R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Frost dragged himself up. He was tired and his››

"Oh," said Mullett as if it was an afterthought. "There's some more good news… er… Jack."

Frost waited warily.

"Inspector Allen will definitely be returning to duty tomorrow, so you'll be able to hand all your cases over to him. It… er… might be a good idea if you slowed down. now and concentrated on getting the paperwork up to date. I happened to look in your office earlier and quite frankly… the state of your desk… I was appalled. You might have to put a spot of overtime in, but it isn't often. and I know Inspector Allen would appreciate receiving things in apple-pie order." His candid smile turned to a perplexed frown as Frost swept out without a word, deliberately slamming the door behind him.

A deep sigh. So uncouth! There must be some way of getting him transferred.

Frost stamped down the corridor and poked his head into Search Control. "Any advance on one sheep?"

Martin smiled. "A couple of other false alarms, Jack, but we seem to be running out of steam. If the weather holds, we'll start on the outlying areas tomorrow, but I can see all Christmas leave being stopped."

"It'll be all over tomorrow," said Frost, cynically. "Tomorrow Inspector Allen will be back, which means the girl will be miraculously found, alive and well, the murderer of Garwood, the dog, and the skeleton will walk into the station and confess, bringing the stolen PS20,000 with him, the snow will melt, poverty will vanish, and peace will break out all over the world. But until then, the usual diabolical balls-up from your friendly bemedaled hero."

Back in his office he shrugged off his overcoat and hurled it to miss the hat stand. He kicked it into a corner, then sat on the hot radiator, baking steam from his damp trousers and trying to work up enthusiasm to tackle his desk which had received a fresh delivery of bumf since he was last in. He was getting Inspector Allen's work as well as his own and was neglecting to do either. He groaned. Where the hell was Barnard? Never to hand when Frost felt like bawling someone out. He hopped off the radiator. Nothing for it, he'd been eased off his cases so he might as well steel himself and get down to the reams of nitty-gritty.

He was trying to decipher something he had written on the back of a petty-cash voucher when the door was kicked open and Clive entered, a steaming cup of tea in each hand.

Frost took his gratefully. "Bless you, my son. You're my spirit of Christmas, my star on the tree. Seen anything of that policewoman, Hazel what's-her-name, in your travels?"

"She was in the canteen," said Clive, guardedly. He'd just fixed up another liaison for tonight. "Why?"

Frost stirred vigorously, slopping tea down his jacket. "Just wanted to know how Mrs. Uphill was."

"Oh-sorry, sir-she did mention it. Hazel took her home from the hospital. She's still shaken, but otherwise all right. She wouldn't let Hazel stay with her."

"Not enough business for the two of them, I imagine." dive's cup banged angrily in his saucer. "I don't think that's very funny, sir."

Frost looked contrite. "Sorry, son, I'm a bit low this evening. I've been pulled off the case. Inspector Allen returns from the dead tomorrow and I'm to hand everything over to him."

It took an effort, but Clive managed to look as if he thought this terribly unfair. Frost continued. "Our superintendent has kindly suggested I might stay late and slog my guts out on the paperwork. If I thought it would upset anyone, I'd resign, but he's not getting that as a Christmas present." He plucked at the skin round his scar, then realized he was feeling sorry for himself and the dark mood slid instantly away. "Sod it, it's Christmas, why should I feel miserable? If Allen had died I'd have had to subscribe five pence toward his wreath, and in any case, he's not due back until tomorrow so all I've got to do is solve the two cases tonight and present them to him with a two-fingered salute of respect in the morning. Drag up a chair, son, we'll go through the Bennington's Bank file again."

They shared the file between them and smoked and the only sound to emerge through the thick blue haze was the rustle of turned pages, until…

"Sir!" Clive jumped up with excitement and pushed some papers across to Frost. It was a wad of photostats taken from the Bank's 1951 staff records. On top was a copy of a medical report on the caretaker, Albert Barrow. who went missing shortly after the robbery. The doctor had stated that although Barrow had broken his left arm some nineteen months previously, there was no reason now why it should interfere with the efficient performance of his caretaking duties Frost read it through twice, then turned a puzzled face to Clive. who explained. "His left arm, sir-the same as the skeleton. Don't you see, it may not be Fawcus's skeleton-it could be Barrow's!"

Frost let this sink in. then folded his arms on the desk and buried his head in them After a few seconds he straightened up and smoothed back his fluffed-up hair. "I've given your theory my careful consideration, son, but as Inspector Allen comes back tomorrow, I'm afraid we just haven't got time for it to be anyone else but Fawcus."

"But it's a possibility, sir."

"A possibility we can well do without. If it's not Fawcus's then we might as well pack up and go home and let Mastermind solve it in a couple of seconds tomorrow." He stood up, pushing his chair against the wall "Let's go for a little car ride "

Clive groaned inwardly. Couldn't the bloody man stick to one thing for at least five minutes? "We haven't finished looking through the file yet, sir."

Frost retrieved his overcoat from the floor. ''It took months to compile that file, son, so we're not going to assimilate it in one night, are we? I want to chat up this retired bank manager-Powell-you've got his address. He should be able to tell us more than a hundred files could." He shuddered as a flurry of snow splattered against the window. "Look at the bloody weather-it knows we're going out " A button came off and he rammed it in his pocket. "I'm sorry we haven't found the girl, though. That upsets me more than anything."

Clive shoved his half of the file to one side and dragged on his coat. "We should have pulled in the vicar, sir. I'm sure he's involved."

Frost grinned. "You've got a down on the poor sod, haven't you? I'll have a word with him about his harmless little hobby."

"Harmless!" exploded Clive. "Taking nude photographs of a schoolgirl?"

"Her birth certificate may say she's a kid, son, but her body says she's nineteen and I know which I prefer to believe," and he clomped off up the corridor, Clive trotting at his heels. "I know the vicar's all right, son. I've got one of my feelings."

"You had one of your feelings about Martha Wendle, sir."

"Which has yet to be proved wrong." He pushed open the swing doors and they braced themselves against the punch of the wind.

The car passed through the Market Square where shops were closing and a few venturesome shoppers scurried for the bus stop.

"I wonder if the snow has much effect on Mrs Uphill's trade," mused Frost, lighting two cigarettes and popping one in Clive's mouth "Even the cup of tea she gives you afterward wouldn't tempt me out in this weather "

Clive's knuckles whitened on the wheel and he spoke as calmly as he could "I know I'm speaking out of turn, sir, but I object to your cheap gibes She may be a tart, but that doesn't mean she's not a good mother And it's her kid you haven't found, you know." The car plunged on through twisting blobs of white while Clive held his breath, not daring to look at the inspector A smoke-ring hit the windscreen and slowly slithered down. "If she was a good mother, son, then she wouldn't be a tart. She'd put the kid first What sort of a home is that to bring your daughter up in-mirrors on the ceiling, strange men tramping up to the bedroom at all hours of the day and night? If she was any sort of mother she'd have met Tracey from Sunday school even if it meant disappointing a regular thirty-quid-a-time customer " He paused, then shrugged 'But you're right, son. I should be feeling sorry for the poor cow. And I should keep my cheap, personal opinions to myself. Ah, we're here, I think…"