R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

"My son, Frank," said Powell, stiffly. "The only photograph we have now. I keep it locked away. My wife… she gets upset."

Clive took the photograph and studied the medal ribbon. "The D.F.C., Mr. Powell?"

"Yes." The eyes shone and he drew himself erect as if standing to attention. "We were so proud of him. We went to Buckingham Palace to see the King give it to him. A wonderful day."

"I bet it was," said Frost. "Why does your wife get upset?"

Powell replaced the photograph and locked the bureau, trying the handle carefully to make sure it was secure. "He killed himself." He tottered back to his chair and sat down heavily. "After the war he started a business with his gratuity and with some savings I was able to let him have. He made an awful mess of it, I'm afraid. We helped him out with more money from time to time, but it was like pouring water into a bottomless bucket. In the end everything got on top of him and his mind snapped. He jumped in front of a tube train. Not a hero's death, was it? His mother never got over it. She idolized him. In her eyes, he could do no wrong."

The only sound in the room was the scratching of. dive's pen. The old man stared down at the floor, his eyes glistening.

It was like kicking a puppy, but Frost waded in again. "As I said, Mr. Powell, you had a fair old motive for stealing the money-to pump it into your son's failing business."

Powell turned his head slowly and twitched his lips to a thin smile of contempt. "You don't do your homework, do you, Inspector? The money was stolen in 1951. My son killed himself in 1949-two years before. Would you mind leaving now, please? My wife doesn't like being left alone."

Frost motioned to Clive who put his notebook away. The two detectives rose.

"Sorry if I've upset you, Mr. Powell, but these questions have to be asked." Powell nodded brusquely and followed them out. In the passage Frost hesitated and pounded his palm with his fist. "I've got a memory like a bloody sieve. I meant to ask if you went out at all last night?"

"I didn't," said Powell. "Why?"

"Last night someone shot Rupert Garwood and splattered his eye to bits, but if you haven't got a gun and you didn't go out, I'll have to look around for another suspect. Thank your wife for the coffee, sir, and if I don't see you before, Merry Christmas."

"Well, son?" asked Frost, thawing out in the warmth of the car as it nosed its way back to the station.

"Seems a decent enough old boy, sir. I feel sorry for him. He poured all his savings into his son's business and now they're left to struggle along on his reduced pension."

Frost considered this. "He tells a good story, I'll grant him that. I haven't felt more like crying since the chip shop burned down in Coronation Street." "You think he's lying, then?" asked Clive.

Frost twitched his shoulder. "It would be hard to prove if he was. He's had thirty-odd years to polish up his story-and it's a real tear-jerker as you say. Son a war hero, decent parents living in penury to save his good name, and to cap it all, he's got a bad leg. But he is lying, son-I've got one of my hunches."

The car sped past white barren blankness which just about summed up Denton to Clive-blank and barren. Except for Hazel, of course, an oasis of warmth in a desert of ice. He squinted down at his watch-nearly eight o'clock and Frost clearly running out of steam. Good. He'd be off duty at a reasonable time for once. Perhaps he could even take Hazel out somewhere first.

At his side, Frost was stirring uneasily. "I keep getting the nagging feeling I've left something undone. It's not my flies, so what is it? Blimey-yes! Turn left here-we've got to go to the Denton Echo office. Hornrim Harry wants me to kill the disinterred kitten story. Slam your foot down, son."

Clive increased speed and barren blankness zipped past. As long as Frost didn't think of any more jobs, he could still see Hazel at a reasonable time…

Frost's voice cut into his thoughts. "I imagine they'll be putting you with Inspector Allen tomorrow, son. I can't see our Divisional Commander leaving you under my corrupting influence a minute longer than he can help. He's going to do his nut when he finds I still haven't touched that paperwork. But he'll say, 'I realize we've got to make allowances for you, Frost, in view of your recent sad loss'." He laughed mirthlessly and shook the last cigarette from the packet. "As you'll be leaving me, son, I'll tell you a secret I've told no one else. My marriage was a flop. Twenty years of stark bloody misery. My wife despised me. She was ambitious; she wanted someone she could be proud of, and the poor cow got me; she hated me for being what I was. I used to dread going home. In the end I decided to leave her-there was another woman I was going to move in with. On the very night I was going home to break the news, her doctor phoned me at the station. He'd sent my wife to a specialist who'd taken X-rays and they now had the result. Inoperable cancer. She had six months to live and they'd be six rotten months. They thought it best the news was kept from her. So I changed my plans and carried on being despised. A couple of days after that this young sod shot the hole in my face and I didn't particularly care if he killed me or not. The wife was thrilled silly when I got my medal, and when they made me up to inspector she nearly burst with pride. The only thing I'd ever done right. She even stopped nagging. She was a hard woman, but it was a rotten way to die-a bloody rotten way for anyone to die." He mangled his cigarette end in the car's ashtray and stared at the roof. "All I'm trying to say, son, is it's not grief and sorrow at my wife's death that makes me sod things up-I'm just a natural sodder-upper and nothing's going to change me."

Clive didn't know how to react to these raw outpourings. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided silence was best. The car slowed outside the Denton Echo office building and Frost shot out, asking Clive to wait.

He found Sandy answering two phones at once and making copious notes in beautifully executed shorthand, so he waited for the reporter to bang the phones down. "Sorry, Jack, but it's going mad at the moment. Did you want me?"

"Yes," replied Frost. "First of all I've decided to forgive you for that rotten dinner. I've only been sick three times and the hot flushes are easing off."

"Oh, yes?" said Sandy warily, sensing a favor was about to be asked.

"I'm in trouble with this dead cat story, Sandy. I want you to kill it."

Sandy patted some papers on his desk into a neat pile. "You're too late, Jack, we're already printing. Sorry-I would if I could, you know that."

Frost leaned forward and dropped his voice. "Supposing I could give you a better story?"

Sandy's nose twitched, but he pretended only a casual interest. "Like what?"

"Fleet Street stuff, Sandy boy. Strictly speaking our press office should send it direct to the agencies, but when you've got obliging friends who think nothing of spending 12p on your dinner…"

The reporter studied Frost's face carefully, then, reaching for his house phone, made up his mind. He spoke into the mouthpiece. "George-kill that page-one story about the police exhuming the cat, and stand by for something better." He hung up. "It had better be good, Jack."

Frost told him that the gun that killed Fawcus back in 1951 also fired the bullet that put an end to Garwood's life the previous night, Sandy's lower jaw dropped, then a smile traveled from one large ear to the other. "You're an ugly old sod, Jack, but I love you," and snatching up the phone he dictated a new story direct to a typist. The headline was to be 1951 KILLER STRIKES AGAIN- AMAZING STORY. The various facts and figures he was able to pluck from his fingertips paid tribute to an elephantine memory. Finished at last he spun his chair round to face the inspector. "What chance of an early arrest. Jack?"