R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

"I had to visit my aunt. She's an old lady of seventy-eight, or so. Lives in the senior citizens' bungalows on the Southern Housing Estate. I was due there for tea."

The inspector sniffed. "Your Sundays are one Long round of pleasure, sir. First Mrs. Uphill, then tea with your aunt. I'd like her address if you don't mind."

Farnham was startled. "You won't go round worrying her. She's an old lady, and her heart's not too good."

"I specialize in old ladies with weak hearts, sir-have no fear."

Frost wrote the address down on a scrap of paper he found in his pocket, then he tried to dig a hole in his cheek with a finger. Something was worrying him.

"Do you own a car, Mr. Farnham?"

"No."

"A red car?"

"No."

"Some time ago we had reports of a bearded man in a red car trying to pick up young kids outside that Sunday school.", His eyes bored into Farnham. "Have you ever owned a car?"

"Yes, once. I couldn't afford to keep it."

"Yes. Red cars are expensive to run. It was red wasn't it, sir?"

"No!" shouted Farnham.

"Then you've got nothing to worry about," said Frost unconvincingly. He stood up and stretched his arms. "I'd better go and see what that detective constable of mine is doing."

Barnard was in the bathroom, shirt-sleeves rolled up, his jacket hanging from the door. The bath panel had come off all right but was refusing to go back on again. With a couple of bangs in the right place from Frost, it was eventually coaxed into place.

"Not a very good fit, I'm afraid," said Farnham.

"Don't say that, sir," cried Frost. "It cost him one hundred and seven quid."

They went at last. Farnham watched through the curtains until their car turned the corner. He slumped back in his chair and pleaded with God not to let them check with his aunt. He'd never touch another woman again, he'd never send for another catalog, but please, don't let them check with his aunt.

Detective Inspector Allen rubbed his eyes and concentrated again on the sheet of paper where the list of names blurred, then slowly edged back into focus. He read that all the mothers who had been waiting for their children outside the Sunday school yesterday had been contacted and questioned, but not one of them remembered seeing this mysterious woman in the white fur coat. He dropped the paper into his "Out" tray and snorted with smug satisfaction. His earlier skepticism was justified. The woman didn't exist. She was conveniently invented by Farnham in an attempt to divert suspicion from himself and, naturally, that gullible fool Frost had swallowed it without question.

But where was Frost? He should be here by now. A pain jolted through Allen's body and his head throbbed and banged. He felt terrible. There were some aspirins in his overcoat pocket. He rose to fetch them but two paces across the room and he cried out as the fire in his stomach flared and sent flames of agony rippling through his body. The pain was more than he could stand and the room was spinning and a roaring noise got louder and louder.

Detective Sergeant Martin heard the crash and dashed into the office. Allen was out cold, sprawled across the polished lino.

Martin phoned Mullett from the hospital. They were keeping the inspector in for observation. There was some concern, but it was probably a virus of some kind. Blood samples and other tests were in hand but there would be no firm news until a specialist saw him some time tomorrow.

Mullett put down the phone and thoughtfully drummed a rallying tattoo on the satin mahogany. Why couldn't Allen have picked a more convenient time? Someone else would have to be put in charge of the search, but who? The division was sadly under strength as it was. Detective Sergeant Martin, Allen's assistant, would be able to cope, but, of course, he was only a sergeant. If Frost were capable there would be no problem, but he wasn't, so the idea was unthinkable.

Mullett scratched his chin, then his eyes brightened. County Headquarters! They were crawling with superfluous staff. It really was a disgrace with so many divisions starved of men. If he could get them to send him a senior officer… and once they did, he'd hang on to the man, even after Allen returned to duty.

But this called for strategy. He would have to go to the top-a direct call to the Chief Constable, no less. Mullett straightened his uniform and smoothed back his hair. When he felt he was presentable, he dialed the Old Man's home number.

"Sorry to bother you at this outrageous hour, sir. If anyone's entitled to some peace and relaxation, it's you. Me, sir? Oh-I'm still in the office. No rest for us Divisional Commanders, I'm afraid." He gave a modest, good-natured laugh and explained about Allen. "… Which means, of course, sir, I'll have to put someone else in charge of the Tracey Uphill investigation." He let his voice trail off, leaving a gap for the Chief Constable to fill with a suggestion to which Mullett could give his whole-hearted agreement.

"Well," said the chief, after a pause, "we've got no one to spare at County-but you knew that, of course."

"Of course," echoed Mullett sincerely.

"But I don't see your problem. You've got Frost. I'm surprised you didn't put him in charge in the first place. He's a good man."

"They come no better," croaked Mullett. "I'm glad we're of one mind, sir. I shall put Frost in charge right away." He put the phone down, then went over the conversation several times in his mind, trying to work out where he had gone wrong, then, bracing himself, he dialed the number of Frost's office.

"Where's Jack Frost?"

Clive looked up wearily from the jumble of papers from which he was supposed to ferret out details for the crime statistics return.

The speaker was a uniformed sergeant, a hearty-looking man of forty with a weather-beaten face and a straggly handlebar mustache.

"He is with the Divisional Commander, Sergeant. I'm his assistant, Detective Con-"

He was cut short. "I know who you are, lad-flashy suit, wonky nose-the Chief Constable's nephew, right?"

Clive bristled. "I also happen to have a name-it's Barnard."

"And I'm Johnson-Johnnie Johnson, Station Sergeant." There was, of course, a station sergeant for each eight-hour shift.

Johnson propped himself up against a filing cabinet. "How do you like working for our Jack?"

Still smarting, Clive snapped, "I'm not used to working for idiots." He instantly regretted the tactless but honest answer and stiffened for the expected rebuke. To his surprise the sergeant smiled tolerantly.

"Count your blessings, Barnard. He may be a fool but they don't come any better. Half the people here are jockeying for promotion, scrambling to get to the top, not caring who they tread on in the process. But not Jack Frost. He's a man who knows his limitations, who doesn't pretend to be what he isn't. You'll never find him trying to snatch the credit due to someone else-and if you worked for Inspector Allen, you'd know what I mean."

Clive ventured another criticism "He's callous and crude. We're dealing with a woman whose kid is missing, probably dead, and all he can talk about is how he'd like to get into bed with her.''

The sergeant rolled himself a cigarette. "Jack's trouble is, what he thinks, he says. You probably think the same as him but don't say it."

This was true, but Clive hunched his shoulders sullenly. "He's a bloody mess, like his office," and he indicated the litter. "By the way, what was that medal I saw in his desk? I didn't recognize it. It must be a long-service award-obviously it can't be for good conduct."

The sergeant's tongue traveled along the gummed edge of his cigarette paper and he gave the young man a pitying look. "Two years in the force and you know it all, don't you, Barnard? Well, two and a half years ago it was headline news. The medal that he keeps tucked away in the blue box so no one can see it is the George Cross."