lefington. Do you remember him going back?"

  The fat porter scratched his head. "He usually caught the 4:33, but I swear he wasn't on it yesterday."

  "He was an hour late," said Frost. "What time was the next one?"

  "The 533--but he wasn't on that either. We only had one passenger for that--a woman."

  "Hardly worth keeping the bloody station open," snorted Frost. "What train did he catch, then?"

  The porter shrugged. "We went off duty at six," he said, slamming the door on any further progress in that direction.

  But Frost had enough to go on. Lefington was a small village and the booking clerk there should recognize the man from the detailed description. But what- had he done after he'd left Mrs. Uphill? Seemingly he was in no hurry to use the return half of his ticket. But find him first. As soon as they got back to the office he'd teleprint Lefington sub-division and get them to follow it up.

  A train rattled through the station and sped on its way. The railwaymen consulted pocketwatches and nodded. The train was on time.

  Then Frost realized he hadn't reported back to Inspector Allen after interviewing the mother. Blimey, that'll bring the pains on, he thought.

  "Come on, son--work to do."

  Clive, who was being told by the young porter that his suit was fab, drank the remains of his tea and buttoned his coat.

  Frost protected his neck with a couple of tight turns of the scarf and opened the door. Outside it was cold. Very cold.

  By four o'clock it was too dark to continue and reluctantly, but sensibly, Detective Inspector Allen issued instructions for the search to be called off for the day. He sat alone at a corner table in the canteen with its green and gold Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling and watched the tired, cold men returning to join the shuffling queue for hot, strong tea. The hissing of the urn and the clangor of cups and cutlery almost drowned the low-key dispirited conversations.

  Allen was as tired and drained as the searchers. Something was wrong. They should have found her today. Tomorrow he'd have to draw in more men and extend the area of the search, which meant more organizing, more painstakingly detailed work before he could call it a day. He'd been on the go since seven that morning and would be lucky to see his bed before midnight. And he felt ill. He hadn't eaten all day and the thought of food sickened him. The canteen was overbearingly hot. Where the devil was that incompetent fool, Frost. Nothing from him since he was detailed to interview the mother before lunch. And the man an inspector, the same rank as Allen, who was bearing all the worry and responsibility of the search and who would have to accept all the blame if it went sour.

  A burst of raucous laughter from the queue by the counter, and there was Frost in his dirty mac, sharing some coarse joke with the woman at the tea urn. No worries, no thought of reporting back to Allen, just straight into the queue for tea.

  It was too much. Allen stormed over and jerked his head to the door, waiting in the corridor outside for Frost to follow. Out he came, his scarf bulging out of his pocket, the new chap, Barnard, behind him.

  "Bit of luck spotting you," beamed Frost, completely unabashed. "I'll give you a verbal report--save all the bother of sticking it on paper."

  Allen exploded. Was he expected to receive important reports casually in the corridor?

  "You'll write the bloody thing out properly and bring it to my office. And where the hell have you been?"

  "Sorry," said Frost, surprised at the outburst and wondering why the man was so touchy--although he didn't look well. "She gave us a lead and we followed it through."

  Allen's eyes blazed. "You weren't told to follow it through. You were told to report back, you bloody fool. Why don't you do what you're told!"

  "Why don't you get stuffed," asked Frost, turning to go. "You'll get the report when I've had some tea."

  Something snapped. Allen reached out, grabbed Frost's shoulder, and spun him round. Frost's eyes flashed and knuckles whitened over clenched fists.

  God, thought Clive, there's going to be a fight. He prayed that a senior officer would come on the scene before it got out of hand. What was the etiquette for such things? Should he try to break it up or look the other way and pretend it just wasn't happening?

  But it didn't happen. Allen gasped and doubled up, his face sickly white and contorted with the pain that tore his stomach.

  Frost was immediately full of concern. "Are you all right?"

  Allen straightened up, his brow clammy with sweat. "Something I've eaten. It'll pass." He was unsteady on his feet and clutched the wall for support.

  "I'll give you a hand to your office."

  "No--I can manage." He composed himself. Then: "What happened with Mrs. Uphill?" He listened intently as Frost told him. He didn't think the nude photograph was relevant but was very interested in the bearded man.

  "I want to know immediately there's any news from Lefington. And I want a typed report on my desk tonight." He trotted briskly down the stairs. Whatever had been wrong with him seemed to have passed.

  "I won't half pay for that when his promo
tion comes through," Frost told Clive blandly, pushing the swing doors to re-enter the canteen, but no sooner had they joined the end of the queue when the P.A. system gave a metallic cough.

  "Telephone call for Inspector Frost."

  There was a phone in the corridor. The call was from Lefington sub-division. Good news. The railway booking clerk not only recognized the description, but was able to turn up an application the bearded man had made for a season ticket. It contained his full name and address. He was Stanley Farnham, a schoolmaster, who traveled daily by train to Cranford where he taught English at the comprehensive school.

  Frost scribbled the address down on the back of a cigarette packet and was profuse with thanks, praise, and offers of reciprocation. The face he turned to Clive beamed with delicious anticipation, like a cat's on finding the door to the canary's cage open.

  "No time for tea, son. We've got a beard to interview."

  He tugged the scarf from his mac pocket and reeled it round his neck.

  "You'll be letting Inspector Allen know, sir?" asked Clive anxiously.

  "But of course. He gets touchy if he thinks I'm ignoring him. I don't know why he should feel jealous--after all, we're both the same rank." He dialed Allen's office on the internal phone, but it was Detective Sergeant George Martin, Allen's assistant, who answered.

  "Oh, hello, George," chirped Frost. "Is your esteemed chief there by some unfortunate chance? Gone home for a bath? Well, about time. I'm not a fussy man, but .... Look, when he gets back, you might tell him we've traced Mrs. Uphill's weekly customer and we're on our way to interview him. No, I don't think I should ask him first. He likes people to act on their own initiative. Have I done what? The crime statistics? God, is it time for them already? Due in last week? Clang! Well, thanks for the whisper. I'll do them when we get back."

  He hung up and swore softly at the wall. Damn those bloody statistics. Mullett was such a stickler for them going out to H.Q. on time and they were a time-wasting nuisance. There was no problem if your office was organized like Inspector Allen's; you just went to a file and extracted the figures. But if your papers were unfiled and your office was a rubbish tip....

  "As soon as we get back, son, we'll do the crime statistics. Be good training for you."

  When they reached the car the inspector realized he'd left his other packet of cigarettes in the office and Clive, spilling over with resentment at being used as a messenger boy, was sent back for them.

  The muddle and disorder of Frost's office made him shudder. Since they were last in, fresh deliveries of paperwork had arrived and had been stacked on top of earlier layers on the inspector's desk, held down under the weight of his glass ashtray. The top item under the ashtray looked interesting. A sheet of thick, deckle-edged notepaper scrawled with spidery writing in pale green ink. Clive sat at ' the desk to read it when young P.C. Keith Stringer breezed in with roneoed copies of the new duty roster for January.

  "In the boss's chair already?" he grinned, adding a roneoed sheet to the rising paper mountain.

  Clive decided not to admit to being engaged in the menial task of fetching cigarettes and countered with a question of his own. "I thought your shift finished at two?"

  "Overtime. We're men short on the search and I need the money."

  "Tell me something," said Clive. "What time do you reckon he'll be letting me go?" - "How do you mean?"

  Clive checked his watch. "I've been on now for nearly eight hours. We've got to interview a man--say another couple of hours--then he's talking about coming back for a jolly session with the crime statistics. To hear him talk you'd think the day had just started."

  Keith's grin widened. "Haven't you been told about Mr. Frost? He's a smashing bloke and we all like him, but he never wants to call it a day. Since his wife died there's nothing for him to go home for, I suppose, but he doesn't think anyone else has a home either. If you're home before midnight, you'll be lucky. First in and last out, that's him, so say goodbye to your sex life." He dropped a duty roster on Frost's desk and sailed out of the office.

  Clive seethed. Midnight! Well, he wasn't going to put up with that; he'd see Mullett first thing tomorrow morning. Then his heart sank. He couldn't, of course. He was the Chief Constable's nephew. They'd say he was after special treatment.

  So where were those bloody cigarettes? He worked his rage off on the desk drawer by jerking it out and was taken by surprise when it shot out easily, spilling its contents all over the floor.

  Down on the knees of his flash trousers to pick them up. "Damn and sod the man," he cursed, chucking the useless junk back in the drawer. Bad enough to spend all day with the uncouth idiot without spending half the night as well.

  One of the things that had fallen to the brown lino was curious. A blue box about the size of a packet of twenty cigarettes, with a crest embossed in gold on the front. It rattled when he shook it, so he peeped inside. A medal of some kind, in the shape of a cross and attached to a dark blue ribbon, nestled on a velvet bed. A long-service award perhaps. It was engraved "To Jack Edward Frost."

  Clive tossed it in the drawer, found the cigarettes, and raced back to the car.

  Stanley Farnham dumped the exercise books for marking on the hall table and picked up the letters from the mat. Two of them, one his monthly statement from Barclay-card, and the other. . . . His pulse quickened. Hanging his overcoat in the hall closet he looked again at the envelope. It bulged. It must be the catalog he'd sent off for last week. Still in the hall, he ripped it open and pulled out the contents. Yes, a large catalog entitled Sex Aids and Sex Toys. He thumbed quickly through it. He would savor it at his leisure later, but just had to see .... What's this? A price list for contraceptives, all makes, all colors, all nationalities. He pushed it aside impatiently; he couldn't work up much excitement for latex rubber-wear. A leaflet advertising books--Sexual Positions. This was more promising. . ..

  A warning bell inside him rang a fraction of a second before the doorbell screamed.

  He wheeled round, nearly dropping the envelope. Two shadows through the frosted glass of the front door.

  His heart banged and raced. The envelope! He stuffed it and the catalog into the shallow drawer of the hall table.

  The bell shrilled again. A loud bang at the door.

  "Who is it?"

  "Police."

  The police! Oh God . . . surely they weren't checking his mail? When the postman had handed him that packet last week, he had been sure there had been a knowing smirk on the man's face.

  He fastened the chain on the door and opened it cautiously. He wasn't taking any chances. Sometimes men, pretending to be police officers....

  "Mr. Stanley Farnham? Sorry to trouble you, sir. We're from Denton C.I.D. May we come in ... ?"

  This was the elder of two men, a shabby-looking character with a scarred face. The other, much younger, wore a shortie overcoat over a flashy suit and seemed to have a broken nose. A right pair of thugs! He was thankful he'd thought to put the chain on.

  He asked to see their warrant cards. This seemed to present some difficulty to the scarred man who spent ages fumbling through wodges of dog-eared papers, but the young man instantly produced a wallet which he flipped open. A brand-new, clean warrant card proclaimed him to be Detective Constable Barnard. Then the other man found his and held it alongside.

  "Or if you want to see a dirty one ...." he said.

  Farnham unhooked the chain and ushered them quickly past the hall table and into the lounge.

  "What's this all about? I've only just got in from the school."

  Detective Inspector Frost hung his scarf on the back of a chair and sat down. The other man remained standing.

  "Nice little place you've got here, sir." The inspector's eyes crawled around the tasteful room, taking in the block-mounted abstract prints, the tightly packed bookshelves, the Tippett Knot Garden recording on top of the stereo record player. "Nice and compact. You took your time answering the door?"

 
The accusation slipped out so silkily, Farnham wasn't ready with an answer. "Oh. I ... I ... I was doing something --"

  A hard stare from the inspector. "How many rooms have you got here, sir?"

  "Rooms? Oh ... this room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom."

  "Just enough," nodded Frost, approvingly. "No point in having more than you need. You don't mind if my col league from London has a look round, sir? Shouldn't take long."

  Farnham felt a nerve in his face writhe and twitch. What were they looking for? What a fool he'd been sending for that stuff: it stood to reason that some of those advertisements had been bending the law . . . that last book was positively pornograhic. It wasn't in the bookcase, thank God! The inspector's eyes were on him, watching that damn nerve pulsate and throb. Well, he wasn't going to make it easy for them; they'd have to drag him to the scaffold.

  "Yes, I do mind. I'm not answering any questions without my solicitor."

  Frost received this with benign equanimity. "Very wise, sir. Call him on the phone. We've plenty of time."

  They were playing with him. Oh God, what if it was that other business? But they couldn't have found out. The room was closing in, he felt cornered; he wanted to run, to get away. Now he knew why the young detective had remained standing. He was blocking the door, preventing Farnham from getting out. They had him trapped. He was finding it difficult to breath. The inspector was staring at him.

  "Are you all right, Mr. Farnham?"

  "Yes, of course I'm all right." It was hot. The heat was stifling. He loosened his tie.

  "You've nothing to hide, have you, sir?"

  "Hide? Of course not. What. . . what is this all about?"

  "You know a woman called Joan Uphill, Mr. Farnham?"

  His heart skipped a beat. Surely they didn't know about her? "Uphill?" The face screwed in concentration. "No, I can't recall. . . ."

  "No. 29 Vicarage Terrace, Denton, sir. Thirty pounds a time, tea included."

  He managed to look mystified. "I'm sorry, I don't know her."