“After you left tonight, son, I had a word with Sandy Lane. Something had been nagging me. Do you remember, when we were leaving Sandy’s office last night, that young reporter poked his head in and said he’d phoned the bank manager about finding the skeleton but he’d refused to give a statement? I thought, at the time, he meant Hudson, the current bank manager, but he didn’t—he meant Powell, the old one. So last night old-man Powell was one of the few people in Denton who knew we’d dug up Fawcus. He was also one of the few people in Denton who were actually involved in the 1951 robbery.”
“Apart from Garwood, sir.”
“Yes, son, but Garwood got himself shot, so I’m chancing my arm and removing him from my limited list of suspects. That leaves Powell. He claimed that the first he knew of Fawcus’s being found was when he read about it in this morning’s paper. So he lied. And a man who tells lies is the sort of man who wouldn’t hesitate to strike down a lovable golden retriever. Which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that Powell killed Garwood.”
Clive’s cigarette had burned down to the filtertip. He laid it to rest in the ashtray. “With respect, sir, it sounds very thin to me.”
“That,” said Frost, loosening his scarf, “is because my standards are a bloody sight lower than yours.”
Clive declined another cigarette. “But how does breaking into his house help?”
“I didn’t like the way he kept that tatty old bureau of his locked. He can’t keep valuables in there, the house is hardly burglar-proof.”
“He could keep insurance policies or securities, sir.”
“He could, son, but I’d guess he’d keep them in a safe-deposit box at the bank. As he’s my only suspect, I’m hoping he did the decent thing and killed Garwood and then ransacked his lounge, looking for something, which he found and now has locked up in his bureau. So I’ll take a look. If there’s nothing there, no harm done.”
There must be some way to talk him out of this sheer bloody madness, thought Clive. They’d be at Mead Cottage within minutes. “But, sir,” he exclaimed, “if Powell killed Garwood, then he also killed Fawcus—we know the same gun was used. So what has he done with the money, bearing in mind that £20,000 was worth a darn sight more back in 1951?”
“There,” said Frost, “you have put your finger on one of the many weak points in my theory. Thirty-two years ago you could go to town, have a woman, a plate of winkles, and a cup of tea, and still get some change from £20,000. But perhaps what’s hidden inside his bureau will provide the answer, because I can’t. Pull up here, son—the house is round the next bend.”
The car slowed and stopped. Clive switched off the engine and they heard the wind. “What exactly is the plan, sir?”
“You stay in the car, son. If there’s trouble, you don’t know anything. Now, I reckon I can open his lounge windows with a penknife and once inside I’ve got my spare keys for the bureau. A quick look, anything incriminating, and I lock up again and hoof it back here to pick you up. We then pay an official visit via the front door and demand he opens up the bureau for us. But if I find nothing, I swear fluently and we go home.”
“I think it’s a crazy idea,” said Clive.
“It’s bleedin’ mad, son, but it’s all I’ve got. Now slap some slush on the number plates, turn the car round, and keep the engine running. If I make my usual balls-up, we may have to attempt a quick getaway.” And then the car door opened and closed and Frost was away, up the road and swallowed in a swirl of snow, Clive reversed, switched off the lights, left the engine gently ticking over, and waited.
Frost was making too much noise. The rusty hinges on the front gate gave a jagged scream as he eased it open and the snow on the path seemed to creak and groan with each careful footstep. He kicked a milkbottle which rolled on and on and on. It was pitch dark alongside the house, but he daren’t risk his torch. It only wanted some silly sod of a public-minded citizen to dial 999 and Hornrim Harry would have kittens. He moved his hand along the wall until he found the projection of the sill to the lounge window. Pulling his glove off with his teeth he fumbled amongst the lumpy objects in his coat pocket to locate his penknife. What the hell was this? Oh—that soggy biscuit Powell had forced upon him. He found the knife and immediately dropped it and the snow swallowed it like a quicksand. Five wet, numbing minutes were wasted before his hand closed over it again, by which time the cold had sucked all feeling from his fingers and he had to warm them under his armpit before he dared trust them with the knife again.
The window catch refused to co-operate. He pushed the penknife until he was sure the blade was going to snap and his teeth ached with the effort of gritting them tightly. A bead of warm sweat trickled itchily down his nose and suddenly, a click, and it was done. Fingers under the window frame and lift. The bloody noise rumbled and rolled round the sleeping house. Someone must hear. He paused, head cocked, ready to run, holding his breath until it hurt, but no one stirred, no lights clicked on, so knee up on to the wet cold sill, leg over, and he was inside the dank funeral parlor of a lounge. Behind him the curtains flapped in the wind, as he moved cautiously toward the bureau. He pulled the keys from his pocket with a trembling hand that jangled them like a peal of bells, and then . . . What was that! A floorboard creaked overhead. He froze, not daring to breathe, ears straining, hearing the dull, too-fast pounding of his heart. No other sound. Just that one creak. He emptied his lungs slowly and gulped down fresh air. A small voice whispered “Danger . . . danger” over and over again and the open window pleaded with him. Out of the house, back to the car and off to bed. Let Inspector Allen solve the case and get the glory, the handshake, and the fat cigar from Mullett. His heart slowed to its normal pace, the small voice was still hissing insistently, but he ignored it. He’d got this far, he’d broken into someone’s house. If they were going to boot him out of the Force, let it be for something spectacular, not for being late with the sodding crime statistics.
He poked a key into the bureau lock. A pistol crack as the catch snapped back, but it was open. Resting his torch on the lowered flap he rummaged through the mess of papers inside, pulling a wad at random from a pigeonhole and finding them to be ancient household accounts, meticulously checked as if every penny counted. He dried his palms on his coat. How the hell was he going to find anything in this lot, especially as he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was looking for? There were so many papers, it would take hours to go through them. He pulled out another wad bound with an elastic band. Old bank statements, the microscopic balance at the end of each month just about able to keep its head above water before the next monthly lifebelt from the pension fund. It was no good. Finding a needle in a haystack would be easier than floundering through this lot. Well, at least he’d tried, he’d ram the papers back and go home.
And then the hairs prickled at the back of his neck. Someone was in the room with him.
Suddenly it was no longer dark and he was screwing up his eyes. The light had been switched on and Powell, in a thick, gray dressing gown over red-striped pyjamas, stood in the doorway leaning heavily on his stick. His face was outraged and angry.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?”
Frost shriveled inside his overcoat. He was caught red-bloody-handed, the window wide open where he had broken in, the bureau flap down, Powell’s private papers in his hand. He wouldn’t wait for Powell to report him, he’d write his resignation out that very night and hand it in to Mullett first thing in the morning and, in the circumstances, the Divisional Commander wouldn’t need to go through the sham of pretending reluctance and regret in accepting it.
But then he saw something that made his heart skip a beat and sent him smack bang on top of the world again.
Powell, in his left hand, was holding a Luger automatic pistol—and both Fawcus and Garwood had been killed by bullets fired at close range from a Luger automatic pistol.
“You’ve got a gun, sir?”
Powell gave a hollow laugh. “What, t
his? I thought you were a burglar. It looks real, doesn’t it, but it’s just an imitation,” and he dropped it into the pocket of his dressing gown. He stared hard at the open bureau. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Inspector.”
Frost should have got out—made any excuse, but got out. It wasn’t safe in here, but he was cold and tired and he wanted to get it over quickly.
He held out a hand. “Can I have a look at it, sir?”
“No!” snapped Powell.
“I think it’s the same gun you used to kill the other two men, sir.”
The old man looked at him with such incredulity that Frost was convinced he’d made a mistake, but the gun was now back in Powell’s hand and was pointing directly at Frost’s head, and it was the real thing, not an imitation, and the cold, calculating expression on Powell’s face was not an imitation either.
“You’re not as stupid as you look, Inspector. It was the case, wasn’t it? The fact that it was empty?”
Case? Empty? thought Frost, his mind still busy working out if he could jump the old man before the trigger was pulled. But he had an uneasy idea that the old man was not as slow or as lame as he made out. “You mean the case chained to the skeleton, sir—the money case?”
The hand holding the gun was rock steady, the knuckle of the trigger-finger white under tight skin. “Yes. As long as it was buried, I knew I was safe. But once it was dug up, even after thirty-two years, it would be so obvious.”
It’s not bloody obvious to me, thought Frost, his face impassive. Aloud, he said, “What did you do with the money, sir?” He looked around. “You clearly didn’t waste it on luxuries.”
The thin lips tightened. “I didn’t take it for myself, Inspector. I took it for my son. I know he was weak. I know he was a crook. But he was a war hero, a decorated war hero. He made us proud. For that I forgave him everything.” Powell’s shoulders straightened, his chin jutted, but the gun didn’t waver a fraction of an inch
“I’ve got a medal,” said Frost, hopefully.
The old man didn’t seem to hear him “My son thought he was clever, but the rubbish he mixed with were far cleverer. They took him for thousands. I won’t go into details, but in order to get him out of trouble he forged some signatures and misappropriated some £15,000 of his clients’ money.”
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 £10,000.”
“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 £5,000 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 £3,000 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 . . . £8,000 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 £10,000.”
“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 £8,000 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 uncons
cious, 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 cortège 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 cortège 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.”
Frost At Christmas Page 27
