Frost at Christmas

by RD Wingfield

  "Why did he let the fire go out, son? You'd expect it to be going full blast, day and night, in the winter."

  "I imagine he was killed before he could make it up for the night," answered Clive, trying not to sound too patronizing.

  "I'm glad you said that, son. It gives me one of my rare chances to shine. He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, all clean from his weekly wash. A methodical bloke like Garwood would have made the dirty fire up first."

  Clive thought again. "Then perhaps the boiler was due for a clean-out. You have to let the fire go out every few weeks to rake out the ashes, otherwise it gets clogged up."

  Frost smiled thankfully. "I'll buy that, son. We can eliminate the boiler from our list of things to worry about, then. Thank God for that, there's enough bloody mysteries as it is. Are you going to the Christmas Dinner and Dance?"

  "Dance, sir?" frowned Clive, unable to keep up with these abrupt changes of subject.

  "The Denton Division Annual Dinner. It's next Saturday. Entirely voluntary, of course, but you don't get promotion if you don't go. You can have my ticket." He opened a drawer and closed it aimlessly. "You can smell death in the house, can't you, son? A sort of empty, final feeling. You know what I mean?"

  Clive didn't know what the old fool meant so gave a non-committal shrug. It was clear the inspector was completely out of his depth, without the faintest idea of what to do next. Surely the superintendent wouldn't leave him in charge of a murder investigation?

  "What's our next move, sir?"

  Frost consulted his wrist. "Too early for lunch, even if his eye hadn't taken the edge off my appetite. You know, son, after my wife died, my house was like this--still, silent, achingly empty. It was frightening. And she'd been in hospital for nine weeks, hadn't even been at home, so why should her death have made the house different?"

  "Perhaps the difference was in you, sir, not the house."

  "More than likely, son." His mood brightened. "Do you realize I'm averaging a body a day--more if you count dogs. What you might call an embarrassment of riches. What's your theory about the murder? I think the dog shot Garwood and then committed suicide, but I'm open to alternative suggestions."

  "Garwood surprised a burglar, sir, and the burglar shot him."

  Frost thought for a moment, then shook his head reluctantly. "I hate to pour wee-wee on your suggestion, but have you taken a look in his bedroom? His bed hasn't been slept in, so presumably he was up, with the lights on, when he copped it. Even a burglar as stupid as me would wait for the householder to go to bed."

  For once, he's right, brooded Clive, then, "Sir. I've got it!" and he pounded up and down the small kitchen expounding his theory while Frost smoked and listened.

  "Garwood would be holding the keys to the vaults at the bank, sir. That's what the intruder was after. Garwood must have made a false move, so the man shot him."

  Frost pressed his cheek and popped out a smoke-ring. "A bank job, eh? So what does the intruder do after he's shot Garwood?"

  "He looks for the keys himself, sir--that's why the lounge was turned over."

  "The rest of the house hasn't been touched," mused Frost, dribbling smoke, "so he must have found the keys--unless he was disturbed. And if he found them, why didn't he rob the bank?"

  "The beat bobby was watching the door, sir--remember?"

  "It seems to fit," said Frost grudgingly. "It doesn't have the right feel, but I can't think of anything better.. .. Arseholes!"

  The expletive because someone was ringing the doorbell.

  "See who it is, son. If it's the baker, no bread today; if it's the cat's-meat man, tell him he's lost a customer."

  It was Mullett, immaculate in his tailored topcoat. "Trouble seems to be following you around, Inspector," he said, studying the chalked oat line on the floor.

  "You're only doing your job, Super," said Frost, genuinely misunderstanding him, and then all his forebodings came to the boil when Mullett asked Clive if he would mind leaving him alone with the inspector for a moment.

  He's found out I smashed his bloody car, thought Frost, his mind racing through, and rejecting, other possible alternatives.

  A heart-thudding pause while the superintendent seemed to be rehearsing what he was going to say, then he produced a packet of untipped Senior Service from his pocket. "Cigarette... er ... Jack?"

  Frost felt the ominous tell-tale prickling at the back of his neck. The cigarette was offered in the way a prison governor would behave when he had to break the news to the condemned man-- "The-news-on-your-reprieve-is-not-all-that-good-I'm-afraid" sort of thing.

  Frost took the cigarette and waited for the blade of the guillotine to come crashing down.

  "This murder case ... er ... Jack. I think we should call in the Yard."

  "Sod that," snapped Frost, choking with indignation. "We do the work and the Yard gets the credit--no thanks!" He puffed savagely and stared at the far wall.

  "Right," said Mullett, giving in surprisingly quickly, "I shall tell the Chief Constable you are violently opposed to that course. But, can you cope--I mean, with the missing girl as well?"

  "Providing I can call on extra men, if necessary."

  "You have but to ask, Joe . . . er, Jack. Good, that's settled. It'll only be for a couple of days."

  Frost's head jerked up. "A couple of days?" he said warily.

  "Er . . . yes. Inspector Allen should be fit by then and he'll take the cases over from you."

  You crafty sod! thought Frost, so that's what the "Jack" stuff and the free fag was about! Mullett didn't want the Yard in either, he wanted Denton Division to get all the glory, but had managed to slant it; should things go wrong, then Frost would get the blame for insisting the Yard be kept out. But if it all went right, Allen and Mullett would cop all the praise. At least he had the decency not to meet Frost's gaze.

  Frost took Mullett's gift cigarette from his mouth, coughed, and regarded it suspiciously. "Are these cheaper than Weights, sir?" he asked innocently, but Mullett was already on his way back to his paneled snuggery.

  Clive returned to the kitchen after showing the superintendent out. The man had what Frost lacked, dignity and authority.

  "What now, sir?"

  "Ask Control to send some men down to question the neighbors in case they heard something last night. There's a slim chance nothing good was on the telly." Then he stopped dead in his tracks and clouted his forehead with his palm. "Excreta!"

  "What's up, sir?"

  "Did you spot my deliberate mistake, son? The bloody body! I never had it identified. It could be any Tom, Dick, or Harry tarted up in gray pyjamas. We'd look bloody fools if it wasn't Garwood, wouldn't we? Never mind, we'll get Hudson the bank manager to do it. We'll break the sad news about his staff vacancy then slyly slip into the conversation that we want him to identify the corpse in the morgue."

  At first Hudson couldn't take it in. He stared at Frost as if the inspector had said something disgusting, then he collapsed in his chair and pulled off his glasses.

  "Dead? Rupert Garwood, dead?"

  "I'm afraid so, sir."

  Hudson blew his nose loudly, then dabbed the corner of his eyes. "Garwood was very good to me. His help, when I took over this branch, was unstinting and he must have hoped he would have got the managership himself." He blew his nose again.

  Good job I didn't tell him about the dog, thought Frost, he'd have cried his bloody eyes out. He put forward Clive's theory that an intruder was after keys to the vaults, but Hudson's headshake emphatically nailed the possibility.

  "Garwood didn't have the keys, Inspector. Two sets are required to open our vaults. I hold one and the other is held by senior staff on a rota basis. Mr. Garwood won't have the keys for another--" the lip quivered, "--he won't ever have them again."

  "So that's your theory booted up the arse, I'm afraid, son," murmured Frost. Clive tightened his lips. Was it necessary to be so childishly crude?

  Hudson pulled himself together. "Thos
e files you wanted, Inspector. Our head office is sending them by Red Star passenger train and we'll be picking them up from the station at 2:30."

  "That's what I call real co-operation, Mr. Hudson. It's much appreciated."

  A brave smile. "If there's anything more I can do to help . . . anything . . . ."

  Smack into the trap, thought Frost. "As a matter of fact, sir, there is . . . ."

  "Oh," said Hudson, his face all eagerness to assist.

  "Just a formality, sir, won't take long. We'd like you to identify the body."

  The color drained from Hudson's dismayed face and he shrank visibly. "Oh .... Is this absolutely . . . ? I mean, I've never really seen a dead body in my life."

  "Be an experience for you then," beamed Frost. "There's nothing to it. A quick look under the sheet and we'd have you back in good time for your dinner."

  The mortuary was in the large grounds of Denton Hospital next to a tall-chimneyed incinerator, which was belching black greasy smoke.

  "A few arms and legs going up there," commented Frost breezily to the trembling figure in the back seat.

  In the small lobby the steam heat was overpowering, but Frost advised Hudson not to take off his overcoat, as it would be freezing in the room where the body was--the stiff-store as he put it.

  A notice on the wall read "All Undertakers to Report to Porter Before Removing Bodies". They reported to the porter, and there was a minor altercation, as the man didn't have Garwood's body booked in his custody. This meant, he explained, that if the body was here, it was still being worked on. To prove this point he stabbed a disinfectant-smelling finger at the appropriate page of his stockbook which was patently devoid of corpses named Garwood, the last entry being the old tramp found frozen to death in the woods the previous morning.

  "Hold on a minute, Mr. Hudson," said Frost with the air of a man who is going to sort everything out. Hudson's glance was straying furtively to the exit doors and Clive moved slightly to block any last-minute attempt at flight.

  The illuminated sign over the door read "Autopsy Room" and as the inspector barged through, there was a breath of air colder than cold, and the glimpse of something waxy and sheet-covered with bare feet.

  Hudson decided he must make his position absolutely clear. He could not go on with it, he told Clive. He was sorry, but there it was. Some things were just not possible and this was one of them. Clive spoke soothingly, trying to reassure him, but was not helped by Frost's voice, clearly audible from within.

  "You haven't sawed his head open yet, have you, Doc? I've brought someone along to identify him."

  And then the door to that awful room opened and Frost's finger firmly beckoned. Clive took Hudson's arm in a tight grip and half steered, half dragged him through. It was like walking a condemned man to the scaffold.

  Inside were white tiles, pipes, hoses, running water, and things gurgling and spitting. Annoyed at being disturbed at an interesting bit, the pathologist moved back scowling and wiping his hands on a red rubber apron.

  Frost pushed Hudson forward. He first saw the table, an item of horribly specific design with a perforated and channeled stainless-steel top, with pipes at each corner running down to drains. He let himself look at the body occupying such a small space on that large table. How clean Garwood looked in death, the naked skin pale under the blaze of the dazzle-free lamps, a towel draped demurely across the middle and the toes sticking so obscenely in the air.

  They waited. A hose-pipe dribbled tinted water. Hudson steeled himself and let his gaze creep up to the face. He looked away quickly, being aware of some damage to the eye and of an electric bone-saw, waiting to be plugged in, on a side table.

  The inspector said he had to look at the face properly. If it's cold in here, thought Hudson, why am I sweating? A quick look, then away. A swimming, blood-filled socket screamed up at him, filling his entire field of vision, then roared away to be replaced by anxious faces looking down on him as the floor hit his back and the lights went out.

  He came to in the lobby with steaming eyes and jerked his head away from the stinging fumes of the ammonia bottle.

  "I'm sorry, Inspector, truly I am. It was just . . . ."

  "That's all right, sir," soothed Frost. "I understand. I can remember the first body I ever saw. An old tramp it was . . . ."

  Clive cut in with a warning cough- One of Frost's disgusting stories was the last thing the manager should hear about in his condition.

  "It was Mr. Garwood, I suppose, sir?"

  Hudson managed a nod and remembered that eye. Through the door came the bone-grinding whine of an electric saw and they just managed to catch him before he fell again.

  Hudson's secretary watched wide-eyed as they brought him back to the bank, his legs rubbery, his face damp and green.

  "What's up with Mr. Hudson?" she asked.

  Clive explained.

  She shook her head and carried on with her typing. "Shame about Mr. Garwood. He wasn't all that old."

  "His dog was killed as well," called Frost, steering Hudson through the door to his office.

  Her face darkened with anger and her eyes spat. "It was a golden retriever. The rotten stinking bastards. . . ."

  "Rustle us up some coffee," said Frost.

  WEDNESDAY--3

  Detective Sergeant Hanlon's stomach rumbled and whined in querulous protest as it realized its owner was walking past the stairs to the canteen where the Wednesday lunch of meat pie and great slabs of steamed currant pudding was screaming out its siren call. Before Hanlon could eat he had to report to Inspector Frost about his visit to the schoolmaster. He rapped at the door and entered into steam heat and a thick haze of cigarette smoke, and there was Frost at his desk, pushing papers about, his face beaming at the sight of a welcome diversion. "It's the Fat Owl of the Remove. Grab a chair." Hanlon lowered himself gently into the rickety chair reserved for visitors and remembered to thank Frost for his Christmas card. "Any chance of us seeing you over the holidays?"

  Frost shook his head. "I'll be on duty Christmas and Boxing Day, Arthur, guarding the divisional peace." Hanlon's face expressed sadness and concern, but Frost reassured him. "I volunteered, Arthur. There's nothing for me at home and it's not too bad here--just the odd drunk spewing seasonal fare all over the lobby, but that's what Christmas is all about, isn't it? And our beloved Divisional Commander usually phones in to give us all his blessing, so what more could a man want, except for a bit of the other and a mince pie?''

  Hanlon chortled, his whole body enjoying the joke. "I've seen that chap Farnham, Jack."

  "Who the hell's Farnham?"

  "The schoolmaster."

  Frost snapped his fingers. "Of course--Mrs. Uphill's bearded regular. He was supposed to have staggered from her emporium last Sunday to have tea with his aunt, but auntie hasn't seen him for weeks. What's his story now?"

  Hanlon pulled a notebook from his pocket and Frost snorted with disgust.

  "You're not going to read it out, are you? You only saw him five minutes ago."

  But Hanlon did things his own way, and he read from the notebook. "He said he lied to you and he's sorry. He didn't go to his aunt's."

  "You're reading beautifully, Arthur."

  "Then don't interrupt. He said he was walking back to the railway station when he was accosted by a woman in a leopard-skin coat."

  Leopard-skin coat, thought Frost, his finger sawing away at his scar. Now, where have I . . . ? "Sinful Cynthia!" he exclaimed, joyfully, then, seeing Hanlon's puzzled face added, "Cynthia Collard--you must remember her, Arthur--got a pair like a couple of Christmas puddings."

  The culinary reference gave the fat sergeant the required mental picture. "I didn't know she was back in Denton."

  "Still, I expect you managed. . . . But go on with your reading. When he was accosted, he said 'Sorry, but I don't do things like that on a Sunday'--right?"

  Hanlon waited patiently for Frost to finish, then went on. "Farnham went with Cynthia, in her
car, to her room."

  "So she's got a room, now?" murmured Frost with surprise. "The doorway of the butcher's shop isn't good enough for her any more." He flicked the point of his ball point pen in and out, then scratched his ear with it. "So he'd had two women in one day. He must have been ashamed to tell us about the second one in case we thought he was greedy. Well, we'll have to see if Cynthia confirms this story of debauchery. Have you had your lunch, Arthur?"

  Arthur's stomach woke up and growled. Meat pie and double chips. "Not yet, Jack."

  "Good, then you can have it at The Crown. She plies for hire from there."

  A roar of protest from his stomach--the food at The Crown was notoriously poor. "I'm not certain what she looks like, Jack."

  "Then use some subtlety, Arthur. Sit there with it hanging out and she'll come to you. But you'll recognize her, Arthur--bleached hair, leopard-skin coat, and a tattoo on her stomach saying 'No money refunded in any circumstances'."

  Clive returned from the washroom where he'd spent a quarter of an hour scraping at the coal-dust with the nailbrush. His back still felt gritty and itchy and his suit was filthy. He'd be wearing the Carnaby Street monstrosity tomorrow, so that should give the yokels something to laugh about. He nodded warmly to the fat detective who'd done a magnificent job with the jewelry-shop robbery the night before. A pity Frost wasn't as efficient as that.

  As the inspector filled Clive in on Farmham's further Sunday exploits, Hanlon heaved himself up to brace the cooking at The Crown. "Will you be here after lunch, Jack?"

  "Doubt it," said Frost. "We'll probably be over at the' bank. Did you know I found another body today--Gar-wood, their assistant manager?"

  Hanlon was shaken rigid and he had to grab the back of the chair to steady himself. "Garwood? I knew him, Jack. He arranged the bridging loan for my house."