R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

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 commander'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 bloody 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."