Frost 1 - Frost At Christmas Read online

  The wife of the Reverend James Bell-heard the chimes as she lay rigid in the sagging marriage bed, right on the edge, as far away from him as possible, ready to shudder and recoil at the slightest nauseating contact of bodies. Those books, those disgusting books. And those photographs. And he had taken them himself, actually seen those girls undressed. His eyes dwelling on their naked bodies.

  Her husband was huddled in the fetal position and he heard nothing but his own internal mumblings, his pleas to God for forgiveness, his promise that if there could be no scandal - if it could be kept from his Bishop - then he'd stop. No more photographs, no more books. A promise, Lord. A solemn promise.

  And in the printing room of the Denton Echo nothing could be heard over the chattering and thudding of the presses. They had to completely remake the front page which now carried the familiar schoolgirl photograph and the self-explanatory banner headline TRACEY FOUND - DEAD. It was also necessary to make a slight alteration to the back page where a short paragraph, "Hunt Continues For Missing Girl", was replaced by an equally small paragraph reading "1951 Killer Strikes Again". The public's appetite could only feed on one sensation at a time.

  In Vicarage Terrace, Mrs. Uphill was asleep at last, the drained, empty, heavy sleep of exhaustion. Downstairs the phone was ringing.

  Clive Barnard heard the chimes and counted. Eleven. The earliest he had been to bed since . . . since Sunday, years and years ago. Hazel's body, cool and hot, hard and soft, was stretched out beside him. He pulled her to him and they kissed and buds of hardness flowered against his chest. His hands slipped down to the swell of her buttocks and . . .

  And there was a knock at the bloody door.

  "Are you in there, son?"

  Stupid, silly, sodding Frost.

  She pulled him down, her hands cool, busy, and he was tempted to keep quiet, to let Frost take it out on the door until he gave up and went away.

  "Open up, son . . . please!"

  There was something about that "please". He pulled gently from her and swung his feet to the floor. She was angry and covered herself with the bedclothes. "Don't bring him in here," she hissed, then, with heaving shoulders, presented her back.

  "Hold on, sir - won't be a minute," He dressed quickly. Out of bed, away from Hazel it was sub-zero. Grabbing his thickest coat, he opened the door and slid outside.

  And there was Frost, in his old overcoat and his tatty scarf, his scarred face troubled and apologetic. He noticed the hump under the bedclothes as the door squeezed shut. "Sorry, son. After tonight you won't be bothered. It's just that I need your help."

  Wondering if Hazel would still be there when he got back, Clive tiptoed down the stairs after the inspector. He didn't bother to ask what it was about; whatever it was, he was committed. And, as Frost had said, tomorrow Inspector Allen would be in charge - tidiness, efficiency, regular hours, and undisturbed sex after close of business.

  Snow was falling and the car shivered in the street outside. Frost stepped back to let Clive slide into the driving seat.

  "Where to, sir?" The engine started first time.

  "Didn't I say, son? Mead Cottage."

  Clive blinked. Mead Cottage was where old-man Powell lived. It would be nearly 11:30 by the time they got there. "Do you think they'll be up, sir?"

  "Christ, I hope not," said Frost. "She might offer me some more of her bloody coffee." Then, lighting two cigarettes and poking one in the driver's mouth, "Do you think I'm a nut-case, son?"

  Clive shook his head, his nose delicately savoring the heady Hazel perfume that the heat of the car was driving from the pores of his body.

  "Well, you will in a minute. I'm going to break into his house."

  Clive hammered the horn and a drunken pedestrian leaped back to the safety of the pavement and swore at the car as it swept past.

  "Hard luck, son, you missed him," said Frost.

  Clive swallowed hard. Then, without looking at the inspector, said quietly, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't want any part of this."

  Frost sighed. "That's all right, son, I quite understand. We'd better turn back."

  "Why do you want to break in?" asked Clive and they passed the intersection where he should have turned and Mead Cottage was getting closer and closer.

  "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 hop ing 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, this? 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."

&n
bsp; "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?"