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 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.”
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, st
range 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 when 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.”
“How large was ‘very large’?” Frost asked.
Powell sighed with impatience. “£20,000. We’re talking about the money that was stolen, Inspector. Surely you know the basic facts.”
“I know them, sir, but my young colleague’s a bit vague. I’m asking for his benefit. Why did he want so much cash transferred in such a hurry?”
“Factory wages. Most of the factories in Exley were closing down for their annual holidays that weekend and the workers expected to be able to draw three weeks’ wages and holiday pay. Harrington had forgotten to take this into account with his cash stocks. Damned inefficient. Would have served him right if I’d turned him down. That would have put him in serious trouble with head office.”
Frost shifted his position on the settee where a protruding spring was getting sharply rude. “Twenty thousand quid seems a hell of a lot of money just for pay packets, Mr. Powell. I mean, we’re talking about 1951.”
“Three weeks’ money for six hundred employees. Work it out for yourself,” said Powell. Frost stared into space, moving his lips silently as if mentally calculating, then nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said in an enlightened voice, hoping Powell wouldn’t ask him what answer he’d arrived at.
Powell went on with his story. “It’s not unusual for branches to help each other out with these cash transfers, but rarely with anything like this sum of money. But you can imagine the outcry if the factories had to tell their men they wouldn’t get paid before their holiday.”
“Surely this chap Harrington was cutting it a bit fine,” said Frost. “I mean, phoning you after six the evening before he wanted the money. Suppose you only had one and eightpence in the till—what then?”
“He would have had to try other banks farther afield. Any of the big five would have helped, but then our head office would have to be brought into the picture and that was the last thing Harrington wanted.”
Frost sniffed scornfully. “He doesn’t sound much of a manager to me.”
“Well,” said Powell with a deprecating smile, “his staff seemed to like him, but there was no discipline, and he just couldn’t cope with the paperwork. You know the type.”
“Er—yes,” answered Frost, avoiding Clive’s eyes, “I know the type.”
A timid scratch at the door, a rattle of cups, and Mrs. Powell entered carrying, with shaking hands, a wooden tray on which were three cups of coffee and a plate of plain biscuits. The men rose politely, Powell leaving his stick and staggering over to relieve her of the tray.
“My wife, gentlemen.”
Mrs. Powell, gray-haired with a careworn face, hovered anxiously as they stirred their coffee. Frost took one sip and nearly choked. It was diabolical, a thinned-down reheat of some earlier brew. He gulped it down like medicine and wished he had something to take the taste away.
“Is it all right?” asked Mrs. Powell.
“What lovely cups,” said Frost.
This seemed to be a hit and she smiled with pleasure. “One of the few things we brought with us from the old house, my beautiful crockery and the car.” She plucked at her dress. “Thank goodness we have the car. I’d go mad stuck in this terrible place without it.” She caught her husband’s eye then looked away, biting her lip. Excusing herself, she left them.
Powell stared at his right leg. He declined the cigarette Frost offered him. “Right, Inspector. We come to the day of the robbery. July 26, 1951.”
Frost dribbled out three smoke-rings and watched proudly as they wafted over to Powell in perfect formation. �
�Before you go any further, sir, why didn’t you warn the police you were sending £20,000 by road?”
Powell flicked away the smoke-rings with an irritated gesture. “This was 1951, Inspector. We didn’t have security vans, armed guards, or bandits with shotguns. We were civilized. We had the death penalty and life was a lot safer for the law-abiding.”
“It didn’t turn out very safe for the skeleton, sir,” murmured Frost.
Powell’s long fingers kneaded his leg muscle. “I’ve had thirty-two years to reproach myself over that, thank you. At the time I considered the fewer people who knew about the transfer the better. It was all arranged at the last minute, it was a very short car ride and there were several alternative routes that could be used. I wouldn’t even fix a time for the operation until about half an hour before. It was hardly giving the criminal element a chance.”
“But they didn’t do too badly in spite of all your precautions, did they?”
The old man’s face hardened. “I hadn’t allowed for the thief being a member of my own staff.” He hesitated. “At least, that’s what we’ve thought for the past three decades. If it wasn’t Fawcus, then I don’t know what went wrong.”
The coldness in the room was damp and insinuating. Frost pulled his scarf tighter. “Apart from yourself, sir, and the manager at Exley, who knew about the transfer?”
“Until I told Fawcus and Garwood, nobody.”
“What about the people at the Exley branch?”
“I don’t know. Harrington was emphatic he’d told no one, but . . .” He compressed his lips and spread his palms significantly. “Help yourself to a biscuit, Inspector.”
Frost took one. It was stale and soggy, a perfect complement to the coffee. He hid it in his pocket to avoid giving offense, and brushed imaginary crumbs from his lips. “Scrumptious, sir. But please go on.”
Frost At Christmas Page 24
