by RD Wingfield
"Shot through the head, I'm afraid," continued Frost. "That's two bodies yesterday, one today." He shrugged. "But I'll probably go all day tomorrow without finding any."
His phone rang. It was Forensic. He listened, frowned, then whistled softly and scribbled something across a memo of complaint from Mullett. He hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. "Ballistics. They say the bullet that killed Garwood last night was fired from the same gun that killed Fawcus thirty-two years ago. They suggest it might be significant."
Clive gaped at the inspector. "They were both killed by the same person?"
"I hope so, son," said Frost. "It means we can eliminate anyone younger than thirty-two from our inquiries. Now hurry up, Arthur, before they sell out of curried rissoles."
Mr. Hudson couldn't face lunch. He'd sipped delicately at a tiny glass of sherry, and had taken the merest nibble from a ham sandwich before the dead touch of cold meat revolted him. He'd returned early to his office and was sitting quietly, trying to blank out the memory of the awful morning and subdue a rebellious stomach. His internal phone buzzed like the sound of the bone-saw ripping through poor Garwood's skull. He lifted it to his ear and croaked his name. His secretary told him the two policemen were back for the files.
And in they came, that dreadfully scruffy one with the scarf and his assistant with the nose and the grimed black fingernails. The inspector scooped up the files with a nod of thanks and asked if they could question the other members of the bank staff and also have a look through Garwood's desk.
Eager to get rid of them, Hudson agreed immediately and led them over to the olive green partition and through the frosted-glass door bearing the name R. Garwood-- Asst. Manager.
Frost flopped into Garwood's swivel chair and dragged off his scarf. "Did Garwood have any relatives?"
"No," said Hudson, "none at all. All alone in the world, it seems," and he retired to his own office, managing a brave smile until the door closed behind him.
"We'll take half his desk each," said Frost, emptying out a paperclip container for use as an ashtray. He pulled open a drawer. "There's something sneaky about looking into other people's desks, isn't there, son? I feel quite guilty when I rummage through Mullen's drawers on Christmas Day."
The drawers yielded nothing significant--social club files, a duster, a towel, an envelope heavy with silver, which turned out to be the collection for the tealady's Christmas present. They buzzed Hudson on the internal phone and announced they were now ready to have the staff in for questioning, and in they came, one by one, in strict order of seniority, starting with the chief clerk.
Like all things Frost did, the interviews started well, but the inspector soon became bored. No one could tell them anything that could help. Their colleague's death still weighed heavily upon them and they were all full of praise for a man who was apparently a living saint, barren of faults and never a bad word to say to a living soul. He hadn't spoken to anyone about the 1951 robbery and no one knew what his social life was outside the bank.
Frost thought that such a man sounded so boring he deserved to get shot and he let his detective constable ask all the questions while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and swiveled from side to side in the chair, occasionally studying his wristwatch and sighing deeply.
Clive had worked his way down the office social scale and was now questioning a seventeen-year-old typist with a lisp and a quivering, mouth-drying, figure. Frost scribbled something on a piece of paper, folded it carefully, and passed it across to Clive who excused himself to the girl and read it. It said "She isn't wearing a bra!" and, for the rest of the interview, Clive heard little of what she was saying, his eyes firmly fixed on her vibrating sweater, which showed clear proof of his superior's powers of observation.
At last she was dismissed, leaving a hint of perfume and a beautiful memory.
Frost spun a complete circle in Garwood's chair. "So, it seems he was a saint? If we came back in a week's time, I'll bet they'd all have remembered what a bastard he was. Come on, son."
As they entered the lobby with the staff files, Johnnie Johnson called out to Frost and beckoned him over. He was holding aloft the inspector's personal radio.
"A lady brought this in for you, Inspector,"
"A lady?" asked Frost, warily.
"Yes, she said you left it round her place."
"Oh--ta--thanks." He tried to sound casual.
"Nice bit of stuff she was, reminded me of a nun, or a Sunday school teacher or something." The face was deceptively innocent, but Frost wasn't fooled.
"Sergeant Hanlon back?" he snapped in his best official manner, stuffing the radio back in his pocket.
"In his office, Inspector," and the station sergeant just managed to hide the broad grin under his mustache.
I wonder what that's all about? thought Clive.
They found Hanlon in his office worrying the life out of a glass of Alka Seltzer with a spoon. He swallowed the bubbling liquid in one long gulp and let it do battle with his digestive system.
"That's no cure for the pox, you know, Arthur," said Frost with concern.
Fat eyes regarded him indignantly. "You sent me to a fine place, Inspector Frost. The meat was off. How can meat be off in this weather?" He suppressed a belch.
"Did you find sexy Cynthia?"
"I found her. She confirms Farnham's story. He was with her until six o'clock."
"Thank you, Arthur. Now go and wash your hands in carbolic and get on with your work."
Back in the torrid seclusion of his own office, the inspector tugged at the string tying the bundle of Bennington's Bank staff files. Clive watched moodily. He was beginning to feel useless, just trotting along behind Frost like a tame dog. He wanted to get out on his own.
"Hadn't I better do my round of doctors and dentists, sir?"
"That can wait, son. I'm content we've found Fawcus's skeleton--I don't want any more proof. When we've worked out who killed him and Garwood--and let's not forget the dog--then we can waste our time sodding about with luxuries like dental charts. Help me look through this pile of old rubbish." He spread the files out on his desk. There were ten of them, ten people who were working diligently in Bennington's Denton branch way back in July 1951, at least two of whom were now dead with bullets in their skulls.
"We'll work from the top down," announced Frost, "the manager first."
In 1951 the manager was a John Aubrey Powell, then aged 45. He had retired in 1971 on his sixty-fifth birthday. An exemplary bank employee it would seem, judging from the annual assessments contained in the file. The 1952 assessment lightly referred to the unfortunate business of the missing cashier and the lost PS20,000 but absolved Powell from all blame. The last item in the file was a copy of a memo from the staff pension fund administrators to the effect that, at Mr. Powell's request, part of his pension entitlement was to be paid as a lump sum, his monthly pension to be reduced accordingly.
"I wonder why he took a lump sum," said Frost, and dialed Hudson to ask him.
Apparently it wasn't unusual. Many people opted for a lump sum. They might want to start up a little business, or buy a better house--you wouldn't stand much chance of obtaining a fresh mortgage at the age of sixty-five-or ....
Frost pulled the phone away and let the manager babble on. "I'm sorry I asked," he told Clive, "I'm getting a bloody lecture." Then the phone was jammed in his ear and he jolted to attention. "What did you say, Mr. Hudson?"
"I said I don't know the exact reason why Mr. Powell took a lump sum, but you could always ask him."
"Ask him? You mean he's still in Denton?"
"His address is in the file," said Hudson edgily. His head was aching, the inspector was shouting, arid he wanted to go home.
Frost scrabbled through the pages. "I can't see it."
Clive leaned over his shoulder and tapped a finger on a section headed Present Address.
"Oh," said Frost, "it's all right, Mr. Hudson, I've found it. It was filed in th
e wrong place." He hung up.
Clive jotted down Powell's address and they plunged into the murk of the next file, that of the then assistant manager, now running a branch in Glasgow. Glasgow police were teleprinted to have a word with him.
And on to the next. Timothy Fawcus. A good and industrious worker, recommended for early promotion. His medical report for the pension fund made no mention of a broken arm. The file closed with the cryptic comment "Left service of bank June 1951--see separate file."
They pulled out Rupert Garwood's file. A fairly recent photograph pinned to the inner cover showed both of his eyes. At the time of the robbery in 1951 he was earning three pounds two shillings per week, five and a half days including Saturday mornings. Following the fracturing of his skull he was off work for three months, but in return for a doctor's certificate of incapacitation a money order for the full three pounds two shillings was sent to his home every Friday. A confidential memo from Head of Staff Administration asked Manager Powell if it were possible that the lad was in any way implicated in the disappearance of Fawcus and the money, but Powell disabused head office of this unthinkable possibility. Later that year Gar-wood was regraded and his salary increased to three pounds, fifteen shillings a week, payable monthly.
Another four files, all flat, stale, and unprofitable. Frost was getting bored.
"My head's aching looking at all this rubbish, son," he complained, staring out at the white bleakness of the car park. "It's getting dark already. They'll be calling off the searches soon. Hello--this file's a different color."
The color was different because in the rigid social struc ture of the bank in the early fifties, the files of caretakers and manual workers had to be clearly distinguished from those of the elite salaried staff and this was the dossier of Albert Barrow, fifty-three, Caretaker, who had left the bank's service at the end of 1951. His going was abrupt and without notice. He just walked out one night and never returned. The bank eventually sent him his cards and tax forms, and the envelope was returned marked" Gone away--present address unknown.
Frost stifled a yawn and fluffed his hair in exasperation. "This is getting too bloody complicated, son. What would help us no end is for someone to walk in and confess."
There was one file left and it looked as dull and potentially unfruitful as the others. He decided to shove it to one side while they nipped up to the canteen for a cup of hot stewed tea and was actually pushing himself up from the chair when intuition whispered in his ear. The shout of tea was louder than the whisper of intuition, but he turned the cover of the file and gave a brief, reluctant glance inside, then--
"Christ!"
He made Clive jump. "What is it, sir?"
"I knew that old cow was involved, son. You can't beat the old Frost intuition."
Clive spun the file around. The photograph on the inner cover looked vaguely familiar. An ugly girl with tight thin lips, a hooked nose. He couldn't believe it, but the name underneath was conclusive. Working for the bank in 1951 was the wild witch of the woods, Martha Wendle, the clairvoyant, the skeleton locater, the cat woman. From May to July 1951 she had operated the bank's switchboard, but on the 10th of July she was dismissed, the reasons for her dismissal stated as "Listening in to private phone calls, rudeness to bank customers, unexplained absence from switchboard, insubordination, lack of co-operation, etc., etc."
"She got them going during the three months she was with them," said Frost with grudging admiration. He wound the old maroon scarf over the tightly knotted tie. "Come on, son, get the motor out. We've got some cats to visit."
The Morris 1100 purred along a road between rolling, snow-mantled fields. Frost suddenly grabbed at Clive's arm.
"Hold it, son!"
Clive stopped the car and followed the inspector's gaze to a distant clump of slow-moving figures flashing torches.
"Our chaps, I think," said Frost, raising binoculars to his eyes and fiddling with the focus. Blurs sharpened into men with uniforms, moving forward quickly, pointing and mouthing noiselessly. There was no way to join them except by wading through the snow-blanketed fields. Frost radioed Control who sounded quite excited.
"A lead sir. The helicopter spotted something moving in the snow and we sent a team out to investigate."
Frost's heart beat faster. If it was Tracey, and she was moving .... And he'd written her off as dead! The binoculars again. The men had stopped and were gathered around something; they were bending, lifting ....
"I think they've found her, son." Somehow he managed to keep his voice steady. He handed the binoculars to Clive and radioed back to Control for a further report. Control were slow in answering. Static crackled and his hand trembled with excitement.
Clive was giving a low-voiced running commentary. "Yes, sir, there is something. They're picking her up. I can't quite see . ..."
A clattering over the radio as someone in Control picked up a microphone. "Control here. Sorry, Inspector, a false lead. It's a sheep."
"It's a sheep," reported Clive. "Must have got trapped in a snowdrift."
Disappointment crushed Frost back into his seat and he signaled wearily for Clive to drive on. "Why do I get so excited?" he said moodily. "The kid's dead and I know it.
There's some things you feel. You know, like when the hospital phoned to say my wife had died. I didn't have to pick up the phone. At the very first ring, I knew."
Clive eased the car into the now-familiar parking spot at the edge of the woods and they pushed out for the long slithering slog to the cottage.
"You on duty Christmas?" bellowed Frost.
"I haven't checked the roster yet, sir."
"They could be leaning over backward to show no favoritism to the Chief Constable's nephew, so if you are on, let me know, I might be able to wangle something."
No more talk until the misshapen bulk of the cottage loomed up. No lights were showing and their knocks went unanswered. Clive squinted through the letterbox. Green emeralds sparkled in blackness. He shouted. They blurred and vanished.
The lean-to that should have housed Martha Wendle's old car was empty, and tire tracks led toward the private road.
"The old cow's done a bunk!" moaned Frost. "Why didn't I run her in when we found that lousy skeleton?" Clive didn't answer him. He was looking over the inspector's shoulder into the back garden where something poked crookedly out of the snow. It was a cross fashioned from two pieces of wood nailed together. In front of the cross stood a vase containing a bunch of expensive hothouse chrysanthemums.
Frost galloped over and scraped snow away with his shoe. It was deep snow, but the ground beneath showed signs of recent disturbance, and the shape was unmistakable. Frost's voice was quiet. "It's a bloody grave, son. I think we've found Tracey."
He sent Clive racing back to the parked car to radio for Forensic, for some diggers and for Martha Wendle to be picked up. Frost stayed behind, keeping vigil, chainsmoking and stamping to bring sluggish circulation back to his feet. A lurking wind suddenly spotted him and pounced, tearing and biting through his clothes, clawing at his scar. He was reluctant to leave the grave, but at last sought shelter in a small garden shed. It contained a shovel and a fork. He decided he couldn't wait for the digging party and braved the wind. It wasn't a job that could be rushed and his fork probed delicately for fear of plunging into the child's body. He was still scratching the surface when bobbing lights through the trees heralded the approach of the forensic team. He felt a twinge of doubt. If it was a grave, it seemed empty. He dropped to his knees and scraped away with gloved hands and the men from Forensic gathered around, spotlighting the site with their torches. And then he found the body ... small, stiff and white. But it wasn't Tracey. It was a white kitten, its head flattened in grotesque distortion by the weight of the covering earth. And that was all the grave contained.
No one laughed, no one said anything, but the silence was crushing and oppressive. Frost wished the ground would open up and swallow him as well as the kitten. H
e straightened up slowly and rubbed his palms down his coat. "You can go home if you like, lads. I've made what you might term a bit of a balls-up."
They trudged off without a word leaving Frost and Clive to shovel the earth back and stamp it down hard. It was a big grave for such a tiny creature so the mistake was reasonable, and Clive was wishing he could think of something to say when, cutting gratingly over the wind, a woman screamed and screamed and screamed.
It came from the cottage. Martha Wendle was screaming at them. They hadn't heard her return, but she had seen men lurking in her garden so she shrieked in terror and slammed all the bolts on the doors.
They pleaded with her through the letterbox and pushed their warrant cards under the door as proof of their honest intentions before she finally let them in, still trembling. Even her cats were cowering fearfully in dark places.
"I'm sorry, Inspector," she said when she had calmed down, "but I had no idea it was you invading the privacy of my garden."
"I'd have knocked first," said Frost, his nose twitching against the unforgettable smells, "but I thought the spirits would be keeping you in the picture."
"It's easy to scoff," she snapped, brushing past him to fetch a large brown saucepan from the kitchen. She removed the lid and dumped a mess of strong-smelling fish heads on to a plate on the floor which was immediately awash with cats spitting, biting, tearing, and scrunching. Clive slipped into the room at that point. He caught Frost's eyes and shook his head: he had found nothing. Frost had asked him to search the cottage. The size of the kitten's grave worried him.
Frost pulled his scarf up so it covered his nose and hoped it would filter off some of the aromas. "That skeleton you kindly put us on to, Miss Wendle. You were working at Bennington's when he was killed, weren't you?"
She suddenly stared at him intently. "You miss your wife a lot, don't you, Inspector?"
Clive had never seen Frost so angry before. The inspector was trembling with rage. "Keep that bloody claptrap to yourself, you wicked cow." Then he swallowed hard and regained control. "Sorry--it's a painful subject. July 1951. Tell me about the robbery."