R. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

"Garwood would be holding the keys to the vaults at the bank, sir. That's what the intruder was after. Garwood must have made a false move, so the man shot him."

Frost pressed his cheek and popped out a smoke-ring. "A bank job, eh? So what does the intruder do after he's shot Garwood?"

"He looks for the keys himself, sir-that's why the lounge was turned over."

"The rest of the house hasn't been touched," mused Frost, dribbling smoke, "so he must have found the keys-unless he was disturbed. And if he found them, why didn't he rob the bank?"

"The beat bobby was watching the door, sir-remember?"

"It seems to fit," said Frost grudgingly. "It doesn't have the right feel, but I can't think of anything better… Arseholes!"

The expletive because someone was ringing the doorbell.

"See who it is, son. If it's the baker, no bread today; if it's the cat's-meat man, tell him he's lost a customer."

It was Mullett, immaculate in his tailored topcoat. "Trouble seems to be following you around, Inspector," he said, studying the chalked oat line on the floor.

"You're only doing your job, Super," said Frost, genuinely misunderstanding him, and then all his forebodings came to the boil when Mullett asked Clive if he would mind leaving him alone with the inspector for a moment.

He's found out I smashed his bloody car, thought Frost, his mind racing through, and rejecting, other possible alternatives.

A heart-thudding pause while the superintendent seemed to be rehearsing what he was going to say, then he produced a packet of untipped Senior Service from his pocket. "Cigarette… er… Jack?"

Frost felt the ominous tell-tale prickling at the back of his neck. The cigarette was offered in the way a prison governor would behave when he had to break the news to the condemned man- "The-news-on-your-reprieve-is-not-all-that-good-I'm-afraid" sort of thing.

Frost took the cigarette and waited for the blade of the guillotine to come crashing down.

"This murder case… er… Jack. I think we should call in the Yard."

"Sod that," snapped Frost, choking with indignation. "We do the work and the Yard gets the credit-no thanks!" He puffed savagely and stared at the far wall.

"Right," said Mullett, giving in surprisingly quickly, "I shall tell the Chief Constable you are violently opposed to that course. But, can you cope-I mean, with the missing girl as well?"

"Providing I can call on extra men, if necessary."

"You have but to ask, Joe… er, Jack. Good, that's settled. It'll only be for a couple of days."

Frost's head jerked up. "A couple of days?" he said warily.

"Er… yes. Inspector Allen should be fit by then and he'll take the cases over from you."

You crafty sod! thought Frost, so that's what the "Jack" stuff and the free fag was about! Mullett didn't want the Yard in either, he wanted Denton Division to get all the glory, but had managed to slant it; should things go wrong, then Frost would get the blame for insisting the Yard be kept out. But if it all went right, Allen and Mullett would cop all the praise. At least he had the decency not to meet Frost's gaze.

Frost took Mullett's gift cigarette from his mouth, coughed, and regarded it suspiciously. "Are these cheaper than Weights, sir?" he asked innocently, but Mullett was already on his way back to his paneled snuggery.

Clive returned to the kitchen after showing the superintendent out. The man had what Frost lacked, dignity and authority.

"What now, sir?"

"Ask Control to send some men down to question the neighbors in case they heard something last night. There's a slim chance nothing good was on the telly." Then he stopped dead in his tracks and clouted his forehead with his palm. "Excreta!"

"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.