“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. “Those 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 t
he 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—Garwood, 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.”
“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 Mullett’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 ho
lding 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.
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