Frost pulled his scarf up so it covered his nose and hoped it would filter off some of the aromas. "That skeleton you kindly put us on to, Miss Wendle. You were working at Bennington's when he was killed, weren't you?"
She suddenly stared at him intently. "You miss your wife a lot, don't you, Inspector?"
Clive had never seen Frost so angry before. The inspector was trembling with rage. "Keep that bloody claptrap to yourself, you wicked cow." Then he swallowed hard and regained control. "Sorry - it's a painful subject. July 1951. Tell me about the robbery."
She wiped her hands on a grimy tea-towel. "I was accused of not passing on a vital message. The message was never given to me."
"What vital message?" asked Frost.
"It's in your file," she said.
That means I'll have to read the bloody thing, thought Frost, and Clive, feeling he had been silent long enough, asked "Is that why they sacked you, Miss Wendle - because you didn't pass this message on?"
"That was the excuse they used," she said bitterly, fastening her eyes on the younger man, "but the truth was, I knew too much about the manager and his business."
"His business?" prompted Clive.
"Yes. You can't help overhearing the odd snippet when you work on a switchboard. That son of his was always phoning the manager up."
"What about?"
"Money. He was always whining for money. I can still hear that wheedling voice." She gave a grotesque imitation. " 'You've got to help me, Dad, I must have the money tonight.' The manager falsely accused me of listening in to his calls." A self-satisfied smile crawled across her face. "But he was punished for his wickedness."
One of the more unpleasant-looking cats had discovered Frost's leg and was rubbing up against it.
"How was he punished?" asked Clive.
Her eyes went blank as she savored the recollection. "His son committed suicide, didn't you know?" She chose that moment to look down as Frost's foot was swinging and her expression changed abruptly to acid hate. "You dare touch that animal!" She scooped the cat up and hugged it protectively to her chest. "I'm glad your wife died," she spat. " Now get out!"
Frost gave her a look of contempt. "You nasty bitch!"
"Go!" she said, and squeezed the cat until it squealed in protest.
The long plod back to the car in the wind blew away the smell of fish and cats and hatred.
"How did she know about your wife, sir?" asked Clive.
"Not from the bloody spirits, son, that's for sure. It was in all the local papers at the time - 'Police Hero's Wife Dies - Funeral Pictures Page 8'. It was probably wrapped round her fish heads." He said nothing for a while, then, "My wife was beautiful when I first met her, you know. I wasn't such a bad catch myself - not the ugly sod I am now," and his hand went to his cheek.
Throughout the drive back he was deep in thought and kept touching his scarred face; then, as they rumbled down the hill to the Market Square, "Tell me something honestly son. This scar, it doesn't make me look too bad, does it?"
"You can hardly notice it, sir," said Clive, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Frost looked unconvinced. His fingers felt, pushed and poked. "I can't leave the damn thing alone. The doc says I could have plastic surgery, but between you and me, I'm a bloody coward. I'm terrified of hospitals. I keep having this nightmare - I'm being wheeled into the operating theater where the surgeon's waiting with blood on his gown and I try to move, but I'm strapped down, and I can see all the knives and hooks and things in a kidney bowl, and I try and yell, and then I wake up in a cold sweat."
Control came through on the radio. "Would Inspector Frost report to the Divisional Commander at once, please?"
Frost sighed. "No wonder I get bloody nightmares. What have I done wrong now?"
WEDNESDAY (4)
Superintendent Mullett's knuckles drummed his desk top in a gesture of impatient irritation. How much longer was he expected to wait? Other officers treated a summons from their Divisional Commander as tantamount to an Imperial Decree, dropping everything in their eagerness to obey it, but Frost . . .
A rap at the door. At last! Even the knock was slovenly.
A pause as the blotter was moved fractionally to dead center and the silver-buttoned tunic pulled down to pristine smoothness.
"Come in."
And in he slouched, trailing that matted woolen scarf, disintegrating at one end. His shoes made damp marks on the carpet.
Mullett flicked a disdainful hand to a chair. Frost sat on the edge, apprehensively.
"I've just spoken to the head of Forensic," snapped Mullett.
"Oh?" asked Frost innocently, yet knowing what was coming. That slimey sod in Forensic, trust him to waste no time in whining direct to Mullett.
"Do you know how much it costs to send out a full, experienced team like that?"
If I don't, I'm sure you're going to tell me, thought Frost, adopting an attitude of interested concern while slipping his hand into his trouser pocket to play the game of counting his small change by touch alone. It gave him something to occupy his mind while waiting for the superintendent to finish his moan.
". . . You panicked and you blundered. Even the newest member of the force would have checked first before calling out a complete forensic team to look at a dead cat."
Fifty-three pence, thought Frost. Now let's see if I can stack them with heads on one side and tails on the other.
"It wouldn't be so bad if we could keep the shame of your incompetence within the division, but now the press have got hold of the story. I've already had a reporter from the Echo asking for details. We'll be a complete laughing stock. It'll be all over County tomorrow, and if the Chief Constable reads it . . ."
. . . bang goes your promotion, thought Frost, but aloud he said, "Sandy Lane's a pal of mine, Super. If it worries you so much I might be able to get him to drop the story."
Mullett was so delighted he forgot to wince at the "Super." "Excellent. And I can handle the head of Forensic--we belong to the same Lodge." He beamed and stood to indicate that the interview was over. "We all make mistakes, but the secret is the ability to put them right, eh?"
Frost dragged himself up. He was tired and his wet trousers were sticking clammily to the backs of his legs. He wanted to get back to his own office.
"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 £20,000 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 dam
p 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."
Clive'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 . . ."
Powell's bungalow was pre-war, originally jerry-built as a cut-price weekend retreat for town-dwellers who possibly paid less than £100 for it new, and who didn't get a bargain. Its woodwork was cracked and warped, the paint peeling and flaked, and the entire structure was in a deplorable state of repair. A gloomy, isolated dwelling. A retired bank manager should have been able to afford something much better in which to spend the autumn of his days.
Frost knocked and was answered by a sharp, suspicious voice from within. "Who's that?"
"Police, Mr. Powell. Can we have a few words?"
A warrant card was demanded and Clive's new issue got another airing as a hand poked through the chained door to examine it. Apparently satisfied, Powell freed the door of its fetters and stood revealed, a tall man, bushy eyebrowed and gray mustached with a voice that retained the honed edge of authority. Then they realized he was leaning to one side, supporting his weight on a stick - the sort of stick you would use to smash in the head of a golden retriever, thought Frost grimly.
"Don't just stand there, come in," barked Powell, hobbling his way up a gloomy passage where a low-wattage bulb in an ancient glass shade struggled vainly against the dark and the depressing brown varnished wallpaper.
From the back of the house a woman's voice called thinly, "Who is it, John?"
"Two policemen, dear. About this Fawcus business, I imagine. I'll take them into the lounge. Perhaps we could have some coffee."
He rested on his stick and opened a side door from which an atmosphere of cold clamminess wafted out like mist from a swamp. He ushered them into a miserable room with faded wallpaper, a damp ceiling, and a settee covered in well-worn, brown leathercloth that creaked and exhaled a strange musty odor wh
en they sat on it.
Powell made hard going of bending down and switching on a meager electric fire "We don't use this room much, I'm afraid. Strikes a bit cold at first." He stiffly lowered himself into a matching armchair facing them and, clasping his hands firmly over the top of this stick, regarded them with forceful eyes. "Well, gentlemen?"
"You know about Timothy Fawcus then, Mr. Powell?" asked Frost.
The old man nodded. "Read about it in the paper this morning. A dreadful shock. I've been expecting you all day."
"Sorry about that, sir," said Frost, "but we've had the odd shock ourselves. You read he was shot?"
Another nod. "And everyone thought he had absconded with that money. In spite of all the evidence, I never saw him as a thief. A nice lad, a damned good chap." He bowed his head and sniffed deeply. "And for more than thirty years he's lain in an unmarked grave, falsely accused." He fumbled for a handkerchief and trumpeted loudly.
"It's very sad, sir," agreed Frost. "Do you own a gun by any chance?"
Powell stared angrily "No!" he snapped.
Frost beamed back affably. "How well do you remember the day of the robbery, Mr. Powell?"
Powell shifted his grip on the walking-stick and smiled thinly. "I'll never forget it, Inspector. Some people remember only pleasant days My recollections seem to be all the awful ones." A cloud passed over his face and he sank into silence.
"It would help if you could tell us about it," said Frost.
Powell brought up his head slowly. "The story really starts the night before "
Clive consulted the notes he had garnered from the various files. "This would be July 25, 1951, sir?"
"That's right, Constable July 25, 1951 We were living in Peacock Crescent then Lovely house, backing onto the golf course."
"I know it," chimed in Frost. "Very select."
Powell permitted himself a wry smile. "Yes. Rather different from this place." His nose wrinkled with distaste as he looked round the funereal room. "I got home from the bank about six o'clock. As I entered the house the phone started ringing. It was Stephen Harrington, manager of our Exley branch, in a rare old panic. He wanted to know if we could help him out with a very large cash transfer the following day."
Frost 1 - Frost At Christmas Page 23
