Frost At Christmas

by R D Wingfield

  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 attaché 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 ecstasy 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 comm
ander’s back and she scuttled out with a brick-red face.

  Mullett returned to the attack. “I also happened to notice, Inspector, that the file for the electronics theft case was still on your desk. As far as I can see, you’ve made no progress on it.”

  You had a bloody good look round, thought Frost. Aloud he said, “I’ll get around to it when I find time, Super.”

  “Make time, Inspector, it’s urgent. Now what happened at Dead Man’s Hollow? I promised to ring the Chief Constable.” His face darkened with annoyance as he was told about the skeleton. “We could have done without this,” he snapped, as if it was all Frost’s fault.

  “If you like I could stick it back again and we can dig it up when things get slack,” said Frost, adding, “do you want me any more?” He pre-empted Mullett’s reply by pushing up out of his chair.

  “Anything further from the kidnapper?”

  “I haven’t looked in on Search Control yet. I came straight here when I got your message—at the time I thought it was urgent.”

  And he was gone before Mullett could think of a suitable rebuke.

  All was peace, calm, and orderliness in Search Control. The odd telephone rang apologetically and a few routine messages purred from the loudspeaker. Frost wandered over to George Martin who was rearranging schedules for the following day in case the weather worsened.

  “All quiet, Jack. We had a couple of teams searching the uncompleted section of the new Burghley Estate, but they found nothing.”

  “Then they had more luck than I had,” said Frost. “What about the phone tap?”

  “Dead quiet.”

  “Are we still watching that phone box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heard about my bloody skeleton?”

  Martin laughed. He had heard. Then he turned his head away as if he was embarrassed about something. “Have you had a word with Johnnie Johnson?”

  “No, why?”

  “He—er—wanted to see you.”

  And Frost knew there was more trouble.

  He was queuing for tea in the canteen when he spotted the handlebar mustache at a table in the far corner. He took his cup and ambled over.

  “Hello, Johnnie.”

  “Hello, Jack—sit down.” Yes, definitely trouble. The sergeant wasn’t meeting his eye. Johnnie stirred his tea deliberately, then, “What was that business this afternoon with young Stringer?”

  “Oh . . . a private chat, Johnnie, nothing that would interest you. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

  “No, Jack.” He pushed his tea to one side. “Did the C.I.D. overtime return go off to County last night?”

  Frost froze, the cup an inch from his lips. “Oh God!”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Jack, it’s the second month running. I phoned County this evening to check. It hadn’t arrived. They had to make special arrangements to get your men’s overtime paid last month—had to get someone in specially to feed the figures to the computer at three o’clock in the morning. They said they’d never do it again.”

  Frost rubbed a weary hand over his face. His scar was hurting. “You know how good I am with paperwork, Johnnie. It was different before. I used to pass all overtime claims through without checking—I trust everyone—but that silly sod Davidson at H.Q. found out and I got a rollocking. Now I’m supposed to check each and every one, but it takes time.”

  Johnson took out his tobacco pouch. “But you’ve had time, Jack.”

  “All right—but it’s not a job I like doing,” and his head whirled as he thought of all the other jobs he had left undone for the same reason. “I suppose they wouldn’t like two lots next month?”

  Johnnie Johnson lit his homemade cigarette. “They wouldn’t, Jack, and you can’t blame them. The men have already missed two months this year because you forgot to send off the forms and its not fair they should have to suffer. They work all hours and they don’t do it for charity. Besides,” and he looked away, “there’s been an official complaint.”

  Frost flinched as if he had been struck. “Who to?”

  “To me, Jack. I’m the Police Federation man.”

  “Am I such a shit they couldn’t come to me?”

  Johnnie shook his head. “The opposite, Jack. They like you too much and you would have joked your way out of it and they wouldn’t have got their money.” His cigarette wasn’t drawing well and he had to suck hard to keep it lit. “As it’s been made official, I’m taking it up with the Divisional Commander tomorrow morning,” and he studied the scanty Christmas decorations hanging from the rafters.

  Frost spoke quietly with the barest hint of pleading. “You’d be the answer to his prayers, Johnnie. He’s just waiting for a legitimate excuse to bounce me.”

  The sergeant stood up. “I had to tell you first, Jack. I couldn’t do it behind your back.” He hesitated, then gripped Frost’s shoulder tightly. “Sorry, Jack . . .” and was gone.

  Frost buttoned his coat. It was cold in the canteen. He sighed. All he seemed to do these days was stagger from one crisis to the next. Overhead, the P.A. system cleared its throat and asked Inspector Frost to go to the nearest telephone.

  Clive Barnard, sharing a table with Hazel, heard the message and saw the inspector leave. He pressed the key of his digs in her hand and rose to follow the inspector. “I’ll probably be late, but wait for me. Promise?”

  He found Frost on the phone outside the canteen and waited until he had finished. Frost grunted, scribbled some hieroglyphics on the back of the telephone directory, then hung up.

  “That was Forensic, son. They’ve sifted through the crates of earth and found some coins from our skeleton’s pockets. The latest coins were dated 1951, so we can forget about his being killed in the war. They’ve also cut open the steel case chained to his wrist and it contained absolutely sod all. So what was he doing with an empty steel case double-locked to his wrist?”

  “Perhaps whatever was in the case had been delivered,” suggested Clive.

  “Possible, son, but then you’d have thought they would have unlocked the case from his wrist.” He rasped his chin thoughtfully, “1951! Festival of Britain year. We really went to town here, then—the toilets stayed open an extra half-hour and the Town Hall flagpole was illuminated weekends.” His mind clicked back to the present.

  “When’s this bloody kidnapper going to phone again? I hope he realizes he’s sodding us all up.” He clattered off down the stairs back to his office and Clive had to hurry to keep up.

  Frost chucked himself in his chair and riffled the papers on his desk. A couple more Christmas cards had arrived and there was the electronics theft folder with a note from Mullett attached: “Please treat this as urgent.” He dug deeper and found the overtime return which he quickly checked and initialed, but what was the point? It was too late. The computers at County H.Q. were kept going on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis doing work mainly for the county council, but a few hours each month the police were allowed to squeeze their business in, and the allotted time for wages was this morning. He slipped the return in an envelope and stuck it in this jacket pocket. He’d bung it in the postbox. Too late for this month, but at least it would be out of the office. He dreaded facing Mullett again in the morning, “Everything I touch goes wrong,” he announced to Clive, who was surprised at the self-pity from a man who gave the impression that nothing on earth could get him down. Clive accepted a cigarette and they lit up.

  “I’ll tell you something,” continued Frost, confidentially, “something I’ve told no one. This tin medal of mine—” he opened his drawer and took the medal out “—do you know why I tackled that gunman? I wanted to get myself killed, that’s why. I didn’t want to live. It’s not a joke son, I’m being serious for a change. They’d just told me, that day, that my wife had cancer . . . that she’d only last a few months and was going to have a bloody rotten death. That nut-case with the gun was the answer to my prayers. I thought, ‘Sod it, I don’t care if I live or die, so let’s die a b
loody hero.’ So he fired, and he missed—he was as useless as I am—and I couldn’t even get myself killed properly.” Then suddenly, in a puff of expelled smoke, the black mood was gone. “I’m a morbid bugger, aren’t I? Come on, son, let’s go to Search Control and find out the latest on the kid.”

  Turning the corner at the top of the corridor they bumped into a police dispatch rider, crash-helmeted and water-proofed, his goggles rimmed with unmelted snow.

  “Divisional Commander’s Office?” he asked. “I’ve an urgent package to pick up for Statistical Department.”

  Frost directed him, then, as an afterthought asked, “Are you going back to County Headquarters tonight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do us a turn, would you?” he fumbled in his pocket for the overtime return envelope. “Drop this in Accounts. It’s the overtime return . . . should have been in this morning.”

  The dispatch rider slid the envelope into a leather pouch. “You’ll be all right, Inspector. They’re all behind in Accounts—half of them down with flu. They won’t be doing the police wages until tomorrow night.”

  Frost almost sweated as warm relief flooded his body. “I may sod up a lot of things,” he told Clive, “but I have much more luck than anyone’s entitled to expect.”

  In Search Control, the feeling of standing down. Time to file stuff away and tidy up desks. A photograph of Tracey had been shown on the television news and people had been phoning in all day to report seeing her in London, Cornwall, Dover, on a lorry heading up the M1 motorway, in a cafe in Leeds with a Pakistani, outside a cinema in Bromley . . . everywhere but in Denton. All well-meaning but probably useless leads, each of which had to be followed up, fortunately mainly by other police divisions who had been sent details by teleprinter.

  A phone rang. An agitated Mrs. Uphill, concerned that the alleged kidnapper hadn’t been back to her. Frost calmed her down and told her it was important she keep off the phone so the man could make contact. She hung up immediately. Then it occurred to Frost that she had £2000 lying around loose and if the man didn’t have Tracey, his intention might be to break into the house and steal the money. He phoned back to tell her to bolt all doors and windows and not to let anyone in.