R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

And on to the next. Timothy Fawcus. A good and industrious worker, recommended for early promotion. His medical report for the pension fund made no mention of a broken arm. The file closed with the cryptic comment "Left service of bank June 1951-see separate file."

They pulled out Rupert Garwood's file. A fairly recent photograph pinned to the inner cover showed both of his eyes. At the time of the robbery in 1951 he was earning three pounds two shillings per week, five and a half days including Saturday mornings. Following the fracturing of his skull he was off work for three months, but in return for a doctor's certificate of incapacitation a money order for the full three pounds two shillings was sent to his home every Friday. A confidential memo from Head of Staff Administration asked Manager Powell if it were possible that the lad was in any way implicated in the disappearance of Fawcus and the money, but Powell disabused head office of this unthinkable possibility. Later that year Gar-wood was regraded and his salary increased to three pounds, fifteen shillings a week, payable monthly.

Another four files, all flat, stale, and unprofitable. Frost was getting bored.

"My head's aching looking at all this rubbish, son," he complained, staring out at the white bleakness of the car park. "It's getting dark already. They'll be calling off the searches soon. Hello-this file's a different color."

The color was different because in the rigid social struc ture of the bank in the early fifties, the files of caretakers and manual workers had to be clearly distinguished from those of the elite salaried staff and this was the dossier of Albert Barrow, fifty-three, Caretaker, who had left the bank's service at the end of 1951. His going was abrupt and without notice. He just walked out one night and never returned. The bank eventually sent him his cards and tax forms, and the envelope was returned marked" Gone away-present address unknown.

Frost stifled a yawn and fluffed his hair in exasperation. "This is getting too bloody complicated, son. What would help us no end is for someone to walk in and confess."

There was one file left and it looked as dull and potentially unfruitful as the others. He decided to shove it to one side while they nipped up to the canteen for a cup of hot stewed tea and was actually pushing himself up from the chair when intuition whispered in his ear. The shout of tea was louder than the whisper of intuition, but he turned the cover of the file and gave a brief, reluctant glance inside, then-

"Christ!"

He made Clive jump. "What is it, sir?"

"I knew that old cow was involved, son. You can't beat the old Frost intuition."

Clive spun the file around. The photograph on the inner cover looked vaguely familiar. An ugly girl with tight thin lips, a hooked nose. He couldn't believe it, but the name underneath was conclusive. Working for the bank in 1951 was the wild witch of the woods, Martha Wendle, the clairvoyant, the skeleton locater, the cat woman. From May to July 1951 she had operated the bank's switchboard, but on the 10th of July she was dismissed, the reasons for her dismissal stated as "Listening in to private phone calls, rudeness to bank customers, unexplained absence from switchboard, insubordination, lack of co-operation, etc., etc."

"She got them going during the three months she was with them," said Frost with grudging admiration. He wound the old maroon scarf over the tightly knotted tie. "Come on, son, get the motor out. We've got some cats to visit."

The Morris 1100 purred along a road between rolling, snow-mantled fields. Frost suddenly grabbed at Clive's arm.

"Hold it, son!"

Clive stopped the car and followed the inspector's gaze to a distant clump of slow-moving figures flashing torches.

"Our chaps, I think," said Frost, raising binoculars to his eyes and fiddling with the focus. Blurs sharpened into men with uniforms, moving forward quickly, pointing and mouthing noiselessly. There was no way to join them except by wading through the snow-blanketed fields. Frost radioed Control who sounded quite excited.

"A lead sir. The helicopter spotted something moving in the snow and we sent a team out to investigate."

Frost's heart beat faster. If it was Tracey, and she was moving

… And he'd written her off as dead! The binoculars again. The men had stopped and were gathered around something; they were bending, lifting…

"I think they've found her, son." Somehow he managed to keep his voice steady. He handed the binoculars to Clive and radioed back to Control for a further report. Control were slow in answering. Static crackled and his hand trembled with excitement.

Clive was giving a low-voiced running commentary. "Yes, sir, there is something. They're picking her up. I can't quite see…"

A clattering over the radio as someone in Control picked up a microphone. "Control here. Sorry, Inspector, a false lead. It's a sheep."

"It's a sheep," reported Clive. "Must have got trapped in a snowdrift."

Disappointment crushed Frost back into his seat and he signaled wearily for Clive to drive on. "Why do I get so excited?" he said moodily. "The kid's dead and I know it.

There's some things you feel. You know, like when the hospital phoned to say my wife had died. I didn't have to pick up the phone. At the very first ring, I knew."

Clive eased the car into the now-familiar parking spot at the edge of the woods and they pushed out for the long slithering slog to the cottage.

"You on duty Christmas?" bellowed Frost.

"I haven't checked the roster yet, sir."

"They could be leaning over backward to show no favoritism to the Chief Constable's nephew, so if you are on, let me know, I might be able to wangle something."

No more talk until the misshapen bulk of the cottage loomed up. No lights were showing and their knocks went unanswered. Clive squinted through the letterbox. Green emeralds sparkled in blackness. He shouted. They blurred and vanished.

The lean-to that should have housed Martha Wendle's old car was empty, and tire tracks led toward the private road.

"The old cow's done a bunk!" moaned Frost. "Why didn't I run her in when we found that lousy skeleton?" Clive didn't answer him. He was looking over the inspector's shoulder into the back garden where something poked crookedly out of the snow. It was a cross fashioned from two pieces of wood nailed together. In front of the cross stood a vase containing a bunch of expensive hothouse chrysanthemums.

Frost galloped over and scraped snow away with his shoe. It was deep snow, but the ground beneath showed signs of recent disturbance, and the shape was unmistakable. Frost's voice was quiet. "It's a bloody grave, son. I think we've found Tracey."

He sent Clive racing back to the parked car to radio for Forensic, for some diggers and for Martha Wendle to be picked up. Frost stayed behind, keeping vigil, chainsmoking and stamping to bring sluggish circulation back to his feet. A lurking wind suddenly spotted him and pounced, tearing and biting through his clothes, clawing at his scar. He was reluctant to leave the grave, but at last sought shelter in a small garden shed. It contained a shovel and a fork. He decided he couldn't wait for the digging party and braved the wind. It wasn't a job that could be rushed and his fork probed delicately for fear of plunging into the child's body. He was still scratching the surface when bobbing lights through the trees heralded the approach of the forensic team. He felt a twinge of doubt. If it was a grave, it seemed empty. He dropped to his knees and scraped away with gloved hands and the men from Forensic gathered around, spotlighting the site with their torches. And then he found the body… small, stiff and white. But it wasn't Tracey. It was a white kitten, its head flattened in grotesque distortion by the weight of the covering earth. And that was all the grave contained.