Frost at Christmas (11 page)

   They hadn't heard Frost's footsteps clattering up the corridor. The door burst open.

   "Bloody mess?" he breezed. "Somebody must be talking about me." And then he greeted the station sergeant with unconcealed delight, but noticing Clive's crimson face.

   "Hairy Johnnie Johnson! Where have you been? I haven't seen you for weeks."

   "Spot of leave, Jack," beamed the sergeant. "Came back on duty Sunday night."

   "You get leave as well with your job? Who's been taking the bribes in your absence? I see you've met my assistant, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. And how's your charming and erotic wife?"

   "As charming and erotic as ever, thanks. She wants you to come for a meal one evening."

   "I daren't, Johnnie," demurred Frost. "You know the effect she has on me. But in any case, I can't go hobnobbing with mere sergeants any more. I've just been put in complete charge of the Tracey Uphill investigation." He folded his arms triumphantly.

   "You?" said Clive, trying not to sound incredulous.

   "Yes, son. I've just received the accolade from our lovable horn-rimmed commander in the old log cabin. Poor old Allen's been taken to hospital - shock from having a bath, if you ask me."

   The sergeant nodded approvingly. "Congratulations, Jack."

   "Mind you," continued Frost, "I've been given my orders. I'm to stay away from the press and the TV boys, I'm to report to Mullett every five minutes and do nothing without his written confirmation, but apart from that I've got a free hand." He sniffed. "Blimey, Johnnie, what are you smoking - mustache clippings?"

   Johnnie Johnson grinned. "Mr. Mullett wouldn't have put you in charge if he didn't think you could do it, Jack."

   Frost waved this aside. "Come off it, Johnnie, he was forced to give it to me. Who else is there?" He rammed a cigarette in his mouth and blazed the end with his lighter. "Be honest, if it wasn't for my damn George Cross he'd have had me out on my ear years ago." He remembered Clive and offered the packet. "Do you know about my medal, son?" He sucked at his cigarette and reflected. "Came in the nick of time it did. Mullett was all ready to give me the tin-tack in appreciation of a couple of my more spectacular balls-ups when I had my little moment of triumph. I must show you my medal sometime. They prefer you to get killed before they give it to you but make an exception if their stocks of them are building up."

   His cigarette was burning unevenly so he dabbed some spit on one side. "I'm famous now. Every time I get a mention in the local press, like 'Local Detective Sods Up Court Case," they add a little footnote about my medal. And that's why Mullett is forced to keep me on. The power of the press. He's afraid of seeing headlines like 'Handsome Detective Hero Gets Boot. Shabbily Treated by Horn-rimmed Bastard'."

   "He recommended you for promotion, Jack," insisted the sergeant.

   Frost sniffed scornfully. "Only because he thought the medal would give the division a bit of prestige. He forgot I was attached to the end of it. I bet he regrets it now, poor sod. Put those papers away, son. Let's have a look in Search Control."

   The station sergeant walked with them as far as the charge room where he again pressed Frost to come for a meal. "Peggy insists, Jack . . ."

   Later, Frost confided to Clive why he daren't accept the invitation. "I respect Johnnie too much. He's a nice bloke and thinks the world of her, but she's a bloody sex maniac. Sticks her nipple in your ear as she serves the
hors d'oeuvre
and rubs thighs under the tablecloth. Makes you dribble your soup. Anyone else but Johnnie's wife and I'd love it. I happen to know a couple of the lads pop round there when he's on duty. If he ever found out. . . ." He sighed sadly and let the sentence hang.

Search Control, housed in the old recreation room next to Mullett's office, was a tribute to Allen's organizing ability. Extra phone lines had been installed. There were teleprinters, photostat and duplicating machines, loudspeakers relaying messages from Divisional Control, large-scale wall maps marking the exact position of all search parties, cars, mobile and foot patrols, etc. Every incoming phone call was automatically timed and recorded on cassette. There was a direct line through to the G.P.O. Engineers in case any calls needed tracing. Color televisions, with stand-by black-and-white sets, monitored all news broadcasts. Nothing had been left to chance. In the event of a power failure a mobile generator came immediately into operation.

   Frost, the one contingency Allen hadn't allowed for, walked into the room, looked helplessly at the meticulous order and efficiency and, to everyone's relief, announced he would be leaving Allen's assistant in charge. The assistant was Detective Sergeant George Martin, a slow-talking, deep-thinking individual with a gurgling pipe that always set Frost's teeth on edge.

   Throughout the day Search Control had hummed with activity, phones continually busy with a constant stream of calls from the public, ever anxious to help with reports of sightings of the missing girl. Some of the sightings sounded hopeful, the majority just impossible, but all had to be logged, checked, and investigated. But with the dark came calm. Phones rang only occasionally. Tired men were able to catch up on their paperwork, grab a meal, plan for the next long day.

   Frost wandered over to George Martin. "Any luck with the woman in the fur coat?"

   Cinders erupted as Martin blew down his pipe stem. "Nothing yet, Jack." He pulled the pipe from his mouth and worried at it with a straightened paperclip. "You know . . ." poke, poke, ". . . I was thinking . . . Has Mrs. Uphill got a white fur coat?"

   Clive's eyes blazed. "You're surely not suggesting - "

   But Frost cut across him.

   "Mrs. Uphill? Now there's a thought." He considered it then shook his head. "No, George. It couldn't have been her who Farnham saw. He'd just left her in bed, counting her thirty quid, and he was galloping away all eager to have tea with his aunt. Which reminds me . . ." He jabbed a finger at Clive. "We've got to check with auntie, son, don't forget." He turned to Martin. "Tell you what we must do, George. Give details about the woman in the fur to the press."

   "Already done, Jack. Mr. Allen pushed it out as soon as he got your report."

   That efficient sod would, thought Frost. Aloud he said, "Just testing you, George."

   George smiled tolerantly and made disgusting bubbling noises in his pipe.

   "I'd get a plumber on to that," said Frost.

   A uniformed man at a desk in the corner finished a phone call then waved a half-eaten sandwich to attract attention. "Inspector!"

   Frost ambled over to him.

   "I've had my tea, thanks, Fred."

   The man grinned. "Something interesting, sir. You know we've been checking on child molesters and sexual offenders who've been involved with children. We want to find out where they were yesterday afternoon around 4:30."

   "I know I'm dim," moaned Frost, "but you don't have to explain everything to me. And what's in that sandwich - dead dog?"

   "Bloater-paste sir." He took a bite. "We've traced most of them and obtained statements." A wodge of handwritten foolscap was shaken free of crumbs. "Would you like to read them?"

   "No, I bloody-well wouldn't," cried Frost. "If I had the time to read I'd read a dirty book. What do they say?"

   "Most of them have alibis, sir, which we're checking on. But there was one chap we couldn't get hold of. Mickey Hoskins didn't turn up for work today."

   Frost's eyebrows soared. "Mickey Hoskins?" He whistled softly.

   "The area car's been to his digs a few times, but no one seems to be in. The neighbors say his landlady, Mrs. Bousey, is up in town shopping. They don't know about Mickey though. Haven't seen him since yesterday morning."

   "I want that car parked on Ma Bousey's doorstep," snapped Frost.

   "On its way, sir - Inspector Allen's orders."

   Double-sod Inspector Allen, thought Frost.

The area car returned at 9:07. This time the hall light was on and the milk had been taken in. Mrs. Bousey was back from her shopping expedition, but there was no light from the upstairs room occupied by her lodger, Mickey Hoskins.

   It was P.C. Mike Jordan's turn to knock. He put on his peaked cap and walked over to the house. A rat-tat at the knocker. Mrs. Bousey wheezed up the passage, flung open the door, and the stale smell of kippers escaped thankfully into the street.

   "Yes?" She was a short, fat woman with scragged-back hair and tiny deep-set eyes.

   "Mick in, Mrs. Bousey?"

   "Ain't been in since Sunday."

   "Oh?" Jordan took out his notebook. "What happened Sunday, then?"

   She coughed, holding the door handle for support. "Had his dinner, went out, never came back."

   "Unusual, wasn't it?"

   "He's paid his rent till Friday, so why should I worry?"

   "Can I take a look at his room?"

   "If you like. But it won't be available until Friday."

   He followed her into the stuffy kipper-scented atmosphere and up the worn linoed stairs. Mickey's room contained a bed, a wardrobe, a table, and a chair. On the table lay a paperback book with a lurid cover; a folded toffee paper acted as a bookmark. Alongside the book was an expensive all-wave transistor radio. A single suit of clothes and some ladies' underwear stolen from washing-lines swayed in the wardrobe.

   Jordan took out his personal transmitter and radioed Control.

"Highly mysterious," said Frost when George Martin brought him the news. "Nip down to records and get Mickey Hoskin's form-sheet, son."

   Martin waved Clive back. He'd brought the form-sheet in with him. Inspector Allen would have expected it automatically.

   Frost ran his eye down the long list of past convictions. Indecent Exposure, Indecent Assault, Posing as a Doctor, Obscene Phone Calls, Stealing Underwear, etc. etc. He pushed it from him distastefully. "He's a great one for exposing himself, isn't he? If mine was as small as his I'd 'keep it covered up." He pinched the skin of his cheek. "So not only are we looking for a woman in a white fur, we're also looking for a runaway toucher-upper. Perhaps they've eloped." He gave the form-sheet back to the sergeant. "Hang on to it, George, I've got enough paper of my own. And put out an All Patrols message for Mickey. I want him brought in."

   "Already done," said Martin, hurt. Why did Frost think he had to be told everything?

   Frost was trying to balance on the two back legs of his chair. "So Mick left Ma Bousey's
after
dinner? If he was in his right mind he'd have left before. I had to go there once to bring him in after he'd nicked thirty pairs of calico drawers from the convent clothesline. Ma Bousey was boiling up handkerchiefs and cooking a meat pudding in the same saucepan." He shuddered at the recollection. "I think the handkerchiefs came off worst."

   As Martin made his departure, Frost's chair crashed to the ground. He scooped up the top layer of papers from his desk and passed them over to Clive. "Try and find room on your desk for these, would you, son?"

   On top of the pile was a deckle-edged sheet of notepaper scrawled with green ink. Clive read it.

   Old Wood Cottage, Denton. Dec. 3

   To the Chief Policeman:

   Dear Sir,

   A lost soul in Limbo cries for Justice. The earthly Coroner may say Matthew Finch killed himself but the spirits know he was murdered. His Widow's hands are stained with GUILTY BLOOD.

   Yours sincerely, Marth Wendle 

   Clive read it again. He wasn't sure if it was meant to be a joke.

   "There's a special file for cranks," Frost told him.

   "Top drawer, I think. If there's no room, bung it in 'miscellaneous'. The woman's a bloody menace, always writing in about something. She's a witch or a spiritualist or some such. According to her, no one dies naturally. The graveyards are chockablock with murder victims and us dim sods are too thick to see it."

   Clive wasn't convinced. The letter seemed so definite. "This chap Finch, sir. Could it have been murder?"

   Frost pursed his lips and considered. "Impossible. That was one of Inspector Allen's cases and he never makes mistakes. Here, I was going to show you my tin medal, wasn't I?" He rummaged around in the wrong drawer. Clive was about to put him right but remembered just in time that he wasn't supposed to know. Frost stopped and looked into the opened drawer with a puzzled frown.

   "You haven't borrowed any of my money have you, son? No? Bloody odd. There was about 45p in small change. I keep it to pay for stuff I have sent down from the canteen. Fine bloody thing when your money isn't safe in a cop shop, isn't it?" He slammed the drawer shut and tried the next. "Ah, here it is." He passed the box over to Clive.

   "Hooked on my swelling chest by the regal hands of Her Majesty, that was. Thrilled my wife to bits when I got that."

   It was a silver cross hung on a dark blue ribbon, the words "For Gallantry" in the center. Clive asked him how he'd won it.

   Frost's fingers found the scar on his cheek. "Young tearaway he was, son. Forget his name. Held up Bennington's Bank over the road with a gun. He was a bit unstable - popped to the eyeballs on drugs. I mean, who in his right mind would pick a bank so near the cop shop? We were over there in seconds with truncheons drawn so we could knock the bullets out of the way when he started firing - one of those times when a cop wouldn't mind having a gun too, like they all do in America. Not that we'd know how to use the damn things."

   "There was a woman in the bank with a kid in her arms and a baby in a pram. He grabs her as a hostage and rams 'the gun in the kid's ear, then looks at us cops and dares Us to approach. We did all the clever things like telling him to be sensible and come and be arrested, but he just stands there, sweating and twitching and rolling his eyes. The woman was crying, the kid was screaming his head off, and the baby in the pram was gurgling. He was just itching for someone to step out of line so he could relieve the tension by pulling the trigger. Everyone saw that, except me. I thought, he's bluffing, so I marches over, bold as brass and dead ignorant. The yobbo switches the gun from kid to me. He was shaking from head to foot and the sweat was pouring off in buckets, from which I brilliantly deduced the gun wasn't loaded and all I had to do was to take it from him."