Frost At Christmas

by R D Wingfield

  “Well, now you’re here you might as well take off your coat.”

  He shrugged off his coat, stuck his scarf in the pocket, and went to the little cloakroom just off the hall. When he returned she was sitting on the studio couch, her head on one side, watching him. “I’ve poured you a drink.” He flopped down beside her and took the well-filled glass from the sidetable.

  “Here’s to us, Jack.” Her drink was sunk in a single gulp, but he sipped his slowly, letting his eyes run over her. She still looked good, even if the figure was now just a shade on the plump side, and she was at least forty, even by the kindest calculations.

  “So what happened last Wednesday?” she asked.

  “Wednesday?” He furrowed his brow, then groaned. “Hell, was I supposed to take you out?”

  “Yes, you flaming were. To dinner. To make up for Monday, when you also forgot.”

  “Oh, Shirl, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “ ‘Sorry!’ You’re always bloody-well sorry. I waited for hours . . . hours. And now you calmly turn up at 2:30 in the morning and expect to jump in bed with me.”

  “It’s not quite 2:30,” said Frost.

  She lay back on the studio couch and watched him drop the last of his clothes on top of her discarded dressing gown, then she moved so he could join her. His hands were reaching for her when a man’s voice suddenly said, “Inspector Frost. Control to Inspector Frost.”

  “What the hell’s that?” she asked, huskily.

  Frost put a finger to his lips, then stretched out an arm for his personal radio. She ran the tips of her fingers gently down his back. With as much composure as he could muster he said, “Frost here. What is it, Control?”

  “Message from Detective Sergeant Hanlon, Mr. Frost. Goodtimes, the jewelers in the High Street, has had a break-in. About twenty-five thousand quid’s worth of stuff taken.”

  Her fingertips were now tracing an intricate pattern at the base of his spine. He tried to keep his voice steady. “Have we nabbed anyone?”

  “No, Inspector. We were on the scene within seconds, but they got clean away. Shall we set roadblocks up?”

  “Forget roadblocks. They’ll be a waste of time. Tell Mr. Hanlon I want him to put a man front and back of Sammy Jacobs’ betting shop. Keep them out of sight, but they are to detain anyone who tries to leave. Right?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll meet him outside Sammy’s in about . . .” Shirley pressed herself close to him and breathed heavily “. . . in about half an hour, perhaps a bit longer. Over and out.”

  He clicked off the transmitter and let it drop on the expensive carpet. The fire was warm, the couch was soft, and Shirley was marvelous. In the distance, the personal radio chattered inanely on about crashed cars, drunken brawls, suspicious noises . . .

  It was 3:25 in the morning, the car was purring sweetly, and Frost was humming to himself as he puffed away at the cigar Shirley had given him as an extra birthday present. He hadn’t realized before what a beautiful night it was with the snow sparkling like white silver. He parked well short of the betting shop and walked stealthily the rest of the way, noticing that although the wind blew as hard as ever, his overcoat seemed to have grown in thickness. A shape loomed from a shop doorway.

  “Jack!”

  Tubby Arthur Hanlon in tweed coat and pork-pie hat, his nose as red as his cheeks, motioned toward the betting shop.

  “No one’s been in or out, Jack.”

  “Good,” grunted Frost. “Fill me in on the details.”

  Hanlon told him the story. The owner of the jewelers lived on the premises and at 2:45 had been woken up by insistent knocking. He looked from his upstairs window and saw the beat constable who informed him that the shop’s burglar alarm was ringing at the station and could he come in and look around. The jeweler slipped on his dressing gown, scurried downstairs, switched off the alarm and opened the shop door. Whereupon the “beat constable” coshed him and ransacked the shop.

  “Right,” said Frost, “then let’s see if Sammy is still open for business.”

  They crossed the road to the betting shop, Sammy Jacobs, Turf Accountant, and Frost leaned on the door buzzer.

  “Why here?” whispered Hanlon. “Did you have a tip-off?”

  “Intuition,” mumbled Frost, and gave the door a kick to reinforce the summons of the buzzer.

  Then something happened. Movement from inside the shop, a door banged, then a scuffling sound. Someone was trying to get out the back way. But a uniformed man was waiting.

  “Oh no you don’t!”

  Frost pressed his face against the glass of the door and could make out the uniformed man pushing in from the rear, frogmarching a struggling figure. The constable shoved his prize through and unlatched the front door.

  “Caught him trying to sneak out the back, sir.”

  Hanlon’s torch splashed the man’s sullen face. “Sid Sexton!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “What are you doing here?”

  What Sid was doing at that precise moment was uttering a string of profanities. Hanlon had indeed caught a big fish. Sid Sexton was a break-in expert with five convictions for robbery with violence and a form-sheet several pages long.

  “Where’s Sammy?” asked Frost, rocking on his heels and puffing at his cigar.

  In answer to his question a door opened at the head of some stairs and a shaft of light sliced the darkness, backlighting a fat, bald man in an expensive dressing gown, armed with a poker. He peered down into the shop.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Police, Mr. Jacobs,” called Frost. “Real ones.”

  Sammy lowered the poker and thudded downstairs.

  “Mr. Frost!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What’s this about?”

  “Do you recognize this man, sir?” The flashlight shone on the break-in expert’s face, which Sammy made a great pretence of studying, finally shaking his head reluctantly.

  “Never seen him before in my life. Why?”

  “We caught him running out of your premises a couple of minutes ago. He must have broken in.”

  Sammy frowned. “Broken in? Impossible.”

  “He came running out of here, straight into the constable’s arms,” insisted Hanlon.

  Sammy dug into his dressing-gown pocket and found an enormous cigar which put Frost’s to shame. He lit it carefully. “Well, nothing seems to have been taken . . .”

  “We don’t know that for sure, sir. We’d better take a look around.”

  The bookmaker caught the crook’s eye and they both stiffened.

  “No! There’s no need for that.”

  But Frost was already half-way up the stairs. “Up here, is it, Mr. Jacobs—your living quarters?”

  “Yes, you can look if you like.” The note of relief was so strong that Frost came straight down again. He nodded to the room behind the counter. “What do you keep in your office, Sammy? He could have nicked something from there.”

  The fat shoulders shook with laughter. “A few pencils and some betting slips. If he took them, he’s welcome.”

  “You’re too charitable, Sammy, but we’ll look, just in case. We owe it to you as a rate-payer and an upright citizen.”

  The safe, painted gray, was cemented into the wall. Sammy tested the handle. “It hasn’t been touched. Without the key it’s impossible. Look—it’s late. Let him go. I won’t prefer charges.”

  “Won’t hurt just to look inside,” murmured Frost.

  This was inconvenient. The key was upstairs, somewhere. And it was so late. If they’d care to come back in the morning . . .

  “Nip up and get it, Sammy, there’s a good chap.”

  The bookmaker took the cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing end. “I don’t have to.”

  “No,” agreed Frost, cheerfully, “you don’t have to. It’s a citizen’s privilege to sod up the police, but it means we’d have to go to all the bother and expense of getting a search warrant, whic
h all comes out of the rates, and they’re high enough already.”

  Sammy shrugged expansively. “So. I pay my rates. You get your search warrant.”

  “Please yourself, Sammy, but it means a couple of my men would have to stay here, by the safe, until we got it. And you’d be all on edge, up and down to the toilet. We’re definitely going to see what’s inside, so why prolong the agony?”

  The cigar was hurled to the ground and trampled to death. “You lousy bastard, Jack. You know, don’t you?”

  Frost beamed affably. “I’m afraid I do, Sammy. One of my rare infallible days. I think the key’s in your right-hand pocket.”

  It was. With shoulders slumped in defeat, Sammy moved to the safe, but Frost stopped him. “Hold it a minute, Sammy.” He asked Hanlon and the constable to wait outside with the prisoner. “I want a quick word in private with Mr. Jacobs.”

  Hanlon gave the inspector a searching look as he closed the office door.

  “So what is it,” asked the bookmaker, the key poised in front of the lock.

  Frost stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s a bloody serious offense, bribing and corrupting young police officers, Sammy. You’d cop at least double the sentence you’d expect just for robbery. But as it’s my birthday, and it’s near Christmas, I’ll be generous. You keep your fat mouth shut about a certain member of the Denton police force, and I’ll keep mine shut about bribery and corruption charges. How does that sound?”

  “You lot look after your bloody own,” snarled Sammy. Then, with a shrug, “But what have I got to lose. It’s a deal, Jack.”

  “Let’s have his I.O.U., then.”

  The safedoor swung open and Sammy thrust his arm past the neat heaps of expensive jewelry and watches lying on top of a folded police uniform, and pulled out an envelope which he handed to Frost. The inspector checked the contents, took out his lighter, and burned it to ashes. Then he called the others in.

  As he climbed back into his car the church clock chimed four times. He backed out of the side street and headed for home. He’d told Detective Sergeant Hanlon to take over the entire case. “I wasn’t there, Arthur. I’ve already had two arrests of my own tonight, which is more than my fair share of glory and form-filling. Grab this one with both hands. You’ve got kids and a fat stomach to support. Just say you were acting on information received. Sammy will keep me out of it, as it’s my birthday.”

  He jerked his head and blinked. God, he was falling asleep at the wheel. He’d never done that before. Where was he? He stared unbelievingly through the windscreen at his house. He’d been driving in a trance, turning corners, crossing traffic lights without knowing it. If anyone had been in his path . . . He shuddered and thought of that miserable eighteen-year-old kid in the lobby. He wound down the window to let the cold air jerk him back to life. That poor kid. He just didn’t have the luck.

  Switching off the engine, he staggered to his front door. He didn’t remember getting undressed, but was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. He could have dreamed of death and decay, but he dreamed of Shirley.

  When he went out the next morning he found he’d left the car unlocked, with the window down, and the keys swinging in the ignition. Anyone could have pinched it, but his luck had held out just a little while longer.

  WEDNESDAY

  WEDNESDAY (1)

  Wednesday morning at 8:05, Station Sergeant Bill Wells leaned across the inquiry desk and studied the morning paper, a look of intense pity on his face.

  “What’s up?” asked Frost, pausing on the way to his office with Clive.

  Sadly shaking his head, Wells jabbed a thumb at the front page. “I’ve seen some terrible things in my time, Jack, but this is awful. The poor devil—you’d think they could do something with plastic surgery.”

  Frost snatched the paper and looked at a photograph of himself taken at the time he’d received his medal at the palace.

  “God, what a handsome brute,” he exclaimed. “Who is it—Errol Flynn?”

  The banner headline bellowed SKELETON OF SHOT BANK ROBBER FOUND IN 32-YEAR-OLD GRAVE. Tucked away at the bottom was a tiny, blurred photo of Tracey, captioned “Hopes fading for missing girl”. Frost shuddered. The snow had stopped and the search parties would be out in force and he wondered if it would be today that he’d have the rotten job of taking the mother to the mortuary.

  “Hear about the arrests Arthur Hanlon made last night?” asked Wells.

  “Yes,” snapped Frost, already on his way to the office, “he’s a good chap. He doesn’t waste his time reading bloody papers.”

  They made an early start and were well stuck into the Bennington’s Bank robbery file when Frost let out a sharp groan and reminded Clive they should have been at the briefing meeting ten minutes ago. Mullett stared pointedly as they clattered their shamefaced way to their seats, mumbling apologies.

  “I suppose I’ll have to start again for the benefit of the latecomers. I was suggesting we should extend the area of the search.”

  “It’s no use extending it until we get some more men,” said Frost. “We haven’t even got enough to cover the more likely places as thoroughly as we should.”

  “Agreed,” purred Mullett, “but if you had been here when the meeting started, Inspector, you would have known that I intend to ask the Chief Constable for more help.”

  Game, set, and match to Hornrim Harry, thought Frost, and didn’t say another word until the divisional commander left when he blew a soft raspberry at the closed door. That courtesy out of the way, he heaved himself to his feet and sidled over to Detective Sergeant Martin. “You don’t need me, do you, George? I’ll be over at the bank solving the case of the three-eyed skull. If anything exciting happens, give us a buzz on the radio.” He stopped at the door. “Oh—one other thing. Mrs. Uphill will be waking up in a strange bed without the mirror in the ceiling this morning. Better get one of the policewomen to take her home. What’s the name of that one with the mole on her stomach?”

  “Hazel!” said George Martin and Clive in unison.

  Hudson, the manager of Bennington’s Bank, was plump, dark-haired, and blue-chinned. He shook hands with a warm pudgy palm, ushered them to moquette-covered chairs, and announced his secretary would rustle up some coffee.

  “It’s about the skeleton, isn’t it? I read about it in the papers this morning.”

  “Yes, sir. Looks as if it might be a long-lost cashier of yours. Reckon you can let us have details of everyone who worked here in 1951?”

  Hudson scotched a note on his memo pad with a chunky, gold-banded pen. “Our staff department at head office holds all personal files. I’ll have to get the details from there.” He smiled and offered a suggestion. “This was before my time, of course, but why don’t you have a word with our assistant manager, Rupert Garwood? He was here then—in fact he drove the car and got coshed for his troubles, I understand.”

  “Good idea, sir,” said Frost. “May we see him?”

  A light gray phone was lifted with a flourish. “Brenda? Mr. Hudson here. Ask Mr. Garwood to come to my office, please. What?” His eyes traveled up to the wall clock. “Unusual for him, isn’t it? And he hasn’t phoned? Oh dear, I hope he’s not sick. Ask Mr. Fox to take over his post.” The brow was deeply furrowed as he replaced the phone and turned apologetically to Frost.

  “Bit of a snag, I’m afraid. Mr. Garwood doesn’t seem to be in today. Brenda’s phoned his home, but there’s no reply. Most odd—and so unlike him.” He made another note on his pad.

  The two detectives exchanged glances. “Let us have his address,” said Frost, “and we’ll call at his house on our way back. If we miss him, and he turns up here, you might ask him to give me a ring at the station. I’ve got a card somewhere.”

  Eventually a grubby dog-eared card was located from the depths of a crumb-lined pocket and passed across. Hudson took it doubtfully and was about to tuck it in the corner of his clean blotter when he decided it woul
d look less offensive under his paperclip tray, in which, he noticed with annoyance, the inspector had stubbed out his cigarette.

  No. 38 Priestly Court, where Garwood lived, was a pebble-dashed residence of 1938 vintage. They followed the milkman’s footprints up the snow-covered path to the porch where the morning’s pint of milk shivered on the step. All the curtains were drawn. Frost pressed the bell. They could hear it ringing inside. The ringing died. Silence. Frost rang again, then rattled the letter box causing the morning paper to drop down on the doormat.

  “Sounds ominously empty, son,” said Frost. “The woman next door’s peeking at us through her curtains. She looks a right nosey cow. Let’s see if she can tell us anything.”

  She was a homely body in curlers and a quilted mauve dressing gown, and she talked non-stop. If they wanted Mr. Garwood, he’d be at the bank. No, he wasn’t married—lived on his own with Roy . . . Of course not! He wasn’t that sort of a man. Roy was his golden retriever. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it barking its head off when you rang the bell. It usually does.

  Nodding his thanks, Frost backed away, leaving her still talking, then he sped back to the car with Clive. “I don’t like it son. Radio through to Control and get them to contact the bank. If Garwood still hasn’t arrived, they’d better do a quick audit. He might have run off with the tea money.” He watched Clive fumble among the litter on the ledge under the dashboard. “What’s up, son?”

  “I can’t find your personal radio,” Clive explained.

  Christ! thought Frost. He remembered where he’d left it. On Shirley’s studio couch the previous night.

  “On second thoughts, son, scrub it. Let’s go round to the back of the house. There might be a door open.”

  On the way they took a look at Garwood’s garage. The doors were padlocked, but they forced them open enough to poke a torch inside and it lit up the radiator of a gray Hillman Avenger. Wherever Garwood had gone, he hadn’t taken his car.