R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Turning the corner at the top of the corridor they bumped into a police dispatch rider, crash-helmeted and water-proofed, his goggles rimmed with unmelted snow.

"Divisional Commander's Office?" he asked. "I've an urgent package to pick up for Statistical Department."

Frost directed him, then, as an afterthought asked, "Are you going back to County Headquarters tonight?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do us a turn, would you?" he fumbled in his pocket for the overtime return envelope. "Drop this in Accounts. It's the overtime return… should have been in this morning."

The dispatch rider slid the envelope into a leather pouch. "You'll be all right, Inspector. They're all behind in Accounts-half of them down with flu. They won't be doing the police wages until tomorrow night."

Frost almost sweated as warm relief flooded his body. "I may sod up a lot of things," he told dive, "but I have much more luck than anyone's entitled to expect."

In Search Control, the feeling of standing down. Time to file stuff away and tidy up desks. A photograph of Tracey had been shown on the television news and people had been phoning in all day to report seeing her in London, Cornwall, Dover, on a lorry heading up the Ml motorway, in a cafe in Leeds with a Pakistani, outside a cinema in Bromley… everywhere but in Denton. All well-meaning but probably useless leads, each of which had to be followed up, fortunately mainly by other police divisions who had been sent details by teleprinter.

A phone rang. An agitated Mrs. Uphill, concerned that the alleged kidnapper hadn't been back to her. Frost calmed her down and told her it was important she keep off the phone so the man could make contact. She hung up immediately. Then it occurred to Frost that she had PS2000 lying around loose and if the man didn't have Tracey, his intention might be to break into the house and steal the money. He phoned back to tell her to bolt all doors and windows and not to let anyone in.

"As robbery could be the motive, shouldn't we have someone watching the house?" asked George Martin.

"I daren't frighten him off in case it's genuine, George," Frost said. "Don't forget he's threatened to kill the kid if Mrs. Uphill contacts the police."

Forensic phoned. Could Frost get over to the lab right away? Something interesting.

"You'll remember to switch your radio on, sir, so we can get in touch with you?" asked the detective sergeant.

"Of course," said Frost, in feigned surprise, "don't I always?"

In the lobby Johnnie Johnson was taking details of a driving license and insurance-certificate from a truculent youth in a brown leather jacket. Frost nipped over and whispered a few words, telling him about the overtime return.

Johnnie put down his pen and looked at Frost in joyful disbelief. "You jammy old bastard," he said.

It was a cold, slithery ten-mile drive to the county forensic laboratory. The weather had worsened and they passed two cars abandoned in drifts.

The laboratory, a modern, single-storied building, stuck in the middle of nowhere, welcomed them with the warm antiseptic breath of its hot-air system as they trampled slush over the two-tone gray carpet tiles in the reception area and walked past an unmanned mahogany counter draped with potted plants. There were two old friends on the wall, the poster identifying the Colorado Beetle and a Foot and Mouth Disease Movement restriction order which made them feel at home in alien surroundings.

They followed a dimly lit corridor to swing doors, through which they found the laboratory proper. Frigid bluish-white fluorescent lighting glared down on the pathologist and three white-coated assistants who were crouching busily over a long bench.

The pathologist beckoned them over and led them to a table draped with thick polythene sheeting on which lay the completed jigsaw puzzle of the skeleton, the gaping eye-sockets staring blindly into the white fluorescent sun.

"He's cleaned up nicely, hasn't he?" said the pathologist proudly, scraping a blob of dirt from the lower jaw. "Have a look at this," and he picked up the remains of the lower right arm. "This wasn't broken or chewed off by animals. It was deliberately hacked off-apparently with an ax."

"Hacked off?" exclaimed Frost.

"Precisely. There can be no doubt."

"Before or after death?"

The pathologist stroked the bone with loving care. "We can only guess, but I'd hazard shortly after death, before serious decomposition took place. It's only a theory, of course, but my guess is that the arm was severed in an attempt to remove the chained case."

"But it was still on the arm," Frost pointed out.

"Agreed. Whoever chopped it, chopped too high up and wouldn't have been able to slide the metal wrist band over the severed end. The victim was probably fleshy and a little fat. You try and drag your wristwatch up your arm, you'll find it gets stuck half-way."

"Why cut off the arm to remove a locked and empty case?" asked Frost.

"You're the detective, not me," replied the pathologist, scratching his chin with the severed bone before carefully replacing it in its alloted place. "But you've missed the best bit-look," and he pointed to the skull. It was so obvious that at first Frost missed it, then he and Clive saw it at the same time.

"Good God!"

The skull had a third eye smack in the middle of its forehead. The third eye was small, neat, and precision drilled.

"This is what made the hole," said the pathologist, and he dropped a small transparent envelope containing a dull mess of flattened metal into Frost's palm. "It's a revolver bullet. We found it inside the skull, mixed up with the dirt."

Frost held the envelope to the light and examined the discolored metal from all angles. "So this is what killed him, Doc?"

But the pathologist wasn't going to be led into saying anything definite. "All I can say after all this time is that if he was alive when this bullet was fired at him, then this is what killed him. I can find no other cause of death. We're having the soil analyzed, but after all these years…" He finished the sentence with a hopeless shrug, then led them to a side bench where a bald man was scraping away at bits of rusty metal.

"Show the inspector the other things we found, Arnold."

Arnold was only too happy to oblige. "Nothing spectacular, I'm afraid, Mr. Frost. Everything rottable had rotted, so all we're left with are metal objects. For example, these metal trouser buttons. No zips, of course-men didn't trust zips back in the 1950s."

"I don't trust them now," said Frost. "I had an unfortunate experience. That's when you reckon he died, then-the 1950s?-'

Arnold nodded. "We're doing more tests, but everything points that way." He raked among the rest of the deceased's effects and found a flat, round pitted object. "This is what's left of his wristwatch. A cheap pallet movement, probably pre-war. Over there is the money, which you know about, and there's these…" He rattled a crusted keyring containing two small desk keys, a larger key, and a flat Yale key, all in surprisingly good condition. And that was all the skeleton had to show for itself.

"No car keys," Clive pointed out.

"Not an awful lot of private cars about in the fifties," said Arnold. "Petrol rationing was still on, I think."

Frost spotted a tiny heap of rusty crumbs. "What are they?"

"Remains of cobblers' tacks from his shoes. They used to nail the soles on in those days.''

Frost dug his hands in his pockets and stared for a moment at the pathetic piles of scrap, then turned and regard ed the bones stretched out on the polythene sheeting. "So what do we know about him? He was shot, he had a few bob in his pocket, he buttoned up his fly, and he died more than thirty years ago. Not much to go on. Any special features, Doc, that would help us identify him, like a ten-foot dick or eight fingers on each hand?"