Frost 1 - Frost At Christmas

by R D Wingfield

  "Were you murdered?" A moan of pain. Frost jerked his hand from the woman's grip and shook her shoulders. "Answer me, was it murder?"

  "No, sir," protested Clive urgently. "If you bring her out of a trance too soon, it can kill her."

  "Then I'll apologize," snapped Frost. "Light that lamp."

  A match flared and the oil-lamp glowed. The room blinked and came to life. Cats yawned and scratched and licked. In her chair, the woman was bolt upright, her body rigid, her eyes staring but sightless.

  Frost shook her roughly. "Miss Wendle!" She blinked, then looked at him in puzzlement. "Who are you? Oh - the policeman."

  "Who killed Tracey?" barked Frost.

  "Is she dead?" She got up and stabbed the fire in the heart with the poker. It roared instantly into life.

  "You told us she was buried in Dead Man's Hollow."

  She squeezed out a thin vinegary smile. "No, Inspector. The spirits told you, not me. I was in a trance. They simply used my mouth to utter their words, words of which I have no knowledge."

  "I see," said Frost. "Well, you can tell your bloody spirits that if I find Tracey buried where your mouth said she was, then you'll be holding your next seance in the nick on a charge of murder. Come on, son."

  He spun on his heel and stamped out. A cat clawed at him as he passed. The woman didn't move, but as Clive squeezed by to get to the door he was able to see beyond the acid hate that uglied her face. Martha Wendle was frightened, terribly frightened.

  Outside they sucked down lungfuls of clean air, like submariners unexpectedly saved from a suffocating death. The wind had dropped for the return journey, but hit out with a cold blast from time to time to let them know it was still lurking.

  "I hope I haven't caught anything from those lousy cats," said Frost, sniffing at his coat. "Do you have intuitions, son?"

  "Sometimes, sir."

  "I have them all the time. That woman's a killer!"

  "Where's your proof, sir?"

  "You're proof-mad son! All I want is a suspect. Forget this 'innocent until proved guilty' caper. Find your suspect and then prove he or she did it. Saves sodding about with lots of different people."

  They reached the fork in the path and Frost used his torch to light the way over the slithering plunge to Dead Man's Hollow. "Well, this is it, son."

  His torch beam crawled over virgin snow, through which the branches of stunted trees protruded like the hands of drowning men.

  "Shall we go down there, sir?" asked Clive.

  "Waste of bloody time, son. We haven't got shovels."

  Clive took a deep breath. "Then why did we come, sir?"

  "I wanted to get the feel of the place. Now shut up for a minute, there's a good boy."

  The wind had a spasm and shook snow from branches, then went quiet. A match flared as Frost lit a cigarette.

  "The kid's not here, son."

  Clive looked at him, amazed. "How on earth do you know that, sir?"

  "I don't know - I only feel it."

  Clive gave a scornful snort. "More intuition?"

  "Yes, son - more of my stupid intuition. We'll probably have to dig just to satisfy Mullett and Uncle Chief Constable, but she's not here."

  Clive grabbed his arm. "Sir - on that bush - shine your torch to the left . . . do you see it?"

  Something small and white and insignificant fluttered on the branch. The snow was thigh-deep at that point but Clive plunged over to the bush. He snatched the object and waded back to the inspector in triumph. Frost looked at the treasure, a small square of waxed paper - the wrapping from a boiled sweet.

  "It could have been chucked there by the kid," said Clive eagerly, like a puppy that has brought the ball back for the first time.

  Frost raised his eyes to heaven. "A sweet wrapper," he exclaimed. "The spirits are vindicated - a bloody sweet wrapper." He found a crumpled transparent envelope in his pocket and poked the wrapper inside. "If you weren't looking so pleased with yourself, son, I'd chuck it away, but I suppose I'm setting you enough bad examples as it is, so we'll let Forensic tell us what flavor the sweet was and how much a pound they are."

  Back at the car the radio was going blue in the face pleading for Inspector Frost to answer. He sighed and slid into his seat. "They don't let you alone when you're lovable, do they, son?" He slowly lit a cigarette just to show the radio who was master, then announced his whereabouts into the microphone.

  "Inspector Frost? We've been trying to contact you for ages sir. Can you get back to the station at once? The kidnapper has phoned Mrs. Uphill."

  TUESDAY (4)

  The take-up spool on the tape recorder slowly revolved, pulling tape across the replay head. First the hissing of virgin tape, then ....

  Brr . . . brr . . . Brr . . . br - hardly two rings before the receiver was snatched up.

  "Denton 2346." Mrs. Uphill, pathetically eager.

  Pay-phone pips, then the chunk of money.

  "Mrs. Uphill?" A man's voice, nondescript, distorted by the phone.

  "Yes."

  "You got my letter?"

  "Yes . . . Please . . . where is she?"

  "All in good time. Have you got the money?"

  "Yes - exactly as you said."

  "And you've told no one?"

  "No - no one."

  "Good, I'd hate to have to carry out my promise. Now listen carefully - "

  But Mrs. Uphill cut across him, "I've got to know about Tracey. How is she?"

  "All right - considering . . . She cries a lot, doesn't she? She's got a bit.of a cold and she keeps whining for her mother, but apart from that . . ."

  "Please," and her voice was a barely steady whisper, "what do you want me to do?"

  "I want - "

  A click, then the dial tone. Frost's head jerked up. Detective Sergeant Martin waved him to silence; there was a little more.

  "Hello . . . hello . . ." Mrs. Uphill, almost hysterical as she jiggled the receiver rest. "Hello . . ." The relentless purr of dial tone going on and on. A click as the receiver was replaced, then the hiss and crackle of virgin tape.

  Martin banged down the Stop key. "That's it."

  Frost dragged off his scarf and draped it over the radiator to dry. "So what happened? Was he cut off?"

  "I don't think so, Jack. Listen carefully to the end of the tape." Martin turned the volume control to its maximum and wound the tape back a few inches. He pressed the Start key. Tape background roared and sizzled and distorted voices boomed.

  "Please, what do you want me to do?"

  "I want - click . . . dial tone, "Again," snapped Frost.

  Martin kept repeating the last few seconds of the recording. "I want - " click . . . "I want - " click . . . "I want - "

  It was just about audible through the background mush, the faint "Pee-paw, pee-paw" of a police car on the road outside the telephone kiosk.

  "One of our cars passed the kiosk while he was on the phone," said Martin, scratching his head with the stem of his pipe. "He must have thought we were on to him and bolted."

  Frost buried his head in his hand. "Bloody police," he moaned. "When you want them, you can't find them; when you don't they roar past and scare your suspects away." Then he noticed a stiffening of everyone's shoulders and his eye caught the gleam of burnished silver buttons.

  "Afternoon, Super," he said.

  "Heard the recording?" asked Mullett.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What are we going to do about it?"

  Frost ruffled his hair. "Blowed if I know. Did the telephone engineers manage to trace the call?"

  Martin sprang forward. "I was just coming to that Jack - er - Inspector. They did. It came from a call box on the main eastern highway, by the junction with Beehive Lane. Charlie Alpha two was in the vicinity, so Control sent him over to investigate."

  "Charlie Alpha two!" snorted Frost. "It was probably those silly sods who scared him off in the first place."

  "They were on patrol, Inspector," cut in Mullett,
icily, ever protective of the reputation of his uniformed men, "and fully entitled to be where they were."

  "With you one hundred per cent, Super - all the way - they're the salt of the earth," murmured Frost, blandly. Mullett was convinced Frost was being sarcastic, but before he could think of a suitable rebuke, bearing in mind that there were others present, Control buzzed through on the internal phone. Charlie Alpha two was reporting in.

  Frost signaled for Clive to switch on the monitor speaker.

  "Hello, Control. Charlie Alpha two. We're at the phone box at the junction of Beehive Lane and Eastern Highway. We've had a good look round. No one in the vicinity."

  Frost spoke over the internal phone to the controller and asked if there was any way Charlie Alpha could keep the phone box under observation without being seen. Control relayed the message and the reply came over the monitor speaker.

  "Yes - there are some trees a little way up the road. We can tuck the car behind them. It's some distance from the phone box, but we'll have a clear view."

  "Right, they can wait there until he comes back," ordered Frost.

  "Bloody heck!" acknowledged the voice over the speaker before Control cut it off.

  Frost stripped the cellophane from his second packet of twenty that day and offered them around. "We can't do much until he phones again."

  Martin shook his head gloomily. "The odds are he'll use another phone box."

  Frost tapped his cheek and expelled a salvo of smoke-rings. "You don't have to be so bloody pessimistic, George, just because I'm in charge. Count your blessings. We've had a lovely spate of phone-box vandalism recently over sixteen cases in the last couple of days. He'll have a job finding another box that works, so, as long as Charlie Alpha doesn't do anything daft like leaving its blue light flashing, we might nab him yet." Then remembering, he turned to Mullett. "Sorry, Super - I'm neglecting you."

  Mullett flashed perfect teeth. "That's all right, Inspector, only I'm expecting the Chief Constable to ring and I rather wanted to know how you got on with this Wendle woman."

  "Oh - it was quite interesting, actually. We had a stance. According to her spiritual snouts, the kid's buried in Dead Man's Hollow."

  "Dead Man's Hollow?" breathed Mullett in eye-blazing excitement. "Did you take a look?"

  "Well, we looked at the four feet of snow covering it and it looked pretty much like the snow covering everywhere else."

  "Organize a digging party," called Mullett over his shoulder as he made for the door. "I'll phone the Chief Constable right away."

  As the door clicked shut, Frost exploded. "A bloody digging party! As if we didn't have enough to do. I'm throwing a little digging party, just a few friends - do come. Informal dress, just boots and shovels."

  "Shall I put it in hand?" asked Martin.

  "No, I'll see to it, George." He tugged his steaming scarf from the radiator. "Done to a turn!" Then he called across to Clive. "Important job for you, son. Nip up to the canteen and bring a couple of cups of tea to the office. I'll be along as soon as I've seen the station sergeant." He clattered out and along the corridor.

  "How much longer has the stupid bugger got to go?" asked Clive.

  The room went silent.

  "What did you say, Constable?" the detective sergeant's eyes were cold.

  "He wouldn't last five minutes in London."

  "I can understand how you got your nose broken, Barnard. Go and fetch his bloody tea and see if you can do that without bitching."

  The station sergeant could only spare two men to help with the digging until he learned that Mullett and the Chief Constable were taking a great interest in the outcome, then he managed to rake up two more and the four "volunteers" were sent to wrap up warm and collect their shovels from the stores.

  Frost returned to his office to see if anyone had taken pity on him and had removed some of his paperwork, but another pile had been added, held down by a cup of tea. He took the cup of tea and two personal letters with local postmarks and leaned against the radiator where the hot pipes baked steam from his sodden trouser legs. He raised the cup to his lips, then shuddered. The tea was stone cold.

  A fumbling at the door handle, then two steaming cups poked through followed by Clive Barnard who kicked the door shut behind him.

  "Sorry I've been so long, sir. I had to wait for the digging party to be served first."

  Frost returned to his desk and accepted the hot tea gratefully. "Thought you'd already been, son." He stirred up the thick mud of sugar at the bottom of the cup, then he suddenly realized what the cryptic note on the back of the envelope meant - "Check Aunt - Tea". Of course, Farnham, Mrs. Uphill's regular, was supposed to have gone to his aged aunt's for a nice spot of anti-climax after thirty quid's worth of strenuous exercise and his story hadn't been checked. Clive was detailed to attend to this right away.

  "Take the car, son - I'll be going in the van with the grave-diggers. When you've seen the old dear, come down to Dead Man's Hollow and join in the fun. I reckon we'll have to dig down to Australia before we find anything, though." He was to remember this remark afterward. When he was wrong, he certainly was wrong.

  Clive's hand was on the door handle when Frost had another thought. "She's probably old and nervous, so you'd better have a woman P.C. along with you. Take the same one as before . . ."

  Clive's face lit up. "Hazel!"

  "Blimey," said Frost, "Don't tell me I've done something right for a change. Don't let anyone catch you smiling, son, they might think you're enjoying working with me."

  As the door closed, Frost ripped open the two envelopes, but he knew it was just to delay what he had to do. Both Christmas cards. He dropped them on the desk, then steeled himself to pull open the top right-hand drawer of his desk. His heart sank when he saw what he expected to see.

  A quick tap and the door opened before he could say "Come in."

  "I've come for the empty cups, sir." It was Keith Stringer, the young P.C. from the front office.

  Frost waved a hand to the window ledge.

  "You didn't drink your tea, sir . . ." Mildly reproachful.

  Frost looked up wearily. "Sorry, son, by the time I got here it was cold. Hold on a minute, would you? Put the cups down . . . shut the door."

  The young man looked puzzled, but did as he was told.

  Frost's thumb indicated a chair. "Sit down." He slid a packet of cigarettes across the desk.

  "I don't smoke, sir."

  The inspector grunted and took one himself. "Keith isn't it - Keith Stringer?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Hmm." Frost rubbed his chin and patted some papers into a neat pile. Outside in the car park the sound of a car door slamming. Frost sighed and shook his head sadly.

  "Tell me, son, how much money have you pinched in total - to within a couple of quid, say?"

  Stringer's eyes widened. He searched the inspector's face for a hidden smile . . . it was a joke, of course. Frost met the gaze steadily. Stringer sprang to his feet, face hot, lips compressed.

  Frost crashed his fist on the desk. "Sit down." The young constable jerked back in his chair, seething with resentment.

  Frost stubbed out the cigarette and poked the butt back into the pocket. "Look son, you probably think me useless and decrepit, and perhaps you're right, but I'd be a real right twit if I couldn't solve a simple case of someone nicking money from my desk drawer . . . money that's always missing after you've been in with the tea . . ."

  Eyes blazed. "I'm not staying here to be insulted, sir. I'm reporting this to the Police Federation Representative, so if you want to say anything further to me . . ."

  The inspector knocked Stringer's hand from the door handle, grabbed him by the tunic, and slung him back in his chair. His eyes were soft and reproachful, his voice calm. "I'll call the Divisional Commander if you like, son, and tell him I want your pockets searched. You see . . . I marked the money . . ."

  Stringer flinched and, as if a plug had been pulled, the color dra
ined from his face. Defiance shriveled and he crumpled in the chair.

  The door opened and the station sergeant's head poked round. "They're ready, Jack . . ." he began, then he felt the electric tension in the air. His head swivelled from the white-faced constable to the stiff figure of Frost behind the desk, the scar on his cheek twitching.

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  The questioning raised eyebrows were ignored, so the head withdrew tactfully and the door closed.

  Frost relit the cigarette butt and sat on the corner of his desk, dribbling the smoke from his nose. "It's not only my money, son. What about that tramp we found dead - the poor old sod whose quid you pinched? If he had had that quid he might have found himself lodgings for the night and still be alive. He was hunched up in a wooden hut, no bigger than a coffin, frozen to death."

  The constable buried his face in his hards.

  Frost's face was touched with pity. "But if it's any consolation, son, I can't see old Sam wasting a good quid on rubbish like food and lodgings . . . The odds are he'd have blown it on bottles of cheap wine and drunk himself to death a few seconds before the cold got him. So you haven't really got his death on your conscience . . . only the fact that he died knowing a copper had stolen his money, and when he came to us to complain, we insulted him and sent him off with a flea in his ear. I hope you feel as rotten about it as I do."

  Stringer raised his head from his hands. "What are you going to do, sir?"

  Frost pinched out the butt and flicked it into his wastepaper basket. "That depends on you, son. You'd better tell me about it."

  The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, said "Later", and dropped it back on the rest. The young man was staring at the floor, lips quivering, but no words came.

  "I'll give you a start to help you, son. Now I'm a rotten driver. When I drive, my eyes are anywhere but on the road. I see lots of things that don't make sense at the time, but I file them away in my mind for future reference. More than once I've seen you coming out of Sammy Jacobs' Betting Shop. Not that there's anything wrong with the odd bet, of course, providing you know when to stop - and providing you visit the shop during business hours. But I've seen you coming out when the shop has been closed."