Frost at Christmas

TUESDAY-4

The take-up spool on the tape recorder slowly revolved, pulling tape across the replay head. First the hissing of virgin tape, then … Brr… brr… Brr… br-hardly two rings before the receiver was snatched up.

"Demon 2346." Mrs. Uphill, pathetically eager.

Pay-phone pips, then the chunk of money.

"Mrs. Uphill?" A man's voice, nondescript, distorted by the phone.

"Yes."

"You got my letter?"

"Yes… Please… where is she?"

"All in good time. Have you got the money?"

"Yes-exactly as you said."

"And you've told no one?"

"No-no one."

"Good, I'd hate to have to carry out my promise. Now listen carefully-"

But Mrs. Uphill cut across him, "I've got to know about Tracey. How is she?"

"All right-considering… She cries a lot, doesn't she? She's got a bit. of a cold and she keeps whining for her mother, but apart from that…"

"Please," and her voice was a barely steady whisper, "what do you want me to do?"

"I want-"

A click, then the dial tone. Frost's head jerked up. Detective Sergeant Martin waved him to silence; there was a little more.

"Hello… hello…" Mrs. Uphill, almost hysterical as she jiggled the receiver rest. "Hello…" The relentless purr of dial tone going on and on. A click as the receiver was replaced, then the hiss and crackle of virgin tape.

Martin banged down the Stop key. "That's it."

Frost dragged off his scarf and draped it over the radiator to dry. "So what happened? Was he cut off?"

"I don't think so, Jack. Listen carefully to the end of the tape." Martin turned the volume control to its maximum and wound the tape back a few inches. He pressed the Start key. Tape background roared and sizzled and distorted voices boomed.

"Please, what do you want me to do?"

"I want-click… dial tone, "Again," snapped Frost.

Martin kept repeating the last few seconds of the recording. "I want-" click… "I want-" click… "I want-"

It was just about audible through the background mush, the faint "Pee-paw, pee-paw" of a police car on the road outside the telephone kiosk.

"One of our cars passed the kiosk while he was on the phone," said Martin, scratching his head with the stem of his pipe. "He must have thought we were on to him and bolted."

Frost buried his head in his hand. "Bloody police," he moaned. "When you want them, you can't find them; when you don't they roar past and scare your suspects away." Then he noticed a stiffening of everyone's shoulders and his eye caught the gleam of burnished silver buttons.

"Afternoon, Super," he said.

"Heard the recording?" asked Mullett.

"Yes, sir."

"What are we going to do about it?"

Frost ruffled his hair. "Blowed if I know. Did the telephone engineers manage to trace the call?"

Martin sprang forward. "I was just coming to that Jack-er-Inspector. They did. It came from a call box on the main eastern highway, by the junction with Beehive Lane. Charlie Alpha two was in the vicinity, so Control sent him over to investigate."

"Charlie Alpha two!" snorted Frost. "It was probably those silly sods who scared him off in the first place."

"They were on patrol, Inspector," cut in Mullett, icily, ever protective of the reputation of his uniformed men, "and fully entitled to be where they were."

"With you one hundred per cent, Super-all the way-they're the salt of the earth," murmured Frost, blandly. Mullett was convinced Frost was being sarcastic, but before he could think of a suitable rebuke, bearing in mind that there were others present, Control buzzed through on the internal phone. Charlie Alpha two was reporting in.

Frost signaled for Clive to switch on the monitor speaker.

"Hello, Control. Charlie Alpha two. We're at the phone box at the junction of Beehive Lane and Eastern Highway. We've had a good look round. No one in the vicinity."

Frost spoke over the internal phone to the controller and asked if there was any way Charlie Alpha could keep the phone box under observation without being seen. Control relayed the message and the reply came over the monitor speaker.

"Yes-there are some trees a little way up the road. We can tuck the car behind them. It's some distance from the phone box, but we'll have a clear view."

"Right, they can wait there until he comes back," ordered Frost.

"Bloody heck!" acknowledged the voice over the speaker before Control cut it off.

Frost stripped the cellophane from his second packet of twenty that day and offered them around. "We can't do much until he phones again."

Martin shook his head gloomily. "The odds are he'll use another phone box."

Frost tapped his cheek and expelled a salvo of smoke-rings. "You don't have to be so bloody pessimistic, George, just because I'm in charge. Count your blessings. We've had a lovely spate of phone-box vandalism recently over sixteen cases in the last couple of days. He'll have a job finding another box that works, so, as long as Charlie Alpha doesn't do anything daft like leaving its blue light flashing, we might nab him yet." Then remembering, he turned to Mullett. "Sorry, Super-I'm neglecting you."

Mullett flashed perfect teeth. "That's all right, Inspector, only I'm expecting the Chief Constable to ring and I rather wanted to know how you got on with this Wendle woman."

"Oh-it was quite interesting, actually. We had a stance. According to her spiritual snouts, the kid's buried in Dead Man's Hollow."

"Dead Man's Hollow?" breathed Mullett in eye-blazing excitement. "Did you take a look?"

"Well, we looked at the four feet of snow covering it and it looked pretty much like the snow covering everywhere else."

"Organize a digging party," called Mullett over his shoulder as he made for the door. "I'll phone the Chief Constable right away."

As the door clicked shut, Frost exploded. "A bloody digging party! As if we didn't have enough to do. I'm throwing a little digging party, just a few friends-do come. Informal dress, just boots and shovels."

"Shall I put it in hand?" asked Martin.

"No, I'll see to it, George." He tugged his steaming scarf from the radiator. "Done to a turn!" Then he called across to Clive. "Important job for you, son. Nip up to the canteen and bring a couple of cups of tea to the office. I'll be along as soon as I've seen the station sergeant." He clattered out and along the corridor.

"How much longer has the stupid bugger got to go?" asked Clive.

The room went silent.

"What did you say, Constable?" the detective sergeant's eyes were cold.

"He wouldn't last five minutes in London."

"I can understand how you got your nose broken, Barnard. Go and fetch his bloody tea and see if you can do that without bitching."

The station sergeant could only spare two men to help with the digging until he learned that Mullett and the Chief Constable were taking a great interest in the outcome, then he managed to rake up two more and the four "volunteers" were sent to wrap up warm and collect their shovels from the stores.

Frost returned to his office to see if anyone had taken pity on him and had removed some of his paperwork, but another pile had been added, held down by a cup of tea. He took the cup of tea and two personal letters with local postmarks and leaned against the radiator where the hot pipes baked steam from his sodden trouser legs. He raised the cup to his lips, then shuddered. The tea was stone cold.

A fumbling at the door handle, then two steaming cups poked through followed by Clive Barnard who kicked the door shut behind him.

"Sorry I've been so long, sir. I had to wait for the digging party to be served first."

Frost returned to his desk and accepted the hot tea gratefully. "Thought you'd already been, son." He stirred up the thick mud of sugar at the bottom of the cup, then he suddenly realized what the cryptic note on the back of the envelope meant-"Check Aunt-Tea". Of course, Farnham, Mrs. Uphill's regular, was supposed to have gone to his aged aunt's for a nice spot of anti-climax after thirty quid's worth of strenuous exercise and his story hadn't been checked. Clive was detailed to attend to this right away.

"Take the car, son-I'll be going in the van with the grave-diggers. When you've seen the old dear, come down to Dead Man's Hollow and join in the fun. I reckon we'll have to dig down to Australia before we find anything, though." He was to remember this remark afterward. When he was wrong, he certainly was wrong. dive's hand was on the door handle when Frost had another thought. "She's probably old and nervous, so you'd better have a woman P.C. along with you. Take the same one as before…" dive's face lit up. "Hazel!"

"Blimey," said Frost, "Don't tell me I've done something right for a change. Don't let anyone catch you smiling, son, they might think you're enjoying working with me."

As the door closed, Frost ripped open the two envelopes, but he knew it was just to delay what he had to do. Both Christmas cards. He dropped them on the desk, then steeled himself to pull open the top right-hand drawer of his desk. His heart sank when he saw what he expected to see.

A quick tap and the door opened before he could say "Come in."

"I've come for the empty cups, sir." It was Keith Stringer, the young P.C. from the front office.

Frost waved a hand to the window ledge.

"You didn't drink your tea, sir…" Mildly reproachful.

Frost looked up wearily. "Sorry, son, by the time I got here it was cold. Hold on a minute, would you? Put the cups down… shut the door."

The young man looked puzzled, but did as he was told.

Frost's thumb indicated a chair. "Sit down." He slid a packet of cigarettes across the desk.

"I don't smoke, sir."

The inspector grunted and took one himself. "Keith isn't it-Keith Stringer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hmm." Frost rubbed his chin and patted some papers into a neat pile. Outside in the car park the sound of a car door slamming. Frost sighed and shook his head sadly.

"Tell me, son, how much money have you pinched in total-to within a couple of quid, say?"

Stringer's eyes widened. He searched the inspector's face for a hidden smile… it was a joke, of course. Frost met the gaze steadily. Stringer sprang to his feet, face hot, lips compressed.

Frost crashed his fist on the desk. "Sit down." The young constable jerked back in his chair, seething with resentment.

Frost stubbed out the cigarette and poked the butt back into the pocket. "Look son, you probably think me useless and decrepit, and perhaps you're right, but I'd be a real right twit if I couldn't solve a simple case of someone nicking money from my desk drawer… money that's always missing after you've been in with the tea…"

Eyes blazed. "I'm not staying here to be insulted, sir. I'm reporting this to the Police Federation Representative, so if you want to say anything further to me…"

The inspector knocked Stringer's hand from the door handle, grabbed him by the tunic, and slung him back in his chair. His eyes were soft and reproachful, his voice calm. "I'll call the Divisional Commander if you like, son, and tell him I want your pockets searched. You see… I marked the money…"

Stringer flinched and, as if a plug had been pulled, the color drained from his face. Defiance shriveled and he crumpled in the chair.

The door opened and the station sergeant's head poked round. "They're ready, Jack…" he began, then he felt the electric tension in the air. His head swivelled from the white-faced constable to the stiff figure of Frost behind the desk, the scar on his cheek twitching.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

The questioning raised eyebrows were ignored, so the head withdrew tactfully and the door closed.

Frost relit the cigarette butt and sat on the corner of his desk, dribbling the smoke from his nose. "It's not only my money, son. What about that tramp we found dead-the poor old sod whose quid you pinched? If he had had that quid he might have found himself lodgings for the night and still be alive. He was hunched up in a wooden hut, no bigger than a coffin, frozen to death."

The constable buried his face in his hards.

Frost's face was touched with pity. "But if it's any consolation, son, I can't see old Sam wasting a good quid on rubbish like food and lodgings… The odds are he'd have blown it on bottles of cheap wine and drunk himself to death a few seconds before the cold got him. So you haven't really got his death on your conscience… only the fact that he died knowing a copper had stolen his money, and when he came to us to complain, we insulted him and sent him off with a flea in his ear. I hope you feel as rotten about it as I do."

Stringer raised his head from his hands. "What are you going to do, sir?"

Frost pinched out the butt and flicked it into his wastepaper basket. "That depends on you, son. You'd better tell me about it."

The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, said "Later", and dropped it back on the rest. The young man was staring at the floor, lips quivering, but no words came.

"I'll give you a start to help you, son. Now I'm a rotten driver. When I drive, my eyes are anywhere but on the road. I see lots of things that don't make sense at the time, but I file them away in my mind for future reference. More than once I've seen you coming out of Sammy Jacobs' Betting Shop. Not that there's anything wrong with the odd bet, of course, providing you know when to stop-and providing you visit the shop during business hours. But I've seen you coming out when the shop has been closed."

"I owe him nearly four hundred quid," said Stringer, his eyes still fixed on the floor.

Frost whistled silently. "Four hundred quid! It's. going to take a hell of a time repaying that with the odd pennies — from my drawer and the occasional quid from a drunken tramp."

"I'm paying him back twenty pounds a week, sir. I have to give my mother money for my keep, then there's the hire purchase on my car. I'm only left with a couple of quid in my pocket."

"I see. So any extra little pickings would be a Godsend. Pity you didn't come and tell me, son. I've got more than enough on Sammy Jacobs. But that's not all, is it?"

"No." Stringer spoke to the ground. "He says a score a week isn't enough. He wants the lot repaid, otherwise he's going to the Divisional Commander. I haven't got that sort of money."

Frost sniffed. "I suppose Sammy suggested a way out?"

"Yes, sir. He wanted some information. If I get it to him, he'd let me off the debt."

Frost felt the corner of the desk boring its way into his buttock. He stood up and rubbed himself. "What information?"

"He wanted to know when we were going to pull the beat constable off his normal foot patrol to keep watch at Bennington's Bank. As you know, he's being pulled off tonight."

"And you told him?"

"Yes, sir."

Frost clapped his hands together with delight, then dialed Detective Sergeant Hanlon on his internal phone. "Hello, Arthur-Jack Frost. Sad news. You're going to have to forgo your nightly connubials. I've had a tip-off-something big. This Bennington's Bank business, it's just a decoy to draw our chap from his usual beat so someone can pull off a job undisturbed. I've no details, so we'll have to play it clever. We pretend we don't know. The constable stays watching the bank, but you and a couple of your best men are lurking in the vicinity of where the beat copper usually is between, say, two and three in the morning… If I knew the exact address I'd have given it to you, Arthur-even I am not that bleeding dim. No-with I the search for the kid we can't spare any more men. We keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best. I'll be in touch." He swung the phone by the cord and flicked it back into the cradle.

Stringer was now sitting up straight. He seemed to have pulled himself together. "What happens now, sir?"

Frost twitched his shoulders. "That's entirely up to you, son. I've got enough on my plate with missing kids, ransom demands, and talking spirits. I'll just say this. You've been a bloody fool and you've been found out by a dim old fool like me, so you haven't been very clever, have you? If you want to keep out of trouble never put yourself in a position where crooks like Sammy Jacobs can blackmail you. Do you want to stay in the Force?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then buzz off and behave yourself from now on. And from time to time you might repay the odd copper you've pinched from me. My top drawer's always available-all contributions gratefully received.''

The phone gave an urgent ring. It was the station sergeant.

"Frost. Oh-thanks. I'm coming now. What? Oh, just a private matter, nothing that concerns anyone but him and me. I'll tell him."

He dropped the phone back and looked at the young man.

"Better get back, son. The station sergeant's got a job for you."

"Right sir… and thanks-"

But Frost had gone, his footsteps clattering up the corridor. Stringer picked up the cups with a shaking hand. He felt like bursting into tears. The open desk drawer gaped accusingly at him as he passed.

The van bumped in and out of snow-covered potholes and the two policemen in the back, with the shovels and the tarpaulins, cursed as they slithered and cannoned into each other. Frost, wedged tightly between the driver and a dark mustached young constable, was able to do little more than grunt with each jolt.

"Park by those trees," he said. "We walk from here." The mustached copper was looking queasy. "What's up, son-car sickness?"

A brisk shake of the head. "No, sir-it's just that I don't like the idea of digging up a body."

Frost snorted derisively. "It's the winter, son, not the summer. Cor, I remember my first body. All decomposing and rotten… half the face eaten away by rats and the weather hot and sticky. I'd have given anything for a nice fresh corpse in the winter. You don't know how lucky you are."

They waded through thigh-deep drifts at Dead Man's Hollow and Frost cursed himself for not having the foresight to grab a pair of Wellingtons like the rest of his digging party who, properly dressed for the occasion, plodded stoically behind him.

"Right. The first thing to do is to clear the snow away."

The snow was light and fluffy, all bulk and no substance, like candy-floss, and it was tiring, unsatisfying work, but at last an area was cleared behind piled, shoveled snow.

"What now, sir?" asked the driver, breathing heavily and resting on his shovel.

"Don't look all knowing at me, son," snapped Frost. "I reckon it's a bloody waste of time as well but I wasn't going to call the Divisional Commander a twit to his face and risk not getting a Christmas card. What's the ground like?"

In reply the driver struck the earth with his shovel. It rang, frozen solid. Digging would be an illegitimate cow's son.

Frost wound his scarf to just below his eyes. "Prod around lads. If anyone's been digging recently there should be traces." He poked a cigarette through a gap in the scarf and watched them work. His feet were so cold they hurt.

An excited voice." Inspector!''

The torch beam picked out broken ground… raw earth mixed with decayed leaves where the top surface had been turned over. A patch about eighteen inches square. The others clustered around to study the discovery.

"Well," snapped Frost, his hands deep in his pockets for warmth, "it won't get any bloody bigger by looking at it. Get digging!"

"Hardly big enough for a grave," ventured the mustached constable.

"It may be small," said Frost, "but it's all we've got."

The man who found it carefully shoveled out loose earth, the torch, like a stage spotlight, following his every movement.

Frost lost interest. "Just our luck it's some camper's rubbish. If so, you can have my share." The cold had found its way under the folds of the scarf and was chewing and worrying at his scar. The wind started to keen softly at the back of its throat and branches rustled.

"I've hit something!" called the digger. Then. "Sir!"

Frost spun round. The cigarette fell from his mouth.

The beam of the torch held it fast-yellow, dirt-encrusted, but unmistakable. Poking obscenely through the earth was the skeleton of a human hand.

Frost broke the shocked silence and swore softly. "Just what we bloody-well need!"

The driver dropped to his knees and examined it closely.

"It's human, sir."

"Of course it's bloody human. Anyone else would have been lucky enough to get a dead horse or a cow, but I have to get bloody human remains."

The earth was too hard for shovels so one of the constables was sent back to the van for some pickaxes, and also to radio Search Control to tell them that the spirits had given a false lead so far as Tracey Uphill was concerned.

In the distance the sound of a car pulling up, then approaching voices, one of them a woman's-Clive Barnard and W.P.C. Hazel Page.

"Hello, sir-found something?" asked Clive.

"A hand, " said Frost. "Why-have you lost one?"

The men moved out of the way so the newcomers could view the discovery.

"Well, if you've finished admiring it," said Frost, "what did auntie have to say?"

Clive paused for a moment to heighten the dramatic effect of his bombshell. "Farnham hasn't been to his aunt's for at least three weeks and he wasn't there Sunday."

Frost lit another cigarette. "I knew he was a liar the minute I saw him. You never can trust randy sods-present company excepted, of course."

"Shall I bring him in, sir?"

Frost considered, then shook his head. "Let him sweat until tomorrow. I'm more interested in old Mother Wendle. How did she know something was buried here?"

"She's a clairvoyant, sir."

"If the lady wasn't here, I'd say 'shit'," snapped Frost. "I don't believe in ghosts and I don't believe in Father Christmas. She knew it was here and I want to know how she knew."

A crashing and a cursing as the policeman bringing the picks slipped and fell. He limped toward them and shared out the tools, then told the inspector that Control was sending a doctor and an ambulance.

"A doctor?" said Frost, nearly losing another cigarette. "Oh, yes, we're not supposed to presume death are we? We're so bloody thick we don't know a dead body when we see one. All right lads, get his chest uncovered… the doctor might want to use his stethoscope."

It was hard going, even with the pickaxes, as they had to chip away carefully to avoid disturbing the position of the bones.

"Who do you think it was, sir?" asked Hazel.

"Probably some old tramp who crawled here to die years ago. No relatives, no one's missed him, but we're going to have all the bother of trying to find out who he was."

Hazel tucked her head deeper into her greatcoat collar. "It'll be difficult to discover the cause of death now, sir."

Frost nodded. "You're right, love. The police surgeon likes a lot more meat on a corpse than we've got here. Which reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time we had to get the body of this fat woman out of the house? She'd died in her bath-stark naked she was and-"

Clive cut in quickly before another doubtful story was launched. The inspector was forgetting a lady was present.

"If death was natural causes, sir, who buried him?"

Something soft fluttered down and wetly kissed the inspector's cheek. It was snowing again. He asked Hazel to return to the van and radio Control to send the marquee used that morning for the dragging party. Then he remembered he hadn't answered Clive's question.

"Who buried him? No one, I'd say, son-leaves and mould naturally built up over him. No one comes near this part of the woods. It's got an unsavory reputation, like the toilets in the High Street."

"But surely someone must have come across it," Clive persisted. "I mean… a dead body!"

"We're not nosey down here, you know-not like you lot in London. And don't forget, he'd be stinking to high heaven after a few days-enough to put anyone off who wasn't frightened of the snakes already. People would have thought he was a dead animal and kept clear."

The earth, loosened by the pickax, was being gently scraped away. A cry from the constable sent Frost running over again. "What do you make of this, sir?"

Frost made nothing of it. Encircling the wrist was a band of metal to which was fastened a length of steel chain. The other end of the chain buried itself deeply in the rock-hard earth and no amount of pulling would prise it free.

And then, something even more puzzling. By scraping away the earth, more and more of the arm bone was uncovered, but then, before the elbow was reached, the arm just stopped.

They didn't have a complete skeleton. Just a hand, part of an arm, and the metal wristband… and the chain.

Frost decided that animals must have dragged the arm away from the rest of the body and his diggers were spread out over a wider area to prospect for the remainder.

The snow was falling in great white fluffy flakes and would soon cover the excavation. A distant car door slammed and they hoped it was the promised marquee, but the approaching light bobbing along the path was carried by Dr. McKenzie, the little tubby police surgeon.

"Who's in charge here? Oh-it's you, Inspector Frost. I should have guessed. If you had to find a body in a Godforsaken hole like this, did it have to be during a snowstorm?" He wiped the snow from his glasses and peered down at the excavated arm, then shook his head solemnly. "You've called me too late, I'm afraid… a few minutes earlier and I could have saved him."

"I tried to give it the kiss of life," remarked Frost, dryly, "but it stuck its fingers up my nose. Well, come on Doc-time of death?"

The doctor licked a flake of snow from his nose. "You know as well as I do, Jack… years… ten, twenty, perhaps longer. You'll need a pathologist."

Frost held the doctor by one arm and led him out of earshot of the others. "Do we really need a pathologist, Doc? Couldn't you just say he died of natural causes and let it go at that? Honestly, I've got enough work to keep me going for a month, even if I applied myself-which I rarely do. I don't want to be sodding about with this ancient relic." He offered the doctor a cigarette as a bribe.

Grunts and clangs as pickaxes bit. The doctor accepted a light. "I couldn't say natural causes, Jack-for one thing, how do you explain the chain attached to the wrist? In any case to tell you anything definite I'd need a darn sight more than half an arm. It'll require all sorts of tests and soil analysis. Your forensic boys will take it in their stride. I'm only a G.P. If it's not broken bones or constipation I'm out of my depth. I give a letter for a specialist, and that's what you want-a specialist." He coughed with the cigarette still in his mouth, spraying the inspector with hot ash. "I'm off home. I'll let you have my report."

"What report?" demanded Frost. "You haven't even examined it."

But the doctor was already moving off. "You want the pathologist. Besides, its snowing and he's paid a lot more than I am."

Frost swore silently at a man who would desert him after accepting one of his cigarettes. There was a cry from the mustached P.C. He'd found what looked like the rest of the skeleton. It was some eight feet away from the hand. Clive was sent running back to the radio car to ask for a pathologist. Half-way there he met the men bringing the marquee.

By the time the pathologist and the forensic team turned up, the marquee had been erected and the canvas was flapping with sounds like rifle-shots, as the wind searched it out for weaknesses.

The pathologist, tall and cadaverous in a long black overcoat, had brought his medical secretary along-a faded, puffy-eyed beauty, who recorded her master's comments in the loops and angles of Pitman's shorthand. The pathologist seemed to find the wristband and chain more interesting than the human remains.

"I'd like to know what's on the other end of that chain, Inspector."

A busy beaver from Forensic got to work and began scraping away with practiced, economical movements, until enough chain was uncovered to permit a firm grip to be taken. He pulled. The earth released another three feet of chain, then held the rest fast. More patient scratching with a trowel, then some work with a pickax.

The end of the chain was fastened to a metal box, about 2'6" x 1'6" x 4" deep.

Frost plucked the pathologist's sleeve. He thought he knew what it was.

"Could he have been here since the war, Doc?"

The great man winced at the "Doc". "Possibly, Inspector. But I've done no tests yet so anything is a possibility until proved otherwise. Why do you ask?"

"I think I know what that thing is. It's a sort of metal attache case. They were used during the war for confidential dispatches, chained to the courier's wrist. We had some plane crashes here during the Blitz-British and German.

Could he have been thrown-or fallen-from a plane blowing up in the air, perhaps?"

The pathologist pushed his lower lip into his mouth and sucked hard. "Again-possible. There's no telling how long the remains have been here." He dropped on one knee and scraped some dirt away from a rib. "If he fell you'd expect to find broken bones, but until we can get some of this encrusted dirt off…"He stood, rubbing the tips of his fingers. "When it's completely uncovered and photographed I'll have it moved to the crime lab for a thorough examination. I'll be able to give you facts then instead of theories. Oh-and I'd like all the surrounding earth crated up and sent for tests."

"All of it?" asked Frost.

"Well-where the arm and the rest of the skeleton have been lying, down to a depth of about three feet."

The inspector's cigarette dropped. "That's going to take some digging, Doc."

"Yes," agreed the great man, drawing on his gloves, "but it's necessary. Oh, and you might let me have a complete list, with dates, of all the air crashes that occurred in this vicinity during the Avar years."

"Certainly, Doc," said Frost, wondering where the hell he could obtain useless information like that. He gave orders for the earth to be crated, then quickly tiptoed out with Clive before the pathologist could think of any more stupid jobs.

The wind hurled handfuls of snow at them as they trudged back to the car, where Hazel was waiting. There had been calls galore for the inspector, she reported. Would he report back?

"Control here, Inspector. Can you return to the station at once, please? The Divisional Commander wishes to see you urgently."

Frost groaned. Gawd, he thought, what have I done wrong now?

Mullen was boiling with rage. He couldn't wait for Frost to close the door behind him before he started.

"I found this on your desk, Inspector," and he held Up the envelope containing the crime statistics. Frost looked at it with horror, then dropped wearily into a chair and swore to himself as vehemently as Mullett was shouting at him. The bloody crime statistics! In the ecstacy of getting the sodding things completed last night, he'd completely forgotten to post them off… nosey bastard had to find them on his desk…

Mullett was beside himself. He, the Divisional Commander, had made a promise to County, had instructed Frost that the statistics must go off, and now. he had to bear the odious, stinging humiliation of being shown incapable of getting his own men to carry out a specific order.

Frost half closed his eyes and let the scalding tirade wash over him. Didn't the bloody tailor's dummy have better things to do than poke his ugly nose in other people's desks? And if he was so bloody clever, how come he didn't know who had smashed the rear of his car?

A timid tap at the door halted the lashing tongue in mid invective, and Miss Smith looked in to wish the commander goodnight. No need to look at the clock-the hands would be quivering at 6:10 exactly. Mullett snatched up the envelope and handed it to her. "As Inspector Frost is incapable of obeying the simplest order, perhaps you would kindly drop this in the County postbag on your way out." Frost blew her a kiss behind the commander's back and she scuttled out with a brick-red face.

Mullett returned to the attack. "I also happened to notice, Inspector, that the file for the electronics theft case was still on your desk. As far as I can see, you've made no progress on it."

You had a bloody good look round, thought Frost. Aloud he said, "I'll get around to it when I find time, Super."

"Make time, Inspector, it's urgent. Now what happened at Dead Man's Hollow? I promised to ring the Chief Constable." His face darkened with annoyance as he was told about the skeleton. "We could have done without this," he snapped, as if it was all Frost's fault.

"If you like I could stick it back again and we can dig it up when things get slack," said Frost, adding, "do you want me any more?" He pre-empted Mullett's reply by pushing up out of his chair.

"Anything further from the kidnapper?"

"I haven't looked in on Search Control yet. I came straight here when I got your message-at the time I thought it was urgent."

And he was gone before Mullett could think of a suitable rebuke.

All was peace, calm, and orderliness in Search Control. The odd telephone rang apologetically and a few routine messages purred from the loudspeaker. Frost wandered over to George Martin who was rearranging schedules for the following day in case the weather worsened.

"All quiet, Jack. We had a couple of teams searching the uncompleted section of the new Burghley Estate, but they found nothing."

"Then they had more luck than I had," said Frost. "What about the phone tap?"

"Dead quiet."

"Are we still watching that phone box?"

"Yes."

"Heard about my bloody skeleton?"

Martin laughed. He had heard. Then he turned his head away as if he was embarrassed about something. "Have you had a word with Johnnie Johnson?"

"No, why?"

"He-er-wanted to see you."

And Frost knew there was more trouble.

He was queuing for tea in the canteen when he spotted the handlebar mustache at a table in the far corner. He took his cup and ambled over.

"Hello, Johnnie."

"Hello, Jack-sit down." Yes, definitely trouble. The sergeant wasn't meeting his eye. Johnnie stirred his tea deliberately, then, "What was that business this afternoon with young Stringer?"

"Oh… a private chat, Johnnie, nothing that would interest you. Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

"No, Jack." He pushed his tea to one side. "Did the C.I.D. overtime return go off to County last night?" Frost froze, the cup an inch from his lips. "Oh God!" "For Heaven's sake, Jack, it's the second month running. I phoned County this evening to check. It hadn't arrived. They had to make special arrangements to get your men's overtime paid last month-had to get someone in specially to feed the figures to the computer at three o'clock in the morning. They said they'd never do it again."

Frost rubbed a weary hand over his face. His scar was hurting. "You know how good I am with paperwork, Johnnie. It was different before. I used to pass all overtime claims through without checking-I trust everyone-but that silly sod Davidson at H.Q. found out and I got a rollocking. Now I'm supposed to check each and every one, but it takes time."

Johnson took out his tobacco pouch. "But you've had time, Jack."

"All right-but it's not a job I like doing," and his head whirled as he thought of all the other jobs he had left undone for the same reason. "I suppose they wouldn't like two lots next month?"

Johnnie Johnson lit his homemade cigarette. "They wouldn't, Jack, and you can't blame them. The men have already missed two months this year because you forgot to send off the forms and its not fair they should have to suffer. They work all hours and they don't do it for charity. Besides," and he looked away, "there's been an official complaint."

Frost flinched as if he had been struck. "Who to?" "To me, Jack. I'm the Police Federation man." "Am I such a shit they couldn't come to me?" Johnnie shook his head. "The opposite, Jack. They like you too much and you would have joked your way out of it and they wouldn't have got their money." His cigarette wasn't drawing well and he had to suck hard to keep it lit. "As it's been made official, I'm taking it up with the Divisional Commander tomorrow morning," and he studied the scanty Christmas decorations hanging from the rafters.

Frost spoke quietly with the barest hint of pleading. "You'd be the answer to his prayers, Johnnie. He's just waiting for a legitimate excuse to bounce me."

The sergeant stood up. "I had to tell you first, Jack. I couldn't do it behind your back." He hesitated, then gripped Frost's shoulder tightly. "Sorry, Jack…" and was gone.

Frost buttoned his coat. It was cold in the canteen. He sighed. All he seemed to do these days was stagger from one crisis to the next. Overhead, the P.A. system cleared its throat and asked Inspector Frost to go to the nearest telephone.

Clive Barnard, sharing a table with Hazel, heard the message and saw the inspector leave. He pressed the key of his digs in her hand and rose to follow the inspector. "I'll probably be late, but wait for me. Promise?"

He found Frost on the phone outside the canteen and waited until he had finished. Frost grunted, scribbled some hieroglyphics on the back of the telephone directory, then hung up.

"That was Forensic, son. They've sifted through the crates of earth and found some coins from our skeleton's pockets. The latest coins were dated 1951, so we can forget about his being killed in the war. They've also cut open the steel case chained to his wrist and it contained absolutely sod all. So what was he doing with an empty steel case double-locked to his wrist?"

"Perhaps whatever was in the case had been delivered," suggested Clive.

"Possible, son, but then you'd have thought they would have unlocked the case from his wrist." He rasped his chin thoughtfully, "1951! Festival of Britain year. We really went to town here, then-the toilets stayed open an extra half-hour and the Town Hall flagpole was illuminated weekends." His mind clicked back to the present.

"When's this bloody kidnapper going to phone again? I hope he realizes he's sodding us all up." He clattered off down the stairs back to his office and Clive had to hurry to keep up.

Frost chucked himself in his chair and riffled the papers on his desk. A couple more Christmas cards had arrived and there was the electronics theft folder with a note from Mullett attached: "Please treat this as urgent." He dug deeper and found the overtime return which he quickly checked and initialed, but what was the point? It was too late. The computers at County H.Q. were kept going on a twenty-four-hour-a-day basis doing work mainly for the county council, but a few hours each month the police were allowed to squeeze their business in, and the allotted time for wages was this morning. He slipped the return in an envelope and stuck it in this jacket pocket. He'd bung it in the postbox. Too late for this month, but at least it would be out of the office. He dreaded facing Mullett again in the morning, "Everything I touch goes wrong," he announced to Clive, who was surprised at the self-pity from a man who gave the impression that nothing on earth could get him down. Clive accepted a cigarette and they lit up.

"I'll tell you something," continued Frost, confidentially, "something I've told no one. This tin medal of mine-" he opened his drawer and took the medal out "-do you know why I tackled that gunman? I wanted to get myself killed, that's why. I didn't want to live. It's not a joke son, I'm being serious for a change. They'd just told me, that day, that my wife had cancer… that she'd only last a few months and was going to have a bloody rotten death. That nut-case with the gun was the answer to my prayers. I thought, 'Sod it, I don't care if I live or die, so let's die a bloody hero.' So he fired, and he missed-he was as useless as I am-and I couldn't even get myself killed properly." Then suddenly, in a puff of expelled smoke, the black mood was gone. "I'm a morbid bugger, aren't I? Come on, son, let's go to Search Control and find out the latest on the kid."

Turning the corner at the top of the corridor they bumped into a police dispatch rider, crash-helmeted and water-proofed, his goggles rimmed with unmelted snow.

"Divisional Commander's Office?" he asked. "I've an urgent package to pick up for Statistical Department."

Frost directed him, then, as an afterthought asked, "Are you going back to County Headquarters tonight?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do us a turn, would you?" he fumbled in his pocket for the overtime return envelope. "Drop this in Accounts. It's the overtime return… should have been in this morning."

The dispatch rider slid the envelope into a leather pouch. "You'll be all right, Inspector. They're all behind in Accounts-half of them down with flu. They won't be doing the police wages until tomorrow night."

Frost almost sweated as warm relief flooded his body. "I may sod up a lot of things," he told dive, "but I have much more luck than anyone's entitled to expect."

In Search Control, the feeling of standing down. Time to file stuff away and tidy up desks. A photograph of Tracey had been shown on the television news and people had been phoning in all day to report seeing her in London, Cornwall, Dover, on a lorry heading up the Ml motorway, in a cafe in Leeds with a Pakistani, outside a cinema in Bromley… everywhere but in Denton. All well-meaning but probably useless leads, each of which had to be followed up, fortunately mainly by other police divisions who had been sent details by teleprinter.

A phone rang. An agitated Mrs. Uphill, concerned that the alleged kidnapper hadn't been back to her. Frost calmed her down and told her it was important she keep off the phone so the man could make contact. She hung up immediately. Then it occurred to Frost that she had PS2000 lying around loose and if the man didn't have Tracey, his intention might be to break into the house and steal the money. He phoned back to tell her to bolt all doors and windows and not to let anyone in.

"As robbery could be the motive, shouldn't we have someone watching the house?" asked George Martin.

"I daren't frighten him off in case it's genuine, George," Frost said. "Don't forget he's threatened to kill the kid if Mrs. Uphill contacts the police."

Forensic phoned. Could Frost get over to the lab right away? Something interesting.

"You'll remember to switch your radio on, sir, so we can get in touch with you?" asked the detective sergeant.

"Of course," said Frost, in feigned surprise, "don't I always?"

In the lobby Johnnie Johnson was taking details of a driving license and insurance-certificate from a truculent youth in a brown leather jacket. Frost nipped over and whispered a few words, telling him about the overtime return.

Johnnie put down his pen and looked at Frost in joyful disbelief. "You jammy old bastard," he said.

It was a cold, slithery ten-mile drive to the county forensic laboratory. The weather had worsened and they passed two cars abandoned in drifts.

The laboratory, a modern, single-storied building, stuck in the middle of nowhere, welcomed them with the warm antiseptic breath of its hot-air system as they trampled slush over the two-tone gray carpet tiles in the reception area and walked past an unmanned mahogany counter draped with potted plants. There were two old friends on the wall, the poster identifying the Colorado Beetle and a Foot and Mouth Disease Movement restriction order which made them feel at home in alien surroundings.

They followed a dimly lit corridor to swing doors, through which they found the laboratory proper. Frigid bluish-white fluorescent lighting glared down on the pathologist and three white-coated assistants who were crouching busily over a long bench.

The pathologist beckoned them over and led them to a table draped with thick polythene sheeting on which lay the completed jigsaw puzzle of the skeleton, the gaping eye-sockets staring blindly into the white fluorescent sun.

"He's cleaned up nicely, hasn't he?" said the pathologist proudly, scraping a blob of dirt from the lower jaw. "Have a look at this," and he picked up the remains of the lower right arm. "This wasn't broken or chewed off by animals. It was deliberately hacked off-apparently with an ax."

"Hacked off?" exclaimed Frost.

"Precisely. There can be no doubt."

"Before or after death?"

The pathologist stroked the bone with loving care. "We can only guess, but I'd hazard shortly after death, before serious decomposition took place. It's only a theory, of course, but my guess is that the arm was severed in an attempt to remove the chained case."

"But it was still on the arm," Frost pointed out.

"Agreed. Whoever chopped it, chopped too high up and wouldn't have been able to slide the metal wrist band over the severed end. The victim was probably fleshy and a little fat. You try and drag your wristwatch up your arm, you'll find it gets stuck half-way."

"Why cut off the arm to remove a locked and empty case?" asked Frost.

"You're the detective, not me," replied the pathologist, scratching his chin with the severed bone before carefully replacing it in its alloted place. "But you've missed the best bit-look," and he pointed to the skull. It was so obvious that at first Frost missed it, then he and Clive saw it at the same time.

"Good God!"

The skull had a third eye smack in the middle of its forehead. The third eye was small, neat, and precision drilled.

"This is what made the hole," said the pathologist, and he dropped a small transparent envelope containing a dull mess of flattened metal into Frost's palm. "It's a revolver bullet. We found it inside the skull, mixed up with the dirt."

Frost held the envelope to the light and examined the discolored metal from all angles. "So this is what killed him, Doc?"

But the pathologist wasn't going to be led into saying anything definite. "All I can say after all this time is that if he was alive when this bullet was fired at him, then this is what killed him. I can find no other cause of death. We're having the soil analyzed, but after all these years…" He finished the sentence with a hopeless shrug, then led them to a side bench where a bald man was scraping away at bits of rusty metal.

"Show the inspector the other things we found, Arnold."

Arnold was only too happy to oblige. "Nothing spectacular, I'm afraid, Mr. Frost. Everything rottable had rotted, so all we're left with are metal objects. For example, these metal trouser buttons. No zips, of course-men didn't trust zips back in the 1950s."

"I don't trust them now," said Frost. "I had an unfortunate experience. That's when you reckon he died, then-the 1950s?-'

Arnold nodded. "We're doing more tests, but everything points that way." He raked among the rest of the deceased's effects and found a flat, round pitted object. "This is what's left of his wristwatch. A cheap pallet movement, probably pre-war. Over there is the money, which you know about, and there's these…" He rattled a crusted keyring containing two small desk keys, a larger key, and a flat Yale key, all in surprisingly good condition. And that was all the skeleton had to show for itself.

"No car keys," Clive pointed out.

"Not an awful lot of private cars about in the fifties," said Arnold. "Petrol rationing was still on, I think."

Frost spotted a tiny heap of rusty crumbs. "What are they?"

"Remains of cobblers' tacks from his shoes. They used to nail the soles on in those days.''

Frost dug his hands in his pockets and stared for a moment at the pathetic piles of scrap, then turned and regard ed the bones stretched out on the polythene sheeting. "So what do we know about him? He was shot, he had a few bob in his pocket, he buttoned up his fly, and he died more than thirty years ago. Not much to go on. Any special features, Doc, that would help us identify him, like a ten-foot dick or eight fingers on each hand?"

The pathologist gritted his teeth. "I can't give you much, Inspector. He was between thirty-five and forty, he'd had extensive dental work carried out on his teeth…"

"That's the best place to have it carried out," observed Frost, ignoring the withering glance.

"If I may continue… He broke his left arm about five years before he died. If you look carefully you can see the line of the fracture. That's all I've got at the moment."

"The case," prompted Arnold.

"Ah yes… I was forgetting. We've paid a lot of attention to the case chained to his wrist. It was very strong and obviously specially made for the job-the sort of thing cashiers use for carting large sums of money about. We managed to read the maker's name on the lock-Smith-Curtis-they used to specialize in safes and strongboxes and things."

"Used to?" asked the inspector, warily.

"They went out of business in 1955, so no help there, I'm afraid. By the way, how is Inspector Allen? I was very sorry to learn of his illness."

"Not half so bloody sorry as I am now," replied Frost.