R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Frost beamed affably. "I'm afraid I do, Sammy. One of my rare infallible days. I think the key's in your right-hand pocket."

It was. With shoulders slumped in defeat, Sammy moved to the safe, but Frost stopped him. "Hold it a minute, Sammy." He asked Hanlon and the constable to wait outside with the prisoner. "I want a quick word in private with Mr. Jacobs."

Hanlon gave the inspector a searching look as he closed the office door.

"So what is it," asked the bookmaker, the key poised in front of the lock.

Frost stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. "It's a bloody serious offense, bribing and corrupting young police officers, Sammy. You'd cop at least double the sentence you'd expect just for robbery. But as it's my birthday, and it's near Christmas, I'll be generous. You keep your fat mouth shut about a certain member of the Denton police force, and I'll keep mine shut about bribery and corruption charges. How does that sound?"

"You lot look after your bloody own," snarled Sammy. Then, with a shrug, "But what have I got to lose. It's a deal, Jack."

"Let's have his I.O.U., then."

The safedoor swung open and Sammy thrust his arm past the neat heaps of expensive jewelry and watches lying on top of a folded police uniform, and pulled out an envelope which he handed to Frost. The inspector checked the contents, took out his lighter, and burned it to ashes. Then he called the others in.

As he climbed back into his car the church clock chimed four times. He backed out of the side street and headed for home. He'd told Detective Sergeant Hanlon to take over the entire case. "I wasn't there, Arthur. I've already had two arrests of my own tonight, which is more than my fair share of glory and form-filling. Grab this one with both hands. You've got kids and a fat stomach to support. Just say you were acting on information received. Sammy will keep me out of it, as it's my birthday."

He jerked his head and blinked. God, he was falling asleep at the wheel. He'd never done that before. Where was he? He stared unbelievingly through the windscreen at his house. He'd been driving in a trance, turning corners, crossing traffic lights without knowing it. If anyone had been in his path… He shuddered and thought of that miserable eighteen-year-old kid in the lobby. He wound down the window to let the cold air jerk him back to life. That poor kid. He just didn't have the luck.

Switching off the engine, he staggered to his front door. He didn't remember getting undressed, but was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. He could have dreamed of death and decay, but he dreamed of Shirley.

When he went out the next morning he found he'd left the car unlocked, with the window down, and the keys swinging in the ignition. Anyone could have pinched it, but his luck had held out just a little while longer.

Wednesday morning at 8:05, Station Sergeant Bill Wells leaned across the inquiry desk and studied the morning paper, a look of intense pity on his face.

"What's up?" asked Frost, pausing on the way to his office with Clive.

Sadly shaking his head, Wells jabbed a thumb at the front page. "I've seen some terrible things in my time, Jack, but this is awful. The poor devil-you'd think they could do something with plastic surgery."

Frost snatched the paper and looked at a photograph of himself taken at the time he'd received his medal at the palace.

"God, what a handsome brute," he exclaimed. "Who is it-Errol Flynn?"

The banner headline bellowed SKELETON OF SHOT BANK ROBBER FOUND IN 32-YEAR-OLD GRAVE. Tucked away at the bottom was a tiny, blurred photo of Tracey, captioned "Hopes fading for missing girl". Frost shuddered. The snow had stopped and the search parties would be out in force and he wondered if it would be today that he'd have the rotten job of taking the mother to the mortuary.

"Hear about the arrests Arthur Hanlon made last night?" asked Wells.

"Yes," snapped Frost, already on his way to the office, "he's a good chap. He doesn't waste his time reading bloody papers."

They made an early start and were well stuck into the Bennington's Bank robbery file when Frost let out a sharp groan and reminded Clive they should have been at the briefing meeting ten minutes ago. Mullett stared pointedly as they clattered their shamefaced way to their seats, mumbling apologies.

"I suppose I'll have to start again for the benefit of the latecomers. I was suggesting we should extend the area of the search."

"It's no use extending it until we get some more men," said Frost. "We haven't even got enough to cover the more likely places as thoroughly as we should."

"Agreed," purred Mullett, "but if you had been here when the meeting started, Inspector, you would have known that I intend to ask the Chief Constable for more help."

Game, set, and match to Hornrim Harry, thought Frost, and didn't say another word until the divisional commander left when he blew a soft raspberry at the closed door. That courtesy out of the way, he heaved himself to his feet and sidled over to Detective Sergeant Martin. "You don't need me, do you, George? I'll be over at the bank solving the case of the three-eyed skull. If anything exciting happens, give us a buzz on the radio." He stopped at the door. "Oh-one other thing. Mrs. Uphill will be waking up in a strange bed without the mirror in the ceiling this morning. Better get one of the policewomen to take her home. What's the name of that one with the mole on her stomach?"

"Hazel!" said George Martin and Clive in unison.

Hudson, the manager of Bennington's Bank, was plump, dark-haired, and blue-chinned. He shook hands with a warm pudgy palm, ushered them to moquette-covered chairs, and announced his secretary would rustle up some coffee.

"It's about the skeleton, isn't it? I read about it in the papers this morning."

"Yes, sir. Looks as if it might be a long-lost cashier of yours. Reckon you can let us have details of everyone who worked here in

Hudson scotched a note on his memo pad with a chunky, gold-banded pen. "Our staff department at head office holds all personal files. I'll have to get the details from there." He smiled and offered a suggestion. "This was before my time, of course, but why don't you have a word with our assistant manager, Rupert Garwood? He was here then-in fact he drove the car and got coshed for his troubles, I understand."

"Good idea, sir," said Frost. "May we see him?"

A light gray phone was lifted with a flourish. "Brenda? Mr. Hudson here. Ask Mr. Garwood to come to my office, please. What?" His eyes traveled up to the wall clock. "Unusual for him, isn't it? And he hasn't phoned? Oh dear, I hope he's not sick. Ask Mr. Fox to take over his post." The brow was deeply furrowed as he replaced the phone and turned apologetically to Frost.

"Bit of a snag, I'm afraid. Mr. Garwood doesn't seem to be in today. Brenda's phoned his home, but there's no reply. Most odd-and so unlike him." He made another note on his pad.

The two detectives exchanged glances. "Let us have his address," said Frost, "and we'll call at his house on our way back. If we miss him, and he turns up here, you might ask him to give me a ring at the station. I've got a card somewhere."

Eventually a grubby dog-eared card was located from the depths of a crumb-lined pocket and passed across. Hudson took it doubtfully and was about to tuck it in the corner of his clean blotter when he decided it would look less offensive under his paperclip tray, in which, he noticed with annoyance, the inspector had stubbed out his cigarette.

No. 38 Priestly Court, where Garwood lived, was a pebble-dashed residence of 1938 vintage. They followed the milkman's footprints up the snow-covered path to the porch where the morning's pint of milk shivered on the step. All the curtains were drawn. Frost pressed the bell. They could hear it ringing inside. The ringing died. Silence. Frost rang again, then rattled the letter box causing the morning paper to drop down on the doormat.