R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

"What exactly are we doing here?" asked Clive after five minutes of watching an empty house in an empty street.

"Thought you'd never ask," replied Frost. "While you were radioing through to Control, I got on the blower to the hospital. I wanted to know if anyone had phoned, or i called, asking about your lady friend, Mrs. Uphill. And someone had. Guess who?"

"I give up," said Clive, wishing Frost would get to the point.

"A shifty little bloke in a heavy overcoat. He'd called at the Porter's Lodge not fifteen minutes before, asking how poor Mrs. Uphill was and when she'd be coming out."

Clive was unimpressed. "So? It could have been a neighbor."

"And it could have been a client wondering how long he'd have to have the cold showers. But it wasn't. Apart from the police, son, who the hell knew she was in hospital? No, it was our little bloke from the pub. The one who left his whiskey. The porter told him she'd be kept in over night, so off he went."

"I still don't see-" began Clive.

"Her attacker is a cheap crook, son. He's got her change purse and her house keys. He knows the house will be empty all night, so he can just walk in and help himself."

"Then why did you send away the surveillance car?"

"Because I want to catch the little sod, not frighten him off. Duck down, quick. I think this is him."

A light-colored car cruised to the end of Vicarage Terrace, reversed, and slowly made its way back again. A couple of minutes later the car returned, drove past Mrs. Uphill's, stopping three houses away on the opposite side of the road. For a while nothing happened, then a small man got out carrying a large suitcase. He looked up and down the street, then walked briskly across to No. 29. The sound of a key in a lock, a door opening and quietly closing. He was inside.

Clive's hand reached for the door handle. "Shall we go in and get him?"

But Frost settled back in his seat. "No. He's got to come back to his car, so let's wait for him."

They waited. Frost was on his fourth cigarette. "I spy with my little eye, son," he said. The little man was leaving the house. The suitcase seemed almost too heavy for him as he staggered across the road.

They jumped him as he was bending to unlock his car door. His yell of surprise roused the sleeping street. Dogs started barking, nervous householders dialed 999. The area car sent to investigate was ordered away by Frost. "Go and find your own crooks."

Their prisoner offered no resistance, but complained bitterly once he had caught his breath. "Frightened the flaming life out of me, Mr. Frost. What a silly thing to do. I've got a weak heart, you know."

"As long as you haven't got a weak bladder," replied Frost. He peered at the man, who apparently knew him. "So that's who you are. Meet Dapper Dawson, son- housebreaker, petty crook, and con man. What have you got in the suitcase, Dapper?"

"Encyclopedias, Mr. Frost. I'm working my way through college."

The suitcase was packed tight with furs, jewelry, and small valuables from the Uphill house. On the back seat of Dapper's car was a blue and white carrier bag. It was full of used five-pound notes.

They took him back to the station and sat him in the interview room with a cup of tea and one of Frost's cigarettes. He needed no prompting. All they had to do was listen as Dapper's story flooded out to produce a long, four-page statement. He had read about the classic Lindbergh kidnapping where a man had obtained ransom money by pretending he had the Lindbergh baby.

"So I thought I'd try the same. After all, she's only an old bag. What's two grand to her? She can earn that on her back without even getting out of bed. What's up with the bloke with the wonky nose?"

Frost glared at Clive, who should have known better than to react when a suspect was making a statement.

"The kid?" continued Dapper. "Of course I haven't got the kid. Kidnapping's not my style, is it? Search my house if you like. If you find any kids, my old woman's been having it off with the milkman."

They didn't expect to find Tracey at Dapper's house, but an area car investigated, just in case. She wasn't there. She had never been there.

Dapper signed his statement, thanked Frost for the cigarette, and was locked up in the cell next to the man in the sheepskin coat.

"We won't have enough cells if you go on like this," commented the station sergeant.

To Frost's regret, Mullen had left for home and wasn't there to witness his moment of triumph. "If it was one of my usual balls-ups, he'd be there sneering from ear to bloody ear," he reflected ruefully. He went back to his office to shuffle some papers about and found Clive waiting hopefully for permission to go home. Hazel would be at his bedsitter, her uniform folded neatly over a chair, her face scrubbed of makeup…

"It's 11:15, sir," he announced loudly, looking hard at his watch and yawning.

"What's this?" asked Frost, picking up a scribbled note from his desk. "Sandy Lane, Denton Echo, phoned. Wants you to phone him, urgent." Then underneath, in the same hand, "Phoned again, 10:30-extremely urgent- please call."

"11:15 did you say, son? We'll ring him now," and he dialed the newspaper office. A few words with Sandy, then be banged down the phone and sprang from his chair.

"Chuck us my scarf, son. It's definitely my lucky day. Sandy reckons he knows the identity of our skeleton, so come on, you can drive me to his office."

Clive trailed after the inspector to the car park, scuffling the snow peevishly. It was a cold, miserable, and never-ending night and he thought of his warm, cozy flat, the gas-fire popping, Hazel peeling off microscopic knickers, rubbing her hands sensuously down her thighs. The mental picture forced a groan of frustration as he turned the ignition key.

"What's up?" asked Frost. "Not sickening for anything, are you?"

Sandy Lane squeezed his visitors into his tiny office, a partitioned corner of an open-plan stockade of tightly packed desks, phones, and typewriters.

Frost had to raise his voice over the hammering of typewriters. "So, who's our skeleton, Sandy?"

"You'll read all about it in tomorrow's Echo, Jack," said the reporter, dumping a badly smudged proof copy of the following day's paper in front of the two detectives. The black banner headline screamed out at them:

A sub-heading read: "Echo of PS20,000 Bank Robbery", followed by another, "Spirit Medium Leads Police To Mysterious Woodland Grave". Then there was a photograph of Frost, cupid-lipped with a bit more hair than now, captioned, "Detective Inspector Frost, G.C., who is in charge of the case."

"That picture looks as if I've been dug up after thirty-two years," said Frost.

The rest of the front page was filled with a greatly enlarged full-face photograph of a sad-looking man with receding hair, aged about thirty-five. The caption said, simply, "Timothy Fawcus."

Frost frowned. "Fawcus?" he asked. The name nagged a memory.

"It's his skeleton," explained Sandy.

"Then tell him to come and claim it, we don't want it." He opened the page for more clues, but the inside was blank and unprinted. Then something clicked. Timothy Fawcus! Of course. He spun round to Clive and explained. "This was 1951, son-before you were born. I'd just joined the Force. Eighteen, I was, sturdy of back and randy as hell-and you had to fight for it in those days, it didn't come crawling round to your flat waiting for you." The blood rushed to Clive's face. How the hell did Frost know?

"Fawcus was a cashier at Bennington's Bank and the case chained to his wrist held PS20,000. When he went missing, all leave was stopped for the search. We looked everywhere… and he was buried in Dead Man's Hollow all the time." He tapped his scar. "I wonder if they'll dig up Tracey's skeleton in thirty-odd years' time."