R.D. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

Frost dutifully whistled softly, his eye glued to the unwavering gun. "A tidy little sum, sir, especially in those days."

"It was a fortune, Inspector. He came to me. He begged. How could I refuse him, my son, my flesh and blood?"

"You had that sort of money?" asked Frost "No. I sold my stocks and shares, drew out my savings, took out a second mortgage on the house. But even so, I could only raise PS10,000."

"That must have been disappointing," said Frost. "Can I sit down?"

"Don't move," snapped Powell, and Frost stood stock still. The old man went on with his story. "The bank was holding the account of an old lady named Mrs. Kingsley. She was in her eighties, bed-ridden, and very rich. Couldn't get to the bank herself, so I handled all her affairs. She trusted me implicitly "

"Senile, was she?" asked Frost.

"No, definitely not. If any bills needed to be paid, I would write out the check and she would sign it without question. There was close to a quarter of a million pounds in her account, so getting the PS5,000 for my son wasn't too difficult "

"It wasn't too honest, either, was it, sir?'

"My son would have gone to prison. I couldn't allow that."

"Of course you couldn't So you fiddled the old dear's account-the one who trusted you implicitly?"

"I borrowed the money. I intended to pay it back, every last penny. My son was positive that, once over this hurdle, he could get his business back on a firm footing, sell out at a profit, and repay me." Powell gave a hollow laugh "Within a month he was back again for more. A slight miscalculation Another debt he'd overlooked To get him out of trouble this time he needed another PS3,000 within forty-eight hours."

"And I presume old Mrs. Kingsley was able to oblige him again?"

"Yes. He promised me this would be the last time, the very last time."

"And was it?"

"A month later he was back for more. None of the money had been paid back He'd blown the lot on some mad scheme that was supposed to make his fortune This time I refused He pleaded. But what was the point? It would just have gone on and on. I told him I couldn't help him. He said not to worry-there was a way he could solve everything. He went back to London, wrote me a note, then jumped in front of a tube train I should have given him the money."

"It wasn't yours to give, sir. He'd already turned you into a thief… PS8,000 wasn't it?"

"Yes, and I had no idea how I was going to pay it back. As long as Mrs. Kingsley was alive, at least I had breathing space. For two years I scrimped and saved and managed to repay a couple of hundred… it would have taken years. And then suddenly in quick succession, I received two body blows."

"Can I shut the window, sir?" asked Frost. "It's freezing cold."

"No," said Powell, "I want it left open. Where was I?"

"Two body blows," said Frost.

"Yes. The first was when Fawcus walked into my office one night after the rest of the staff had left. He didn't have to say anything. The minute I saw his face, I knew he'd found out about the money. He threatened to blackmail me."

Frost raised his eyebrows. "Blackmail? Good Lord, sir, your branch was full of crooks… yourself, Fawcus."

Powell moved his position slightly to ease the weight from his bad leg, but the gun in his hand remained steady, pointing unerringly at Frost's head. "His price for silence was PS10,000."

"Shouldn't have been any problem, sir. The old lady was still trusting you implicitly, I take it?"

The old man stiffened, and for a moment Frost thought he had gone too far as the trigger-finger seemed ready to pull back. Powell let out his breath slowly, and continued. "The very next day, Fate showed her uncanny knack of hitting a man hardest when he's down. My phone rang. The news I had been dreading."

"The old lady died?"

"Yes. Her solicitors were on top of me for exact details of her bank balance, and the Inland Revenue decided to send someone round shortly to go through her account with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. They wanted to make sure they got the maximum death duties. My forgeries weren't good enough to stand up to that kind of scrutiny. They'd have uncovered the deficit within hours. I was some PS8,000 short."

"You hadn't paid Fawcus his hush-money, then?"

"No. I told him there was no chance of that now. He just smiled his false smile and said he'd leave it in abeyance. He was sure I'd find other opportunities of getting the money, providing I wasn't found out in the meantime. So I lived from day to day, praying for a miracle, but dreading every knock at the door, every ring of the phone, for fear it would be the gentlemen from Inland Revenue." Powell shuddered at the memory. "Days passed, the bank's work went on, and Fawcus kept giving me conspiratorial glances. I began thinking my son's way out was the best way. And then, the night before the funeral, Harrington was on about the cash transfer. I'd no sooner informed Fawcus that he'd be required to assist with the movement of the money than he came out with his plan."

"His plan, sir?" asked Frost, inching toward the old man.

"He had a quick and cunning brain. He saw this as a chance to get his ten thousand, plus two thousand more. He was kindly going to allow me to keep eight thousand to repay all the money I had borrowed. It was very tempting."

"What was his plan?"

"A fake robbery. Fawcus and Garwood would leave for Exley, the money in a case chained to Fawcus's wrist. They wouldn't arrive. The police would find their car half-way between Denton and Exley, both men unconscious, the case and the money gone."

"How were you going to work that?" asked Frost, inching a fraction nearer.

Powell explained. The plan was almost childishly simple. Young Garwood, the junior clerk who would be driving the car, wasn't in on the plot so had to be convinced that the robbery had actually taken place. At a lonely part of the route the road would be blocked by a couple of wooden boxes. Nothing suspicious, but enough to make Garwood stop the car to remove the obstacles. When the car stopped, Fawcus would suddenly point and yell, "Look out-he's got a gun!" As Garwood's head turned to follow the pointing finger, Fawcus would bring the cosh down. Powell didn't like this part, but Fawcus brushed his objections to one side. "I won't hit him very hard, but when he comes round he'll believe everything I tell him."

When Garwood came round, he would find Fawcus at his side, head bruised and unconscious, the windscreen shattered by a bullet, and the money case gone. And when Fawcus "recovered consciousness," he would tell of the masked man with the gun who had coshed them both.

"But what would actually have happened?" asked Frost. If only the old man would look away for a fraction of a second, Frost was sure he could grab the gun. The old man gave no sign of intending to look away.

"I'll tell you first what should have happened. The way the plan should have worked if everything hadn't gone wrong. I'd be attending the church service for Mrs. Kingsley and I'd make certain everyone saw I was there. After the service the cortege was to leave for the crematorium. Some of the mourners, like me, would be following in their own cars. I was to keep to the rear of the procession, gradually falling behind, then I'd put my foot down and speed off to the pre-arranged spot where Fawcus and the unconscious Garwood were waiting. All I had to do was unlock the chain, take the case, fire my Luger into the windscreen, then back to my own car, foot down, and rejoin the slow-moving funeral cortege as if I'd never left it. On the way I'd toss the gun and the empty, opened money case into the undergrowth for the police to find later, so even if they were on the scene within seconds there'd be nothing incriminating on me."

"Except for the money," said Frost. "The PS20,000."