Frost at Christmas

MONDAY-2

Detective Constable Clive Barnard's orders were to report for duty to Superintendent Mullett, Denton Police Station, nine o'clock sharp. The superintendent, he was told, was a stickler for punctuality, so he allowed himself plenty of time. He set the alarm for 7:15 and went to bed early. But sleep eluded him. At four o'clock he was still awake; the bed was lumpy, there weren't enough blankets to keep out the cold, his mind was a whirl of ash blondes and missing children, and some damn sadistic church clock punctuated his sleeplessness with clanking chimes every quarter-hour.

The exhausted sleep into which he eventually plunged was so deep that the alarm clock rang itself hoarse and he didn't hear it. He overslept. If his landlady hadn't banged on his door at 8:20 he'd be sleeping still.

So, no time for breakfast, just one mad rush to avoid the shameful crime of reporting late on his first day. A perfunctory buzz with the electric razor. Not perfect, but with his fair beard he'd get away with it. On with the brand-new gray suit with the red stripe, the one he'd bought especially for C.I.D. work from that little shop near Carnaby Street. He'd been told that clothes were important. Wear a tatty suit and you got the tatty assignments; good clothes earned the superior ones. So he'd bought this suit. It had cost him I

PS107, a lot more than he usually paid, but it was an investment, and why not let the Denton yokels see a bit of London quality for a change?

He opened his suitcase for the light blue shirt, moving his lawbooks to reach it. He was studying for a law degree in his spare time. He was determined to make it to the top by the quickest route and had realized that many of the younger senior men had law degrees. And he'd have plenty of time in this dead-and-alive hole to study his law books during the long winter evenings when he was without a female companion to run her gentle fingers down the ridged slope of his sexy broken nose.

By 8:45, his empty stomach complaining, he was thudding down Bath Hill, pushed by a cold wind. He wondered if they'd found Tracey Uphill. There certainly seemed to be an unusual amount of police activity for such an early hour. Three police cars had roared past him already.

Bath Hill led into Market Square where there was another policeman examining the door of a bank, but Clive gave him no more than a fleeting glance. Most of the shops had not yet opened and the tall Christmas tree outside the public lavatories was swaying in a wind that rattled its colored electric lights. He clattered over the cobbled road to reach Eagle Lane and the police station.

And there it was, red-bricked and solid, the welcoming blue lamp over swing doors leading into the lobby where the wall clock in its wooden case showed 8:54. He'd made it. The familiar police station smell of disinfectant, polish, and cooking from the canteen met his nose as, panting with relief, he advanced to the inquiry desk where a sad-faced, balding sergeant was on the phone.

Bill Wells, station sergeant for the 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. shift, was in temporary charge of the front office. He'd sent the duty constable, young P.C. Stringer, upstairs to the canteen for his breakfast and was keeping an eye on things until his return. The damn phone would have to ring: a woman with some rambling story about teenagers smashing her window two weeks ago and she'd only just decided to report it and what were the police go ing to do about it? A blast of air sent his papers flying as the lobby doors opened, but he trapped them with a practiced elbow and looked up at the visitor. A young chap with a crooked nose and smart overcoat. He looked supercilious enough to be someone important, so Wells cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and said, "Be with you in a moment, sir."

Clive nodded curtly. As he had managed to arrive in good time he hoped the sergeant wouldn't take too long on the phone and make him late for his appointment with the Divisional Commander. He roamed the lobby, studying the posters on the wall. Missing Persons, Foot and Mouth Disease Movement Restriction Orders and, everybody's favorite, the Colorado Beetle poster.

His heavy overcoat felt cumbersome, so he slipped it off and carried it over his arm. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the murky glass of the swing door. It brought him to an abrupt halt.

The new suit! It shrieked!

In the dim lighting of the shop it had seemed tastefully conservative with, perhaps, a barely audible refined whisper of trendiness, but in the somber surroundings of the station the trendy whisper was a raucous shout. It was a disaster, and no time to race back and change. He huddled himself into a dark corner.

P.C. Stringer, the duty desk man, returned to his post replete with bacon, beans, tea, and two slices. With his honest, open, freshly scrubbed schoolboy's face sur mounted with dark curly hair, he looked more like a sixth former than a policeman. He smiled at Clive with an air of helpful inquiry.

"I'm attending to the gentleman," hissed the sergeant from one corner of his mouth while carrying on his phone conversation with the other. The young constable shrugged good-naturedly and settled down to peck out a report on an ancient black Underwood.

At last the sergeant slammed down the phone and rubbed a sore ear. He turned to Clive with almost obsequious politeness.

"Can I help you, sir?"

It occurred to Clive that the sergeant was mistaking him for someone important. It also occurred to him that the sergeant wouldn't take too kindly to the knowledge that he had been abasing himself before the lowest of the low, a raw detective constable whose forehead still bore a ridge from a helmet. A quick explanation was vital.

"Actually, Sergeant, I'm Detective Constable-"

On the first syllable of "constable" the sergeant's smile froze solid: it shriveled to a tight glitter on the second and vanished chillingly on the last. The expression "his face went ugly" could have been invented for this moment. Clive plowed bravely on…

"— Detective Constable Barnard. I have to report to Superintendent Mullett at nine o'clock, sir."

So this was Barnard. This is the young bastard who's going to make it because of his uncle while people with seventeen years bloody service but without influential relatives… Wells twisted his neck to wall clock. A minute before nine. Pity. It would have been a pleasure to bawl him out for un-punctuality.

Another blast of wind ruffled the papers on the desk as a figure in military uniform hurtled through.

"Meeting?" he barked.

"Third door on the left, sir." The man was already on his way. Wells returned his attention to his victim.

"Oh, yes. Barnard… I remember. The Chief Constable's nephew, isn't it? I should have recognized the broken nose."

Clive tightened his lips, said nothing, and stared at a spot just above the sergeant's balding head. Wells moved his gaze downward… and then he saw it-

"Good God! Where on earth did you get that suit?"

Clive flushed. "In London, Sergeant."

"London? The last time I saw a suit like that Max Miller was wearing it. How much did you pay for it?"

A deep breath. "PS107, Sergeant."

The sergeant's jaw thudded. "PS107! For that? Take my tip, Barnard, don't wear it in the daylight. There's some very nervous people about." Shoulders shaking at his own witticism and his good humor restored, Wells jerked a thumb toward a polished wooden bench and bade Clive sit.

"The Divisional Commander's tied up at the moment. I'll tell you when he's free."

Clive sat. The bench was hard. You were not meant to be comfortable sitting in a police station. Above his head was the Colorado Beetle Indentikit, on the opposite wall a blackboard in a wood frame. It was headed: DENTON DIVISION-ROAD ACCIDENTS. The board contained columns in which were chalked the monthly running totals of accidents and fatalities in the division as compared with the previous year.

Clive sat and waited. The bench got harder, his suit louder. Then an icy blast as the swing doors crashed back on their hinges and a scruffy individual in a dirty mac, un-pressed trousers, and a long trailing maroon scarf burst in. He was in his late forties, with a pink, weather-beaten farmer's face flecked with freckles, warm blue eyes, and a freckled balding head, the pate surrounded by fluffy light brown hair. He went straight over to the board, picked up the chalk, and increased by one the number of accidents.

"What happened?" asked Sergeant Wells, watching this with concern.

"Hit the back of a bloody car as I drove in," said the scruffy man. "Some silly sod had poked it in my parking space. Who owns a blue Jaguar?"

Wells went white. "Not a blue Jaguar, Jack? You didn't hit a blue Jaguar? That's Mr. Mullett's car. Brand new… delivered Saturday."

The scruffy man was unimpressed. "Mullett's? At this hour of the morning? Come off it, he's at home polishing his buttons." He sniffed. "Hello… either meat pudding for dinner or Mabel's boiling her drawers."

"This is serious, Jack," insisted the sergeant. "That is Mullett's car. He's here for the briefing meeting on the search for the missing kid. You were phoned about it last night. He's been asking for you."

The man paused, then smote his brow in horrified "The meeting! Blimey! I forgot all about it."

The station sergeant, who appeared to find happiness in other's misfortunes, tried to reassure him. "Never mind, Jack, after smashing up his car, missing his meeting will seem trivial. Did you do much damage?"

He thought about it. "Not much… a slight knock on the rear wing. Hardly noticeable. His rear lamp's a bit smashed and there's the odd scratch and a couple of dents… Pity it was so new, actually." He hitched up his scarf. "Look, Bill, you haven't seen me; I haven't been in yet. I'm going to hide my car round the corner." He scuttled out a side passage.

"Who was that?" asked Clive.

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

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

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

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

"Tell him no," said the sergeant. "And tell him there's a gentleman in a PS107 suit waiting to see him."

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

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

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

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

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

A knock at the door interrupted his meditations.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir, "lied Clive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clive nodded glumly and made appropriate noises of sympathy.

"As I said, he took it badly. Naturally. You can't expect a tragedy like that not to leave its scars. I make allowances of course.

…" He picked up his stainless-steel paperknife and tapped the blade on his palm, racking his brains for something to say in his inspector's favor.

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

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

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

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

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

"How's that for center?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur giggled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A blur of maroon scarf dashed across the road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The face screwed up, the red dots of eyes burned as he swung his head from one to the other of them like a rat cornered between two terriers. "And a fat lot of bleedin' good that would do me. You'd all lie your effing heads off."

He hobbled out into the fresh air. It took a good thirty minutes with doors and windows open to persuade the smell he'd brought in with him to do likewise.

"You've got to know how to handle these sods," said Wells, poking the ledger back. "Who does he think is going to touch his money after he's wiped his grimy fingers over it?"

The internal phone buzzed. Wells answered it. "Oh. Yes, sir. He's on his way." The maroon scarf streaked past his eyes and off down the corridor to Mullett's office.

"These are the cells," said P.C. Keith Stringer, who had been detailed to show the new man around.

Clive grunted.

"You know," explained Stringer. "Where we keep the prisoners until we can get them to court." He pushed open an iron door. "This is the drunk cell with the drain, so we can hose the sick down…"

Clive's impatience burst. "Look, I have been in a police station before, you know. How long have you been on the Force?"

"Three months," replied the younger man, proudly.

"And I've been in it for two years-in one of the toughest areas of London. I've forgotten more than you'll ever know, so just show me where things are, don't explain them tome."

Stringer's face reddened. "Sorry. I was only trying to help." His expression cheered up as the door to the cell section opened and another uniformed man stepped in.

"Oh, Harry… this is the new chap, Clive Barnard from London. Clive-Harry Dobson."

The two men shook hands. Dobson was about Clive's age, a good-looking, curly haired man with an innocent expression.

"Young Keith showing you the ropes, is he?"

"Nothing I can show him," said Keith. "He knows it all."

"I wish I could work in London," said Dobson. "Do me a favor, Keith. Come with me to fetch the prisoners' breakfasts. They should send them down, but you know how short-handed we are with this search."

"Sure," replied Keith. "Are the prisoners all right to be left?"

Dobson scratched his chin. "Well… as far as I know. The bloke in the end cell's been acting a bit queer, scream ing and sobbing. Off his chump if you ask me, but he's quiet now. Keep an eye on them until we get back, Clive. Shouldn't be long."

Without waiting for his agreement, they were off.

Clive watched them go. Just trotting off and leaving the prisoners-what a way to run a station! In a properly organized station, like London, the man in charge of the cell section stayed put and the food was brought to him.

Better take a look at his charges. His feet rang on the stone flags and the familiar damp uriney carbolic smell tweaked his nose. The first two doors were ajar, the cells unoccupied, but the next was locked. Peering through the peep-hole he saw the occupant, a pimply faced youth with long, dank hair laying on the wall bed and staring blankly at the ceiling. Somehow aware he was being watched the youth jerked two fingers toward the spy-hole.

Another unoccupied cell, then the drunk cell with its floor sloping down to a grated drain. And that seemed to be it. Then he remembered the other prisoner Dobson had mentioned, the queer fellow in the end cell.

The end cell was locked. It was silent within-ominously silent. Clive put his eye to the spy-hole. His heart lurched and stopped. Level with his eye, a pair of legs hung downward, swaying and twisting grotesquely.

The occupant of the cell had hanged himself.

Clive hurled himself. at the door, but of course it was locked. The fools. The bloody fools! They'd left him in charge but had taken the keys. He yelled. His voice echoed back at him but no one came. The chap in the other cell started banging on his door, shouting to know what was going on.

Feeling sick, Clive raced up the stone corridor and out of the cell block. He saw the station sergeant going through a door marked Charge Room. But he had no breath. He croaked incoherently, tugging at the sergeant's uniform to get him to do something, anything. When Wells realized what Barnard was trying to tell him his face drained of color. He snatched the spare bunch of keys from the charge room and tore to the end cell. As he poked the key in the lock, the door swung open.

Clive followed the sergeant into the cell. Sitting on the wall bed, tears of laughter streaming down their faces, were P.C. s Stringer and Dobson. Hanging from the ceiling on the end of a piece of rope was the pair of men's trousers they had stuffed with straw.

The station sergeant smiled. "It's one of the oldest tricks in the game, son. I thought you'd been in a police station before."