Frost At Christmas

by R D Wingfield

“The twenty-sixth of July. A blazing hot day, clear blue sky, just the hint of a breeze. We don’t seem to have days like that any more.” A pause as Powell’s mind traveled its long journey into the past. “I’d briefed Fawcus and Garwood and told them to get the money ready. They brought it into my office a few minutes after eleven. I locked and bolted my door, drew the blinds, doublechecked the money, then watched them pack it into the security case.”

  “This would be the steel case we found chained to the skeleton’s wrist?” asked Frost.

  Powell frowned at the interruption. “Of course. I personally double-locked it.”

  “How many sets of keys were there?”

  “Two. I had one set, Harrington at Exley the other. I had decided they wouldn’t leave in the pool car until 12:30, but as an added precaution I wouldn’t inform Exley until five minutes after they had left. So I snapped the chain on Fawcus’s wrist and instructed him and Garwood to wait in my office until the dot of 12:30. Then I left for my appointment.”

  Frost drowned his cigarette in the coffee cup a fraction of a second before Powell pushed the ashtray over. “What appointment, sir?”

  Exasperation rippled across the old man’s face. “It’s in your files, man. Your chaps checked and doublechecked it at the time. I had to go to a funeral.”

  “Whose funeral?”

  “Old Mrs. Kingsley’s. One of our largest private accounts and a dear personal friend. If it wasn’t for that I’d have stayed to see the money off, but I had to go. Before I left I tied up all the loose ends. I told our telephonist—now what was her name? A horrible woman.”

  “Martha Wendle?” suggested Frost.

  “Wendle! Of course! A proper troublemaker. She was told to phone Exley five minutes after Fawcus and Garwood left with the money. If she had carried out my instructions it might have made some difference, but afterwards she swore black was white that I hadn’t given her the message. I got back from the funeral a little after two o’clock. The first thing I did was to ask if the transfer had gone off all right. I was told by one of my clerks that they had left on the dot of 12:30, but were not yet back.”

  “Were you immediately worried because they hadn’t returned?”

  “No. Why should I be? They’d only been gone an hour and a half. They were entitled to an hour for lunch and I assumed they were taking it in Exley before driving back. Nevertheless, I got the Wendle woman to phone and ask what time they had arrived. She was dialing the number when Harrington came through on the other line. He wanted to know what the arrangements were, as it was getting very tight for time. The factory wages clerks were due at three. I realized that, contrary to my instructions, Martha Wendle hadn’t phoned when they left, but overriding that was the chilling fact that they hadn’t arrived!” His face relived the horror of that moment. “I can remember going quite cold. A blazing hot day and I was shivering, and Harrington saying ‘Hello? . . . Hello?’ out of the phone.”

  He stretched his hands to the dull glow of the electric fire. “I can remember, to my shame, hoping they might have had some minor accident, but that the money was safe. I phoned the police. They put a search in hand right away. They found the car in a lane off Denton Road, young Garwood slumped across the wheel, Fawcus and the money gone. The police asked me to check that I still had the keys to the security case. I opened the safe in my office where I had put them. They were not there.”

  Clive looked up from his notebook. “Fawcus was able to open your safe, wasn’t he, sir?” He had read the file a little more thoroughly than his inspector who was nodding as if he was just going to ask that himself.

  The old man gritted his teeth and moved his right leg with his two hands. “Yes, he had his own safe key.”

  “What’s up with your leg?” asked Frost.

  Powell’s eyes iced over. “If you must know, I had a stroke three years ago. At one time I couldn’t walk at all.”

  “Oh,” said Frost, “I thought it might have been a dog bite. While I think of it, you had a caretaker. What was his name, son?”

  “Albert Barrow,” supplied Clive.

  “That’s it, Barrow. My colleague was wondering if it was significant that Barrow went missing shortly after the money vanished.”

  Powell thought for a moment. “I remember him—bald and shifty. After he left we checked his stores and found that goodness knows how many packets of tea, towels, toilet rolls, etc., were missing. Been helping himself. We’d suspected it for some time. He even had the cheek to go and get himself a job at another of our branches six months later. He cleaned them out as well.”

  “Exactly what I suggested to my colleague,” said Frost, beaming at Clive.

  Powell fumbled for an old-fashioned pocketwatch which he consulted pointedly. “If that is all, Inspector.”

  “Sadly it’s not, sir.” Frost worried at his scar. “We’re now left with rather a tricky question. If Fawcus didn’t pinch the money, then who did? Who shot him and chopped his arm off? Who had the opportunity, and the motive?” He cleared his throat. “Now, apart from yourself, very few people knew about the transfer, let alone the exact details.” He paused. The old man, his face set, his eyes hard and expressionless, said nothing. Undeterred, Frost plunged into the icy water right up to his neck. “You, for example, sir, had opportunity . . .”

  He got no further. With the aid of his stick, Powell heaved himself up and towered over the seated inspector, quivering with rage. He stretched a hand to the door. “Get out! Do you hear me? Get out of my house!”

  Frost didn’t budge. He lit another cigarette, leaned back, and waited. The effort of standing proved too much. Powell’s body sagged and he sank into his chair, fighting to control his breathing.

  Frost continued as if nothing had happened. “It’s got to be said, sir, whether you chuck us out or not. You had the opportunity, didn’t you?”

  A weary hand fluttered limply to indicate the miserable room. “Look around you, Inspector. This cold, depressing room. If I had stolen £20,000, do you think I’d be living in a pigsty like this?”

  Frost lowered his eyes and found the name on his cigarette of consuming interest. “Now we come to motive, sir. You may not have wanted the money for yourself, but I understand you had a son.”

  Wind roared down the chimney and rustled the crumpled paper in the fireplace. Powell gnawed at his lower lip, then dragged himself over to an old, dark oak bureau in the corner. A key from his watchchain unlocked it and, from the bundles of papers stuffed in pigeonholes, he pulled a photograph, which he passed over to the inspector. It showed a young man in R.A.F. uniform, a peaked cap at a rakish angle over devil’s eyes, and an Errol Flynn pencil mustache under the Powell nose.

  “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 Clive’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?”

  “We’re following up several leads,” trotted out Frost, trying to think of just one.

  “Tomorrow, Jack, we’ll have a proper lunch The sky’s the limit—up to a tenner a head. Now, off the record, what leads have you got?”

  “Damn all,” said Frost, “and that’s exaggerating. You keep your lunch and give me some information instead. Do you remember a bloke called Powell, Manager of Bennington’s back in 1951?”

  “Stuck-up sod.” recalled Sandy. “His son killed himself.”

  Frost stripped the cellophane from a fresh packet and offered a cigarette to the reporter. “Tell me about the son.”

  Sandy tugged an ear in thought. “A bloody hero during the war but a near crook after it. He started up this dubious investment company, then blew most of his clients’ money on horses and women. Criminal charges, would have been preferred if the old man hadn’t stepped in and made his losses good. Had to sell his house and they now live in a wooden hut in Denton Road.”

  Ash dropped from Frost’s cigarette to his coat. He spread it about with his hand. “And, in spite of the old man’s sacrifices, he kills himself?”

  “Yes—in front of a tube train. They had to scrape him off the rails. He still owed a couple of thousand then, but the old man dug a little deeper and got it together somehow and all the creditors were satisfied.” He looked up. “Hello—that bloke with the wonky hooter—isn’t he your assi
stant?”

  And it was Clive, wending his way through the maze of desks, a scowl of urgent agitation on his face. Frost excused himself to Sandy and hurried over to the detective constable.

  “What’s up, son?” Then he noticed the smoldering anger.

  “Not here, sir—outside,” and Clive spun on his heels leaving Frost to trot dutifully after him. In the street the young man stopped and, with eyes blazing, almost snarled at his superior officer.

  “You and your bloody hunches!”

  When the hospital phoned him about his wife, he knew. Before he picked up the phone, he knew . . . and he knew now. He held his breath to still the churning turmoil within.

  “What is it, son?”

  “Tracey Uphill. They’ve found her. She’s dead!”

  The wind groaned and wailed.

  He knew where they’d found her, but he had to ask.

  “Where, son?”

  “Where do you bloody-well think? Stuffed in that trunk at the vicarage, along with the filthy books and the pornographic photographs.”

  WEDNESDAY (5)

  The car screamed round the corner and juddered to a halt outside the front door of the vicarage where other cars were parked, including the Divisional Commander’s blue Jaguar with its damaged rear wing.

  A uniformed man at the door saluted “Second floor, Inspector, first door.”

  They took the stairs two at a time and pushed into the vicar’s photographic studio where a silent group of men clustered around the opened cabin trunk Frost barged through and looked down into the staring, frightened eyes of eight-year-old Tracey Uphill, who was no longer pretty. A swollen tongue protruded obscenely from her twisted mouth. She wore her warm blue coat but would never be warm again. Frost gently touched the marble flesh with probing fingertips. The flesh was soft. He spotted the doctor at the back of the group and looked to him in mute enquiry.

  “Rigor mortis has gone, Jack, so I reckon she’s been dead since Sunday. You’ll need a P.M. to pin it down to the hour, but the pathologist should be here shortly. We’ve had to drag him from a Christmas dance.”