Frost at Christmas djf-1

by R D Wingfield

  In the meantime he could congratulate himself on running a good division with some fine men under him; morale and discipline were excellent and crime figures were dropping. If only the division didn't include Detective Inspector Frost.

  A knock at the door interrupted his meditations.

  "Detective Constable Barnard. Welcome to Denton. Sit down, sit down."

  Clive blinked in astonishment at his first sight of the Divisional Commander's paneled office. Its opulence contrasted with the rest of the building like a silken patch on a manure sack. It was easy to see how the limited maintenance budget had been spent.

  Career-man Barnard shook hands with career-man Mullett, each liking what he saw. The Divisional Commander pressed a button, a bell tinkled faintly in the adjoining office, and his efficient secretary, Miss Smith, scurried in with a tray on which rattled a coffee pot and the bone-china cups that were reserved for important visitors.

  Mullett poured for both of them and was just raising his cup appreciatively to his lips when he caught sight of Clive's suit. He blinked, slipped on his reading glasses from his pocket, and peered again.

  "Ahem. Er…" Must play it carefully, it might be his uncle's choice. "I suppose the rest of your luggage is on its way with your-er-proper suit?"

  "Yes, sir, "lied Clive.

  The superintendent beamed and sipped happily from his cup. "I've been looking through your file… most impressive. And I see you're studying law. Couldn't do better. If I can help you in any way, lend you books-Archbold's Criminal Pleading and Practice, Green's Criminal Costs, plenty of others…"

  "Thank you very much, sir." Clive's stomach wished there were some biscuits to go with the coffee. "I'm looking forward to working under Mr. Allen."

  Mullett's face changed. He replaced his cup on its saucer and spooned in some more sugar. "Ah… There's been a slight change of plan I'm afraid. Inspector Allen is in charge of our missing-girl inquiry. We've a big search on. You wouldn't know about it, of course."

  Clive knew how to name-drop. "Young Tracey Uphill, sir? I was at the mother's last night with the chaps from Able Baker four."

  "Were you indeed? And before you'd officially joined us! That's what I like to see-keenness. But, as you'll appreciate, Inspector Allen won't be able to spare you any time at the moment, so I've arranged for you to work with our other Detective Inspector-Detective Inspector Frost."

  Oh no! Not that old tramp in the filthy mac!

  "He's a very experienced man." He stared past Clive and considered the grim vista of Eagle Lane framed in his picture window. "He… he had a personal tragedy last year… his wife. Devoted couple… very sad. He took it badly." Mullett's face saddened and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cancer. Nothing they could do, absolutely nothing. Shocking business."

  Clive nodded glumly and made appropriate noises of sympathy.

  "As I said, he took it badly. Naturally. You can't expect a tragedy like that not to leave its scars. I make allowances of course.

  …" He picked up his stainless-steel paperknife and tapped the blade on his palm, racking his brains for something to say in his inspector's favor.

  "I'm sure he can teach me a lot," said Clive, without conviction.

  Mullett brightened up. "Yes. Sometimes just knowing the wrong way to do things helps. It shows the pitfalls to avoid. Not that Inspector Frost's ways are necessarily wrong, of course…" Realizing that the water was getting dangerously deep he struck out on a more promising tack. "Do you see much of your uncle?"

  Clive's answer was drowned in a roaring vibration of sound that made the building throb in sympathy. The two men ran to the window and craned their heads up to the sky.

  There it was, disappearing over the roofs of the three storied houses opposite. The promised helicopter.

  Detective Inspector Frost swung his head to follow the flight of the helicopter as it thundered over the Market Square. He was making his way over to the doorway of Bennington's Bank where the beat constable and a stout little C.I.D. sergeant were examining signs of an attempted break-in. Crouched, with their backs toward him, they did not notice his approach. Frost paused. The tightly trousered posterior of the fat C.I.D. man was an irresistible target. He thrust forward a carefully aimed, stubby finger.

  "How's that for center?"

  The reaction was hair-trigger. The C.I.D. man shot up and spun around, his face glaring and crimson. Then he saw Jack Frost and all annoyance evaporated.

  "Oh. It's you, Jack!" He turned to the smiling beat constable with mock indignation. "Did you see what this dirty devil did?"

  Frost looked at his hand. "I wish you hadn't jumped up so suddenly, Arthur. You nearly bit the end of my finger off. Now move your pregnant stomach out of the way and let me have a look."

  The heavy wooden door to the bank showed raw gouges near the lock, as if something had been forced between the door and the jamb.

  Frost straightened up and scratched his head. "Something wrong here, Arthur. You don't try to break into a bank by jemmying the front door. Even a burke like me knows that."

  "It looks as though someone's had a go, though," insisted the fat sergeant, Arthur Hanlon, a jolly little Pickwick of a man without an enemy in the world.

  "No, Arthur," replied Frost, firmly. "Crooks aren't that stupid, and if they were it wouldn't be our luck to have them: they'd all be over at Bridgely Division signing confessions like there was no tomorrow." Bridgely Division, the blue-eyed boy of County Headquarters, had the lowest crime rate and the highest detection rate in the county.

  "Kids," suggested the constable, who didn't waste words.

  Frost considered this. "What time was the damage spotted?"

  The constable studied the report left by his colleague from the previous shift. "4:00 a.m., sir."

  "And when did he last notice it was all right?"

  Another consultation. "1:56 a.m., sir."

  Frost dug his hands deep into his pockets and sniffed. "There you are, then. It happened between two and four this morning. You won't get kids mucking about with banks at that time-too busy reading Noddy under the bedclothes or having gang-bangs. Did you have gang-bangs when you were a kid, Arthur?"

  Arthur giggled and shook his head.

  "Me neither. I used to count myself lucky if I had sex more than six times a night. Any prints?"

  "Millions of them, right back to the bloke who made the door."

  "You're never satisfied. Which reminds me, how's the wife and kids-looking forward to Christmas?"

  "Yes thanks, Jack," beamed Hanlon. "But what do you reckon we should do about this lark?" He indicated the door.

  "Forget it, Arthur. I'll ask the station sergeant to get his beat boys to keep their eyes open. They'll just have to sleep off-duty. Look out… the fuzz!"

  A police car hurtled across the road from Eagle Lane and squealed to a shivering halt outside the bank. The uniformed driver ran over to them.

  "It's this fat man, Constable," said Frost, grabbing Hanlon's arm. "He was trying to break into the bank. You can see the marks."

  The driver grinned dutifully. "Lot of panic at the station, sir. I think the Divisional Commander wants to see you."

  A blur of maroon scarf dashed across the road.

  Sergeant Wells let out a sigh of relief as the panting figure staggered in, wheezing and gasping for breath.

  "I forgot all about the old sod, Bill."

  Wells licked a stub of pencil and pretended to make an entry in his notebook. "When cautioned, the prisoner replied 'I forgot all about the old sod.' "

  Another blast of cold air whooshed in as again the swing doors opened, this time to admit a ragged shriveled figure wearing an ex-army greatcoat many sizes too big and stiff with dirt. He shuffled over to the desk as if on crippled feet and brought with him a thick, disgusting smell.

  Frost's and the station sergeant's noses shuddered and wrinkled in unison.

  The object of their nasal displeasure thumped angrily on the
counter with a hand dark with ingrained dirt, complaining shrilly, "Where's my bleedin' quid? Fine thing when the effing cops rob you, isn't it?"

  The station sergeant backed away until the wall stopped him, then spoke in the careful tones of an expert telling his pupil how to defuse a live bomb.

  "Now step back, Sam. Don't sit down. Don't touch anything. Just stand there… and whatever you do, don't move! Good. Now we've only got to disinfect that one little spot." He fanned his face vigorously with his notebook.

  The old tramp glowered with red-rimmed, watery eyes set deep in a gray-stubbled, leathery face.

  "Never mind the bleedin' insults. Where's my quid?"

  Wells held up a hand and explained patiently. "Now listen, Sam. You had six pence on you when we picked you up. Six pence is not a quid. A quid is one of these pieces of paper with the Queen's head on it, and you didn't have one. You came in with six pence and you were given six pence when we turned you out. We didn't charge a penny for our hospitality, nor for the fact that you were sick all over our nice clean floor. You had that on the taxpayers." He explained to Frost, "Sleeping rough, drinking meths, and urinating on the gravestones in the churchyard."

  The old man had built up a fresh head of indignation. "I wasn't as bloody drunk as all that. I had a pound note and six pence. Your copper put it in an envelope, and when he give it back to me the quid had gone."

  Wells tried again. "The quid was never there, Sam. Besides, we count the money out and you sign for it as being correct. We hold your evil-smelling mark on a receipt in full discharge of your six pennies."

  Cracked lips curled back to show broken brown stumps. "I never signed no receipt."

  "The cross might have been forged, Sam, but the smell was unmistakable. You were too full of meths… you wouldn't have known what you were doing."

  "I know how much I had. I want my quid."

  "Where did you get the pound from, Sam?" asked Frost. "Not been selling your body, I hope."

  Sam spun round and Frost jumped back as the aroma nudged its way toward him.

  "I… I found it." It was said with defiance, but he wouldn't meet Frost's eye.

  "So, now you've lost it," murmured the sergeant. "Easy come, easy go."

  A smolder of hate. "That young copper pinched it."

  The station sergeant brought a large thick ledger from beneath the desk and banged it down on the counter.

  "Right, Sam. You've made a very serious accusation. I take it you're going to prefer charges."

  The face screwed up, the red dots of eyes burned as he swung his head from one to the other of them like a rat cornered between two terriers. "And a fat lot of bleedin' good that would do me. You'd all lie your effing heads off."

  He hobbled out into the fresh air. It took a good thirty minutes with doors and windows open to persuade the smell he'd brought in with him to do likewise.

  "You've got to know how to handle these sods," said Wells, poking the ledger back. "Who does he think is going to touch his money after he's wiped his grimy fingers over it?"

  The internal phone buzzed. Wells answered it. "Oh. Yes, sir. He's on his way." The maroon scarf streaked past his eyes and off down the corridor to Mullett's office.

  "These are the cells," said P.C. Keith Stringer, who had been detailed to show the new man around.

  Clive grunted.

  "You know," explained Stringer. "Where we keep the prisoners until we can get them to court." He pushed open an iron door. "This is the drunk cell with the drain, so we can hose the sick down…"

  Clive's impatience burst. "Look, I have been in a police station before, you know. How long have you been on the Force?"

  "Three months," replied the younger man, proudly.

  "And I've been in it for two years-in one of the toughest areas of London. I've forgotten more than you'll ever know, so just show me where things are, don't explain them tome."

  Stringer's face reddened. "Sorry. I was only trying to help." His expression cheered up as the door to the cell section opened and another uniformed man stepped in.

  "Oh, Harry… this is the new chap, Clive Barnard from London. Clive-Harry Dobson."

  The two men shook hands. Dobson was about Clive's age, a good-looking, curly haired man with an innocent expression.

  "Young Keith showing you the ropes, is he?"

  "Nothing I can show him," said Keith. "He knows it all."

  "I wish I could work in London," said Dobson. "Do me a favor, Keith. Come with me to fetch the prisoners' breakfasts. They should send them down, but you know how short-handed we are with this search."

  "Sure," replied Keith. "Are the prisoners all right to be left?"

  Dobson scratched his chin. "Well… as far as I know. The bloke in the end cell's been acting a bit queer, scream ing and sobbing. Off his chump if you ask me, but he's quiet now. Keep an eye on them until we get back, Clive. Shouldn't be long."

  Without waiting for his agreement, they were off.

  Clive watched them go. Just trotting off and leaving the prisoners-what a way to run a station! In a properly organized station, like London, the man in charge of the cell section stayed put and the food was brought to him.

  Better take a look at his charges. His feet rang on the stone flags and the familiar damp uriney carbolic smell tweaked his nose. The first two doors were ajar, the cells unoccupied, but the next was locked. Peering through the peep-hole he saw the occupant, a pimply faced youth with long, dank hair laying on the wall bed and staring blankly at the ceiling. Somehow aware he was being watched the youth jerked two fingers toward the spy-hole.

  Another unoccupied cell, then the drunk cell with its floor sloping down to a grated drain. And that seemed to be it. Then he remembered the other prisoner Dobson had mentioned, the queer fellow in the end cell.

  The end cell was locked. It was silent within-ominously silent. Clive put his eye to the spy-hole. His heart lurched and stopped. Level with his eye, a pair of legs hung downward, swaying and twisting grotesquely.

  The occupant of the cell had hanged himself.

  Clive hurled himself. at the door, but of course it was locked. The fools. The bloody fools! They'd left him in charge but had taken the keys. He yelled. His voice echoed back at him but no one came. The chap in the other cell started banging on his door, shouting to know what was going on.

  Feeling sick, Clive raced up the stone corridor and out of the cell block. He saw the station sergeant going through a door marked Charge Room. But he had no breath. He croaked incoherently, tugging at the sergeant's uniform to get him to do something, anything. When Wells realized what Barnard was trying to tell him his face drained of color. He snatched the spare bunch of keys from the charge room and tore to the end cell. As he poked the key in the lock, the door swung open.

  Clive followed the sergeant into the cell. Sitting on the wall bed, tears of laughter streaming down their faces, were P.C. s Stringer and Dobson. Hanging from the ceiling on the end of a piece of rope was the pair of men's trousers they had stuffed with straw.

  The station sergeant smiled. "It's one of the oldest tricks in the game, son. I thought you'd been in a police station before."

  MONDAY-3

  Superintendent Mullett was taking sadistic pleasure in making Frost wait. The man had eventually slouched into his office in his usual insolent manner wearing that disgrace of a mac with the frayed sleeves and that ridiculous scarf.

  "You wanted to see me, sir?" No apology, nothing.

  Without raising his eyes from his correspondence, Mullett flicked a curt wrist toward a chair and deliberately took his time signing his letters, reading them through with studied slowness, and blotting them carefully afterward.

  He heard Frost fidget in his chair. Good. The display of his superior's displeasure and the humiliation of being ignored were having the desired effect. His pen crawled at a snail's pace to intensify the torture.

  More fidgeting sounds from Frost.

  Mullett's pen crawled on. />
  The sound of a match being struck.

  A match? Mullett's nose twitched. A smoke-ring gently nudged his pen and drifted across his desk. He followed it with incredulous eyes.

  This was intolerable. Frost was smoking. Without even asking permission-which would have been icily refused- he was smoking, leaning at ease in the chair, swinging an unpolished shoe from side to side. He gave Mullett a reassuring smile.

  "When you're ready, Super…"

  Mullett winced. He hated being addressed as "Super". Everyone knew it but Frost.

  "Put out that cigarette," he snapped with such ferocity that the cigarette immediately dropped from Frost's startled lips and landed on the carpet. There was a smell of burning wool from the blue Wilton. Frost ground at the pile with his dirty shoes and managed to distribute a mess of broken cigarette and charred wool over a wide area. He moved his chair to cover up the burn and smiled inquiringly at Mullett.

  "You wanted to see me, sir?"

  As soon as Frost had gone, Mullett would go down on his hands and knees and inspect the damage. In the meantime he contented himself with a long hard stare.

  "I wanted to see you more than half an hour ago. You've kept me waiting, Inspector."

  "I had to have a look at Bennington's Bank. Someone jemmied their door."

  "I would have thought your Divisional Commander's summons took priority. And you weren't at the briefing meeting!"

  A theatrical smiting of palm to freckled forehead. "The meeting? Clean forgot all about it, sir."

  Mullen took the envelope from his drawer. "I've had a complaint about you, Inspector." He unfolded the memo. "From Superintendent Gibbons of the Police Training Center-"