Frost at Christmas (5 page)

   "Who was that?" asked Clive.

   "That, Detective Constable Barnard," replied the station sergeant stiffly, "was Detective Inspector Jack Frost."

   A detective inspector? That slovenly mess? Clive began to feel much happier about his future prospects. After all, if they made tramps like that up to inspectors . . .

   The phone rang. Stringer stopped his typing and answered it. He listened then muffled the mouthpiece against his tunic.

   "Sergeant. It's the Divisional Commander. He wants to know if Inspector Frost is in yet."

   "Tell him no," said the sergeant. "And tell him there's a gentleman in a £107 suit waiting to see him."

"Send him in," snapped Mullett and banged down the phone. He stuck the "Private and Confidential" envelope back in his drawer. He had hoped to get the unpleasant interview with Frost over before he saw the new man. He shook his head in despair. How could you run an efficient station with men like Frost? And now, because of Inspector Allen's involvement with the search, Mullett was going to be forced to put the Chief Constable's nephew - the Chief Constable's actual nephew - under the dubious care of Inspector Jack Frost. It could spoil everything. True, the Chief Constable had a soft spot for Frost, but then he didn't have to work with him, to tolerate his appalling lapses, the unforgivable untidiness of his office, the tat tered clothes he wore, his hatred of paperwork and the system, his forgetfulness . . . But why go on? He was only working himself up. So long as the Chief Constable had faith, albeit misplaced, in Frost, then Mullett would conceal the man's true nature from him.

   Mullett, like Clive, was a career man, determined to rise to the top of his chosen profession. He'd joined the Force as a constable and, according to his charted plan, had steadily and diligently worked his way up the ranks, passing with ease all the necessary exams. In his spare time he, too, had taken a law course and was now a qualified solicitor.

   Because of his flair for leadership and organization, which he had taken pains to bring to the right people's notice, he'd been promoted three years ago to superintendent and given command of Denton Division. But this was but a stepping stone. In a few years' time the station would be demolished to make way for the enlargement of the new town and the force would move to a modern building currently under construction and would cover a much enlarged division. Whoever was in charge of the new division would be promoted to chief superintendent and would be in line for an even more glittering position when the Assistant Chief Constable retired.

   Mullett had planned that he would be the next Assistant Chief Constable. He was only too aware how easy it was to slip from grace when so near the summit, but this was not going to happen to him. The decisions and actions he took were made solely in the light of what was best for his career. Sometimes this was not the best thing for the division. But the division would survive: one wrong move and he wouldn't. For this reason, having the Chief Constable's nephew here was a bonus to be cherished. The chief was definite that he wanted the lad to be shown no favors, but Mullett knew how to interpret that. He would see that Barnard was recommended for early promotion entirely on his own merits. It might upset some of his own men with stronger claims, but it was a tough world and there was always another time.

   In the meantime he could congratulate himself on running a good division with some fine men under him; morale and discipline were excellent and crime figures were dropping. If only the division didn't include Detective Inspector Frost.

   A knock at the door interrupted his meditations.

   "Detective Constable Barnard. Welcome to Denton. Sit down, sit down."

   Clive blinked in astonishment at his first sight of the Divisional Commander's paneled office. Its opulence contrasted with the rest of the building like a silken patch on a manure sack. It was easy to see how the limited maintenance budget had been spent.

   Career-man Barnard shook hands with career-man Mullett, each liking what he saw. The Divisional Commander pressed a button, a bell tinkled faintly in the adjoining office, and his efficient secretary, Miss Smith, scurried in with a tray on which rattled a coffee pot and the bone-china cups that were reserved for important visitors.

   Mullett poured for both of them and was just raising his cup appreciatively to his lips when he caught sight of Clive's suit. He blinked, slipped on his reading glasses from his pocket, and peered again.

   "Ahem. Er . . ." Must play it carefully, it might be his uncle's choice. "I suppose the rest of your luggage is on its way with your - er - proper suit?"

   "Yes, sir, "lied Clive.

   The superintendent beamed and sipped happily from his cup. "I've been looking through your file . . . most impressive. And I see you're studying law. Couldn't do better. If I can help you in any way, lend you books--Archbold's
Criminal Pleading and Practice,
Green's
Criminal Costs,
plenty of others . . ."

   "Thank you very much, sir." Clive's stomach wished there were some biscuits to go with the coffee. "I'm looking forward to working under Mr. Allen."

   Mullett's face changed. He replaced his cup on its saucer and spooned in some more sugar. "Ah . . . There's been a slight change of plan I'm afraid. Inspector Allen is in charge of our missing-girl inquiry. We've a big search on. You wouldn't know about it, of course."

   Clive knew how to name-drop. "Young Tracey Uphill, sir? I was at the mother's last night with the chaps from Able Baker four."

   "Were you indeed? And before you'd officially joined us! That's what I like to see - keenness. But, as you'll appreciate, Inspector Allen won't be able to spare you any time at the moment, so I've arranged for you to work with our other Detective Inspector - Detective Inspector Frost."

   Oh no! Not that old tramp in the filthy mac!

   "He's a very experienced man." He stared past Clive and considered the grim vista of Eagle Lane framed in his picture window. "He . . . he had a personal tragedy last year . . . his wife. Devoted couple . . . very sad. He took it badly." Mullett's face saddened and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cancer. Nothing they could do, absolutely nothing. Shocking business."

   Clive nodded glumly and made appropriate noises of sympathy.

   "As I said, he took it badly. Naturally. You can't expect a tragedy like that not to leave its scars. I make allowances of course . . ." He picked up his stainless-steel paperknife and tapped the blade on his palm, racking his brains for something to say in his inspector's favor.

   "I'm sure he can teach me a lot," said Clive, without conviction.

   Mullett brightened up. "Yes. Sometimes just knowing the wrong way to do things helps. It shows the pitfalls to avoid. Not that Inspector Frost's ways are necessarily wrong, of course . . ." Realizing that the water was getting dangerously deep he struck out on a more promising tack. "Do you see much of your uncle?"

   Clive's answer was drowned in a roaring vibration of sound that made the building throb in sympathy. The two men ran to the window and craned their heads up to the sky.

   There it was, disappearing over the roofs of the three storied houses opposite. The promised helicopter.

Detective Inspector Frost swung his head to follow the flight of the helicopter as it thundered over the Market Square. He was making his way over to the doorway of Bennington's Bank where the beat constable and a stout little C.I.D. sergeant were examining signs of an attempted break-in. Crouched, with their backs toward him, they did not notice his approach. Frost paused. The tightly trousered posterior of the fat C.I.D. man was an irresistible target. He thrust forward a carefully aimed, stubby finger.

   "How's that for center?"

   The reaction was hair-trigger. The C.I.D. man shot up and spun around, his face glaring and crimson. Then he saw Jack Frost and all annoyance evaporated.

   "Oh. It's you, Jack!" He turned to the smiling beat constable with mock indignation. "Did you see what this dirty devil did?"

   Frost looked at his hand. "I wish you hadn't jumped up so suddenly, Arthur. You nearly bit the end of my finger off. Now move your pregnant stomach out of the way and let me have a look."

   The heavy wooden door to the bank showed raw gouges near the lock, as if something had been forced between the door and the jamb.

   Frost straightened up and scratched his head. "Something wrong here, Arthur. You don't try to break into a bank by jemmying the front door. Even a burk like me knows that."

   "It looks as though someone's had a go, though," insisted the fat sergeant, Arthur Hanlon, a jolly little Pickwick of a man without an enemy in the world.

   "No, Arthur," replied Frost, firmly. "Crooks aren't that stupid, and if they were it wouldn't be our luck to have them: they'd all be over at Bridgely Division signing confessions like there was no tomorrow." Bridgely Division, the blue-eyed boy of County Headquarters, had the lowest crime rate and the highest detection rate in the county.

   "Kids," suggested the constable, who didn't waste words.

   Frost considered this. "What time was the damage spotted?"

   The constable studied the report left by his colleague from the previous shift. "4:00 a.m., sir."

   "And when did he last notice it was all right?"

   Another consultation. "1:56 a.m., sir."

   Frost dug his hands deep into his pockets and sniffed. "There you are, then. It happened between two and four this morning. You won't get kids mucking about with banks at that time - too busy reading Noddy under the bedclothes or having gang-bangs. Did you have gang-bangs when you were a kid, Arthur?"

   Arthur giggled and shook his head.

   "Me neither. I used to count myself lucky if I had sex more than six times a night. Any prints?"

   "Millions of them, right back to the bloke who made the door."

   "You're never satisfied. Which reminds me, how's the wife and kids - looking forward to Christmas?"

   "Yes thanks, Jack," beamed Hanlon. "But what do you reckon we should do about this lark?" He indicated the door.

   "Forget it, Arthur. I'll ask the station sergeant to get his beat boys to keep their eyes open. They'll just have to sleep off-duty. Look out . . . the fuzz!"

   A police car hurtled across the road from Eagle Lane and squealed to a shivering halt outside the bank. The uniformed driver ran over to them.

   "It's this fat man, Constable," said Frost, grabbing Hanlon's arm. "He was trying to break into the bank. You can see the marks."

   The driver grinned dutifully. "Lot of panic at the station, sir. I think the Divisional Commander wants to see you."

A blur of maroon scarf dashed across the road.

   Sergeant Wells let out a sigh of relief as the panting figure staggered in, wheezing and gasping for breath.

   "I forgot all about the old sod, Bill."

   Wells licked a stub of pencil and pretended to make an entry in his notebook. "When cautioned, the prisoner replied 'I forgot all about the old sod.' "

   Another blast of cold air whooshed in as again the swing doors opened, this time to admit a ragged shriveled figure wearing an ex-army greatcoat many sizes too big and stiff with dirt. He shuffled over to the desk as if on crippled feet and brought with him a thick, disgusting smell.

   Frost's and the station sergeant's noses shuddered and wrinkled in unison.

   The object of their nasal displeasure thumped angrily on the counter with a hand dark with ingrained dirt, complaining shrilly, "Where's my bleedin' quid? Fine thing when the effing cops rob you, isn't it?"

   The station sergeant backed away until the wall stopped him, then spoke in the careful tones of an expert telling his pupil how to defuse a live bomb.

   "Now step back, Sam. Don't sit down. Don't touch anything. Just stand there . . . and whatever you do, don't move! Good. Now we've only got to disinfect that one little spot." He fanned his face vigorously with his notebook.

   The old tramp glowered with red-rimmed, watery eyes set deep in a gray-stubbled, leathery face.

   "Never mind the bleedin' insults. Where's my quid?"

   Wells held up a hand and explained patiently. "Now listen, Sam. You had six pence on you when we picked you up. Six pence is not a quid. A quid is one of these pieces of paper with the Queen's head on it, and you didn't have one. You came in with six pence and you were given six pence when we turned you out. We didn't charge a penny for our hospitality, nor for the fact that you were sick all over our nice clean floor. You had that on the taxpayers." He explained to Frost, "Sleeping rough, drinking meths, and urinating on the gravestones in the churchyard."

   The old man had built up a fresh head of indignation. "I wasn't as bloody drunk as all that. I had a pound note and six pence. Your copper put it in an envelope, and when he give it back to me the quid had gone."

   Wells tried again. "The quid was never there, Sam. Besides, we count the money out and you sign for it as being correct. We hold your evil-smelling mark on a receipt in full discharge of your six pennies."

   Cracked lips curled back to show broken brown stumps. "I never signed no receipt."

   "The cross might have been forged, Sam, but the smell was unmistakable. You were too full of meths . . . you wouldn't have known what you were doing."

   "I know how much I had. I want my quid."

   "Where did you get the pound from, Sam?" asked Frost. "Not been selling your body, I hope."

   Sam spun round and Frost jumped back as the aroma nudged its way toward him.

   "I . . . I found it." It was said with defiance, but he wouldn't meet Frost's eye.

   "So, now you've lost it," murmured the sergeant. "Easy come, easy go."

   A smolder of hate. "That young copper pinched it."

   The station sergeant brought a large thick ledger from beneath the desk and banged it down on the counter.

   "Right, Sam. You've made a very serious accusation. I take it you're going to prefer charges."