Frost at Christmas

TUESDAY-7

Police Sergeant Tom Henderson put down his pen and yawned. He'd never get used to working nights. No matter how much sleep he had during the day, his body still insisted on feeling tired and ready for bed as midnight approached. He wriggled his shoulders in a shiver. It was so cold in the lobby and every time that rotten door opened…

His phone rang.

The leather-jacketed youth slumped dejectedly on a wooden bench under the Colorado Beetle poster jerked up a face tight with apprehension.

Henderson listened, said, "No, not yet," and hung up. He looked across to the leather-jacket and shook his head. The youth slouched back and resumed his mindless study of the opposite blank wall.

An icy blast roared across the lobby as Inspector Frost and the new chap with the bent nose came in.

"Hello, Jack."

"Hello, Tom. Here, you didn't shave today, did you?"

Henderson grinned and fingered his new beard, the result of many weeks of careful growing and much rude comment.

Frost caught sight of the youth. "What's up with him?"

Henderson leaned over, keeping his voice low. "He ran an old lady over. She's having an emergency operation and he's waiting for the result. Touch and go, they reckon."

"Oh!" Frost let his eyes slide over the kid. Barely eighteen and worried sick. "His fault, was it?"

The sergeant nodded gravely. "Didn't look where he was going. Staring back at his mates out of the rear window. Never saw her until he hit her, and she was using the crossing."

"Poor little sod," murmured Frost, a rare look of pity on his face.

"Poor, sir?" asked Clive, puzzled.

"Yes, son. I've nearly killed people in my car time and time again

… it was only luck that saved me. He didn't have the luck."

"And neither did the old lady."

Frost sniffed. "You're hard, son, very hard. I'm sorry for her, but I'm sorry for him, too."

Another roar of cold air and the papers on the desk were sent flying. A big red-faced man in a fur-lined parka thundered in, ready to bellow at the first uniform he saw.

"You! Where's my son?"

"Dad!" The youth didn't turn his head. He spoke to space.

"Come on-you're going home." An angry face thrust at Sergeant Henderson. "I'm taking him. You've no right to keep him here."

"We're not keeping him here, sir," explained the sergeant patiently. "He's free to go. He's given us a statement and we've got all his details."

"Statement?" He turned angrily to the lad. "You bloody fool-a statement? Tell them nothing!" Back to the sergeant. "His statement is invalid. It was made without a solicitor being present. We repudiate it."

The youth tilted his head up to his father and spoke as if explaining to an uncomprehending idiot. "I'm eighteen, Dad. I made the statement of my own free will. I wasn't looking… I hit her." His face showed pain at the recollection.

The man's hand slapping his son's face was the crack of a whip.

"Keep your mouth shut, do you hear? I'll tell you what to say."

The phone on the desk rang. The youth, ready with an angry retort, froze. Henderson raised the receiver and listened.

"Henderson. Oh, I see. Yes, thanks for telling me." He replaced the phone with care, then spoke quietly.

"You might as well go home, son. She died five minutes ago."

The boy stared at the sergeant. At first it seemed that the news hadn't sunk in. There was a puzzled frown on his face, a face drained of color except for the angry mark of the blow on the left cheek. The lip quivered, and then his face crumpled. He cried with body-wricking sobs. His father, now a different man, placed an arm around his shoulder.

"All right, son, all right. We're going home." He led the sobbing youth through the doors and out into the cold white night. The door swung shut behind them.

"As I always say," said Frost, dragging off his scarf, "there's no bloody justice. If he'd kept his mouth shut or lied and said she stepped in front of him without warning, we couldn't have touched him. He's the only witness. But he's been honest. He really cares that he's killed someone. And we'll probably throw the book at him."

Then, trailing his scarf along the ground, he was off along the corridor to his office. With a despairing look at the wall clock whose hands stood vertical at half-past midnight, Clive dashed off after him.

"They knew how to tie knots in 1951," muttered Frost, tearing his nails on the fossilized string tied round the Bennington Bank Robbery-July 1951 file that had been disinterred from the upstairs storeroom. The string broke unexpectedly and yellow-edged papers were disgorged on top of the litter already on the desk. He scooped the papers up, and in doing so uncovered an internal memo from Mullett reminding all staff of the last day for the submission of expense claims, stressing that any received late would be held over until the following month.

Frost passed the file over to Clive and began to scout through his drawers for an expense-claim form.

"Find a description of Fawcus, son, see if it matches in with the skeleton. If he only had one leg, we've got a mystery on our hands."

It was a fat file, the pages smelling stale and musty from their long entombment in the unheated storeroom. Near the front was a photograph of a young man in army uniform, the forage cap perched on top of lots of wavy hair, glistening with brilliantine. Handwritten on the back were the words "To my darling Rose with all my love-Tim", followed by a string of kisses. A typed police label read "Timothy Fawcus-early picture-much balder now". Clive turned the photograph over and looked at the smiling, unworried face. Was this the dirt-encrusted skull prised from the frozen grip of Dead Man's Hollow?

He showed it to Frost.

"I used to have hair like that, son-it drove the girls mad." He read the inscription on the back. "Balder now-me and him both. Who's Rose-his wife?"

"I haven't come to that yet, sir." Digging deeper, Clive unearthed another photograph, the original of the one they had seen earlier on the front page of the Denton Echo. A full description was on the back. "Timothy Fawcus, aged 38, height 5' 11", weight 12 stone 4 lbs., sallow complexion, receding hairline, dark hair, thin features. Appendix scar. Tattoo on right wrist, 'Rose' in a red heart."

Frost pursed his lips. "The ubiquitous Rose. I hope she doesn't turn out to be a bloody sledge, or something, like in that Orson Welles film."

"Citizen Kane, sir-the sledge was called Rosebud."

The inspector chucked his expense claim over for Clive to check the totals. "That description might have been all right at the time, but when your suspect has been rotting in the ground for more than thirty years it doesn't do much, for your tattoos and receding hairline. Still, we'll get it over to Forensic, and they can see if it fits."

"What about checking on the broken arm, sir? And there's the dental chart, of course. If we had that we could compare it with the skull's teeth."

"You're blinding me with science, son. But that'll be your job for tomorrow. Try and trace Fawcus's doctor and dentist. Now what have you found?"

It was a photograph of a young, wide-eyed girl with a Judy Garland hairstyle-Rose Fawcus, the missing man's wife. Her address was shown as No. 172 Longley Road, Denton.

"She won't be there any more," said Frost. "It's being pulled down for the new public library."

The next photograph was of a bright-eyed lad in his teens. The label on the back said "Rupert Garwood. Junior Clerk, Bennington's Bank". The hospital doctor's report was attached. The skull had been fractured but would mend. Garwood was now back as Assistant Manager, Frost remembered. They'd see him first thing in the morning.

And then he realized they were messing about with this ancient, long-forgotten case which had nothing to do with Tracey Uphill, missing since Sunday. He looked through the window. Outside a muffled figure was walking across the car park, treading gingerly and leaving no footprints. The snow was polished glass, frozen solid. Frost shivered. Continue the search the next morning and if they didn't find the stiff, frozen body then, perhaps they'd find it the following day.

He'd had enough. On with the scarf and overcoat. "Pack it in, son-we're going home."

Clive needed no second bidding. He slammed the file shut and rammed it in a drawer, then cannoned into Frost who had stopped dead.

"Good Lord, son. I've just realized. No wonder we've been so lucky. Do you know what today is? It's my birthday."

And it was… at least up to midnight it was. And no one to remember, no one to send him a card.

"Many happy returns," said Clive, hoping this didn't mean they couldn't go home.

But Frost was already off on his record-breaking trot along the echoing corridor, pausing to poke his head round the door of Control. "If Detective Sergeant Hanlon radios in for me, bung out a call on my personal radio. I'm off home."

In the lobby, Henderson was taking details from a man whose car had been stolen. He gave them a cheerful wave.

Outside the night was bitter with air so cold it scoured the lungs. Frost took the driving seat, spun the car into a U-turn, and crawled over gleaming ice to the main road.

"Just a short detour, then I'll drop you off, son." dive's heart missed a couple of beats. He knew the inspector's short detours. But they didn't go far. Down some sideroads leading out of the High Street into a darkened turning without street lights, where Frost halted in front of a black row of blind-windowed terraced houses.

"Longley Road," he announced.

This was where Fawcus had lived back in 1951. Clive looked hard at the houses and realized they were derelict, windows covered with sheets of corrugated iron, heavy planks nailed over doors bearing cryptic messages-Gas Off, Water Off, Electricity Off.

Frost walked up the crumbling steps of No. 172 and peeped through the letterbox into pitch blackness smelling of damp plaster and sodden mattresses.

"No one at home, son. Still, we've got a key." And he produced from his pocket the keyring found in the earth beneath the skeleton. He poked a key in the lock. A click and the lock mechanism turned, but the door, gripped by six-inch nails, held firm. Frost put the key back in the pocket.

"So it fits, sir," said Clive, trying to sound impressed.

The inspector grinned. He was pleased with himself. "Looks like it, doesn't it, son? So this is where our skeleton lived back in 1951." He looked into the barrenness of the street. "And now he's dead, and the whole bloody street's dead and whoever shot his brains out and chopped off his arm is probably dead." He shrugged and descended the steps. "There used to be a little newspaper shop on that corner where I bought my comics when I was a kid. Now I'm a bloody comic myself."

He dropped Barnard at his digs a little after 2:15 p.m. "You can have a lie-in tomorrow, son. I won't be round for you until eight o'clock."

Clive staggered to the door, his sleep-weary brain calculating he would be getting less than five and a half hours sleep, if he was lucky. Actually he was going to be very lucky and would get far less sleep than basic mathematics suggested. Frost noticed the bedroom curtains twitch as the car door slammed and caught a brief glimpse of auburn hair and naked flesh.

He sighed. There'd be no one waiting for him when he got back. His house would be as cold and dead as Longley Road. Gas Off, Electricity Off, Naked Women Off. He remembered he was expecting to hear from Detective Sergeant Hanlon about the bank decoy job, and radioed Control who hadn't any news. The lights went on in Barnard's window. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, Frost saw two shadows merge, then the light went out. That decided him. It is my birthday, he told himself, slamming the car into gear and roaring eastward toward Bath Road, which the Council had newly garnished with salt. He pressed his foot down and the car leaped forward and telegraph poles swished past, his speedometer needle flickering near its limit. That's right, kill yourself on your bloody birthday!

He nearly missed the turn-off. Down the bumpy lane with the car bucking and rearing as it found all the ruts and potholes. Half way down he stopped and switched off the engine. The house was a black lump where the lane turned, but in spite of the late hour a hopeful light gleamed in a downstairs room.

A moment of indecision, then he was out of the car, head down into the stinging wind, floundering ankle deep in snow. The front gate etched a curved groove when he pushed it and deep footsteps followed him up the path. He jabbed the doorbell. A pause. A woman's voice called, "Who is it?"

"Jack Frost"

"Good God!" Bolts were drawn and the door opened. She was wearing a dressing gown, the glass in her hand half full. "What the hell do you want?"

"Just popped round to say hello," said Frost.

"What? At 2:30 in the morning? Well, you've said it. Now you can pop off home again."

"Oh!" said Frost, crestfallen.

"All right, come in. Quick, before I freeze to death."

He stepped into a hothouse. The front door slammed on the snow, on Tracey, Mullett, the skeleton, and the entire outside world.

She led him through to the lounge, dimly lit and thickly carpeted, a hi-fi unit in the corner oozing syrupy late-night music. A soft, chocolate brown studio couch absorbed the heat of a gas fire.

"Well, now you're here you might as well take off your coat."

He shrugged off his coat, stuck his scarf in the pocket, and went to the little cloakroom just off the hall. When he returned she was sitting on the studio couch, her head on one side, watching him. "I've poured you a drink." He flopped down beside her and took the well-filled glass from the sidetable.

"Here's to us, Jack." Her drink was sunk in a single gulp, but he sipped his slowly, letting his eyes run over her. She still looked good, even if the figure was now just a shade on the plump side, and she was at least forty, even by the kindest calculations.

"So what happened last Wednesday?" she asked.

"Wednesday?" He furrowed his brow, then groaned. "Hell, was I supposed to take you out?"

"Yes, you flaming were. To dinner. To make up for Monday, when you also forgot."

"Oh, Shirl, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

" 'Sorry!' You're always bloody-well sorry. I waited for hours.. hours. And now you calmly turn up at 2:30 in the morning and expect to jump in bed with me."

"It's not quite 2:30," said Frost.

She lay back on the studio couch and watched him drop the last of his clothes on top of her discarded dressing gown, then she moved so he could join her. His hands were reaching for her when a man's voice suddenly said, "Inspector Frost. Control to Inspector Frost."

"What the hell's that?" she asked, huskily.

Frost put a finger to his lips, then stretched out an arm for his personal radio. She ran the tips of her fingers gently down his back. With as much composure as he could muster he said, "Frost here. What is it, Control?"

"Message from Detective Sergeant Hanlon, Mr. Frost. Goodtimes, the jewelers in the High Street, has had a break-in. About twenty-five thousand quid's worth of stuff taken."

Her fingertips were now tracing an intricate pattern at the base of his spine. He tried to keep his voice steady. "Have we nabbed anyone?"

"No, Inspector. We were on the scene within seconds, but they got clean away. Shall we set roadblocks up?"

"Forget roadblocks. They'll be a waste of time. Tell Mr. Hanlon I want him to put a man front and back of Sammy Jacobs' betting shop. Keep them out of sight, but they are to detain anyone who tries to leave. Right?"

"Understood, sir."

"Tell him I'll meet him outside Sammy's in about…" Shirley pressed herself close to him and breathed heavily "… in about half an hour, perhaps a bit longer. Over and out."

He clicked off the transmitter and let it drop on the expensive carpet. The fire was warm, the couch was soft, and Shirley was marvelous. In the distance, the personal radio chattered inanely on about crashed cars, drunken brawls, suspicious noises…

It was 3:25 in the morning, the car was purring sweetly, and Frost was humming to himself as he puffed away at the cigar Shirley had given him as an extra birthday present. He hadn't realized before what a beautiful night it was with the snow sparkling like white silver. He parked well short of the betting shop and walked stealthily the rest of the way, noticing that although the wind blew as hard as ever, his overcoat seemed to have grown in thickness. A shape loomed from a shop doorway.

"Jack!"

Tubby Arthur Hanlon in tweed coat and pork-pie hat, his nose as red as his cheeks, motioned toward the betting shop.

"No one's been in or out, Jack."

"Good," grunted Frost. "Fill me in on the details."

Hanlon told him the story. The owner of the jewelers lived on the premises and at 2:45 had been woken up by insistent knocking. He looked from his upstairs window and saw the beat constable who informed him that the shop's burglar alarm was ringing at the station and could he come in and look around. The jeweler slipped on his dressing gown, scurried downstairs, switched off the alarm and opened the shop door. Whereupon the "beat constable" coshed him and ransacked the shop.

"Right," said Frost, "then let's see if Sammy is still open for business."

They crossed the road to the betting shop, Sammy Jacobs, Turf Accountant, and Frost leaned on the door buzzer.

"Why here?" whispered Hanlon. "Did you have a tip-off?"

"Intuition," mumbled Frost, and gave the door a kick to reinforce the summons of the buzzer.

Then something happened. Movement from inside the shop, a door banged, then a scuffling sound. Someone was trying to get out the back way. But a uniformed man was waiting.

"Oh no you don't!"

Frost pressed his face against the glass of the door and could make out the uniformed man pushing in from the rear, frogmarching a struggling figure. The constable shoved his prize through and unlatched the front door.

"Caught him trying to sneak out the back, sir."

Hanlon's torch splashed the man's sullen face. "Sid Sexton!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "What are you doing here?"

What Sid was doing at that precise moment was uttering a string of profanities. Hanlon had indeed caught a big fish. Sid Sexton was a break-in expert with five convictions for robbery with violence and a form-sheet several pages long.

"Where's Sammy?" asked Frost, rocking on his heels and puffing at his cigar.

In answer to his question a door opened at the head of some stairs and a shaft of light sliced the darkness, backlighting a fat, bald man in an expensive dressing gown, armed with a poker. He peered down into the shop.

"Who's there?"

"Police, Mr. Jacobs," called Frost. "Real ones."

Sammy lowered the poker and thudded downstairs.

"Mr. Frost!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What's this about?"

"Do you recognize this man, sir?" The flashlight shone on the break-in expert's face, which Sammy made a great pretence of studying, finally shaking his head reluctantly.

"Never seen him before in my life. Why?"

"We caught him running out of your premises a couple of minutes ago. He must have broken in."

Sammy frowned. "Broken in? Impossible."

"He came running out of here, straight into the constable's arms," insisted Hanlon.

Sammy dug into his dressing-gown pocket and found an enormous cigar which put Frost's to shame. He lit it carefully. "Well, nothing seems to have been taken…"

"We don't know that for sure, sir. We'd better take a look around."

The bookmaker caught the crook's eye and they both stiffened.

"No! There's no need for that."

But Frost was already half-way up the stairs. "Up here, is it, Mr. Jacobs-your living quarters?"

"Yes, you can look if you like." The note of relief was so strong that Frost came straight down again. He nodded to the room behind the counter. "What do you keep in your office, Sammy? He could have nicked something from there."

The fat shoulders shook with laughter. "A few pencils and some betting slips. If he took them, he's welcome."

"You're too charitable, Sammy, but we'll look, just in case. We owe it to you as a rate-payer and an upright citizen."

The safe, painted gray, was cemented into the wall. Sammy tested the handle. "It hasn't been touched. Without the key it's impossible. Look-it's late. Let him go. I won't prefer charges."

"Won't hurt just to look inside," murmured Frost.

This was inconvenient. The key was upstairs, somewhere. And it was so late. If they'd care to come back in the morning…

"Nip up and get it, Sammy, there's a good chap."

The bookmaker took the cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing end. "I don't have to."

"No," agreed Frost, cheerfully, "you don't have to. It's a citizen's privilege to sod up the police, but it means we'd have to go to all the bother and expense of getting a search warrant, which all comes out of the rates, and they're high enough already."

Sammy shrugged expansively. "So. I pay my rates. You get your search warrant."

"Please yourself, Sammy, but it means a couple of my men would have to stay here, by the safe, until we got it. And you'd be all on edge, up and down to the toilet. We're definitely going to see what's inside, so why prolong the agony?"

The cigar was hurled to the ground and trampled to death. "You lousy bastard, Jack. You know, don't you?"

Frost beamed affably. "I'm afraid I do, Sammy. One of my rare infallible days. I think the key's in your right-hand pocket."

It was. With shoulders slumped in defeat, Sammy moved to the safe, but Frost stopped him. "Hold it a minute, Sammy." He asked Hanlon and the constable to wait outside with the prisoner. "I want a quick word in private with Mr. Jacobs."

Hanlon gave the inspector a searching look as he closed the office door.

"So what is it," asked the bookmaker, the key poised in front of the lock.

Frost stuck his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. "It's a bloody serious offense, bribing and corrupting young police officers, Sammy. You'd cop at least double the sentence you'd expect just for robbery. But as it's my birthday, and it's near Christmas, I'll be generous. You keep your fat mouth shut about a certain member of the Denton police force, and I'll keep mine shut about bribery and corruption charges. How does that sound?"

"You lot look after your bloody own," snarled Sammy. Then, with a shrug, "But what have I got to lose. It's a deal, Jack."

"Let's have his I.O.U., then."

The safedoor swung open and Sammy thrust his arm past the neat heaps of expensive jewelry and watches lying on top of a folded police uniform, and pulled out an envelope which he handed to Frost. The inspector checked the contents, took out his lighter, and burned it to ashes. Then he called the others in.

As he climbed back into his car the church clock chimed four times. He backed out of the side street and headed for home. He'd told Detective Sergeant Hanlon to take over the entire case. "I wasn't there, Arthur. I've already had two arrests of my own tonight, which is more than my fair share of glory and form-filling. Grab this one with both hands. You've got kids and a fat stomach to support. Just say you were acting on information received. Sammy will keep me out of it, as it's my birthday."

He jerked his head and blinked. God, he was falling asleep at the wheel. He'd never done that before. Where was he? He stared unbelievingly through the windscreen at his house. He'd been driving in a trance, turning corners, crossing traffic lights without knowing it. If anyone had been in his path… He shuddered and thought of that miserable eighteen-year-old kid in the lobby. He wound down the window to let the cold air jerk him back to life. That poor kid. He just didn't have the luck.

Switching off the engine, he staggered to his front door. He didn't remember getting undressed, but was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. He could have dreamed of death and decay, but he dreamed of Shirley.

When he went out the next morning he found he'd left the car unlocked, with the window down, and the keys swinging in the ignition. Anyone could have pinched it, but his luck had held out just a little while longer.