Frost at Christmas djf-1 Read online

  "Yes, once. I couldn't afford to keep it."

  "Yes. Red cars are expensive to run. It was red wasn't it, sir?"

  "No!" shouted Farnham.

  "Then you've got nothing to worry about," said Frost unconvincingly. He stood up and stretched his arms. "I'd better go and see what that detective constable of mine is doing."

  Barnard was in the bathroom, shirt-sleeves rolled up, his jacket hanging from the door. The bath panel had come off all right but was refusing to go back on again. With a couple of bangs in the right place from Frost, it was eventually coaxed into place.

  "Not a very good fit, I'm afraid," said Farnham.

  "Don't say that, sir," cried Frost. "It cost him one hundred and seven quid."

  They went at last. Farnham watched through the curtains until their car turned the corner. He slumped back in his chair and pleaded with God not to let them check with his aunt. He'd never touch another woman again, he'd never send for another catalog, but please, don't let them check with his aunt.

  MONDAY-5

  Detective Inspector Allen rubbed his eyes and concentrated again on the sheet of paper where the list of names blurred, then slowly edged back into focus. He read that all the mothers who had been waiting for their children outside the Sunday school yesterday had been contacted and questioned, but not one of them remembered seeing this mysterious woman in the white fur coat. He dropped the paper into his "Out" tray and snorted with smug satisfaction. His earlier skepticism was justified. The woman didn't exist. She was conveniently invented by Farnham in an attempt to divert suspicion from himself and, naturally, that gullible fool Frost had swallowed it without question.

  But where was Frost? He should be here by now. A pain jolted through Allen's body and his head throbbed and banged. He felt terrible. There were some aspirins in his overcoat pocket. He rose to fetch them but two paces across the room and he cried out as the fire in his stomach flared and sent flames of agony rippling through his body. The pain was more than he could stand and the room was spinning and a roaring noise got louder and louder.

  Detective Sergeant Martin heard the crash and dashed into the office. Allen was out cold, sprawled across the polished lino.

  Martin phoned Mullett from the hospital. They were keeping the inspector in for observation. There was some concern, but it was probably a virus of some kind. Blood samples and other tests were in hand but there would be no firm news until a specialist saw him some time tomorrow.

  Mullett put down the phone and thoughtfully drummed a rallying tattoo on the satin mahogany. Why couldn't Allen have picked a more convenient time? Someone else would have to be put in charge of the search, but who? The division was sadly under strength as it was. Detective Sergeant Martin, Allen's assistant, would be able to cope, but, of course, he was only a sergeant. If Frost were capable there would be no problem, but he wasn't, so the idea was unthinkable.

  Mullett scratched his chin, then his eyes brightened. County Headquarters! They were crawling with superfluous staff. It really was a disgrace with so many divisions starved of men. If he could get them to send him a senior officer… and once they did, he'd hang on to the man, even after Allen returned to duty.

  But this called for strategy. He would have to go to the top-a direct call to the Chief Constable, no less. Mullett straightened his uniform and smoothed back his hair. When he felt he was presentable, he dialed the Old Man's home number.

  "Sorry to bother you at this outrageous hour, sir. If anyone's entitled to some peace and relaxation, it's you. Me, sir? Oh-I'm still in the office. No rest for us Divisional Commanders, I'm afraid." He gave a modest, good-natured laugh and explained about Allen. "… Which means, of course, sir, I'll have to put someone else in charge of the Tracey Uphill investigation." He let his voice trail off, leaving a gap for the Chief Constable to fill with a suggestion to which Mullett could give his whole-hearted agreement.

  "Well," said the chief, after a pause, "we've got no one to spare at County-but you knew that, of course."

  "Of course," echoed Mullett sincerely.

  "But I don't see your problem. You've got Frost. I'm surprised you didn't put him in charge in the first place. He's a good man."

  "They come no better," croaked Mullett. "I'm glad we're of one mind, sir. I shall put Frost in charge right away." He put the phone down, then went over the conversation several times in his mind, trying to work out where he had gone wrong, then, bracing himself, he dialed the number of Frost's office.

  "Where's Jack Frost?"

  Clive looked up wearily from the jumble of papers from which he was supposed to ferret out details for the crime statistics return.

  The speaker was a uniformed sergeant, a hearty-looking man of forty with a weather-beaten face and a straggly handlebar mustache.

  "He is with the Divisional Commander, Sergeant. I'm his assistant, Detective Con-"

  He was cut short. "I know who you are, lad-flashy suit, wonky nose-the Chief Constable's nephew, right?"

  Clive bristled. "I also happen to have a name-it's Barnard."

  "And I'm Johnson-Johnnie Johnson, Station Sergeant." There was, of course, a station sergeant for each eight-hour shift.

  Johnson propped himself up against a filing cabinet. "How do you like working for our Jack?"

  Still smarting, Clive snapped, "I'm not used to working for idiots." He instantly regretted the tactless but honest answer and stiffened for the expected rebuke. To his surprise the sergeant smiled tolerantly.

  "Count your blessings, Barnard. He may be a fool but they don't come any better. Half the people here are jockeying for promotion, scrambling to get to the top, not caring who they tread on in the process. But not Jack Frost. He's a man who knows his limitations, who doesn't pretend to be what he isn't. You'll never find him trying to snatch the credit due to someone else-and if you worked for Inspector Allen, you'd know what I mean."

  Clive ventured another criticism "He's callous and crude. We're dealing with a woman whose kid is missing, probably dead, and all he can talk about is how he'd like to get into bed with her.''

  The sergeant rolled himself a cigarette. "Jack's trouble is, what he thinks, he says. You probably think the same as him but don't say it."

  This was true, but Clive hunched his shoulders sullenly. "He's a bloody mess, like his office," and he indicated the litter. "By the way, what was that medal I saw in his desk? I didn't recognize it. It must be a long-service award-obviously it can't be for good conduct."

  The sergeant's tongue traveled along the gummed edge of his cigarette paper and he gave the young man a pitying look. "Two years in the force and you know it all, don't you, Barnard? Well, two and a half years ago it was headline news. The medal that he keeps tucked away in the blue box so no one can see it is the George Cross."

  Clive's mouth opened and closed before he could croak the words out. "The George Cross?"

  "Yes-the civilian equivalent of the Victoria Cross, and it's his-that bloody mess you were talking about."

  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 Mullen'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, Demon Dec.

  To the Chief Policeman:

  Dear Sir,