Frost at Christmas (32 page)

   It was like kicking a puppy, but Frost waded in again. "As I said, Mr. Powell, you had a fair old motive for stealing the money - to pump it into your son's failing business."

   Powell turned his head slowly and twitched his lips to a thin smile of contempt. "You don't do your homework, do you, Inspector? The money was stolen in 1951. My son killed himself in 1949 - two years before. Would you mind leaving now, please? My wife doesn't like being left alone."

   Frost motioned to Clive who put his notebook away. The two detectives rose.

   "Sorry if I've upset you, Mr. Powell, but these questions have to be asked." Powell nodded brusquely and followed them out. In the passage Frost hesitated and pounded his palm with his fist. "I've got a memory like a bloody sieve. I meant to ask if you went out at all last night?"

   "I didn't," said Powell. "Why?"

   "Last night someone shot Rupert Garwood and splattered his eye to bits, but if you haven't got a gun and you didn't go out, I'll have to look around for another suspect. Thank your wife for the coffee, sir, and if I don't see you before, Merry Christmas."

"Well, son?" asked Frost, thawing out in the warmth of the car as it nosed its way back to the station.

   "Seems a decent enough old boy, sir. I feel sorry for him. He poured all his savings into his son's business and now they're left to struggle along on his reduced pension."

   Frost considered this. "He tells a good story, I'll grant him that. I haven't felt more like crying since the chip shop burned down in
Coronation Street."
"You think he's lying, then?" asked Clive.

   Frost twitched his shoulder. "It would be hard to prove if he was. He's had thirty-odd years to polish up his story--and it's a real tear-jerker as you say. Son a war hero, decent parents living in penury to save his good name, and to cap it all, he's got a bad leg. But he is lying, son - I've got one of my hunches."

   The car sped past white barren blankness which just about summed up Denton to Clive - blank and barren. Except for Hazel, of course, an oasis of warmth in a desert of ice. He squinted down at his watch - nearly eight o'clock and Frost clearly running out of steam. Good. He'd be off duty at a reasonable time for once. Perhaps he could even take Hazel out somewhere first.

   At his side, Frost was stirring uneasily. "I keep getting the nagging feeling I've left something undone. It's not my flies, so what is it? Blimey - yes! Turn left here - we've got to go to the Denton
Echo
office. Hornrim Harry wants me to kill the disinterred kitten story. Slam your foot down, son."

   Clive increased speed and barren blankness zipped past. As long as Frost didn't think of any more jobs, he could still see Hazel at a reasonable time . . .

   Frost's voice cut into his thoughts. "I imagine they'll be putting you with Inspector Allen tomorrow, son. I can't see our Divisional Commander leaving you under my corrupting influence a minute longer than he can help. He's going to do his nut when he finds I still haven't touched that paperwork. But he'll say, 'I realize we've got to make allowances for you, Frost, in view of your recent sad loss'." He laughed mirthlessly and shook the last cigarette from the packet. "As you'll be leaving me, son, I'll tell you a secret I've told no one else. My marriage was a flop. Twenty years of stark bloody misery. My wife despised me. She was ambitious; she wanted someone she could be proud of, and the poor cow got me; she hated me for being what I was. I used to dread going home. In the end I decided to leave her - there was another woman I was going to move in with. On the very night I was going home to break the news, her doctor phoned me at the station. He'd sent my wife to a specialist who'd taken X-rays and they now had the result. Inoperable cancer. She had six months to live and they'd be six rotten months. They thought it best the news was kept from her. So I changed my plans and carried on being despised. A couple of days after that this young sod shot the hole in my face and I didn't particularly care if he killed me or not. The wife was thrilled silly when I got my medal, and when they made me up to inspector she nearly burst with pride. The only thing I'd ever done right. She even stopped nagging. She was a hard woman, but it was a rotten way to die - a bloody rotten way for anyone to die." He mangled his cigarette end in the car's ashtray and stared at the roof. "All I'm trying to say, son, is it's not grief and sorrow at my wife's death that makes me sod things up - I'm just a natural sodder-upper and nothing's going to change me."

   Clive didn't know how to react to these raw outpourings. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided silence was best. The car slowed outside the Denton
Echo
office building and Frost shot out, asking Clive to wait.

   He found Sandy answering two phones at once and making copious notes in beautifully executed shorthand, so he waited for the reporter to bang the phones down. "Sorry, Jack, but it's going mad at the moment. Did you want me?"

   "Yes," replied Frost. "First of all I've decided to forgive you for that rotten dinner. I've only been sick three times and the hot flushes are easing off."

   "Oh, yes?" said Sandy warily, sensing a favor was about to be asked.

   "I'm in trouble with this dead cat story, Sandy. I want you to kill it."

   Sandy patted some papers on his desk into a neat pile. "You're too late, Jack, we're already printing. Sorry - I would if I could, you know that."

   Frost leaned forward and dropped his voice. "Supposing I could give you a better story?"

   Sandy's nose twitched, but he pretended only a casual interest. "Like what?"

   "Fleet Street stuff, Sandy boy. Strictly speaking our press office should send it direct to the agencies, but when you've got obliging friends who think nothing of spending 12p on your dinner . . ."

   The reporter studied Frost's face carefully, then, reaching for his house phone, made up his mind. He spoke into the mouthpiece. "George - kill that page-one story about the police exhuming the cat, and stand by for something better." He hung up. "It had better be good, Jack."

   Frost told him that the gun that killed Fawcus back in 1951 also fired the bullet that put an end to Garwood's life the previous night, Sandy's lower jaw dropped, then a smile traveled from one large ear to the other. "You're an ugly old sod, Jack, but I love you," and snatching up the phone he dictated a new story direct to a typist. The headline was to be 1951 KILLER STRIKES AGAIN - AMAZING STORY. The various facts and figures he was able to pluck from his fingertips paid tribute to an elephantine memory. Finished at last he spun his chair round to face the inspector. "What chance of an early arrest. Jack?"

   "We're following up several leads," trotted out Frost, trying to think of just one.

   "Tomorrow, Jack, we'll have a proper lunch The sky's the limit - up to a tenner a head. Now, off the record, what leads have you got?"

   "Damn all," said Frost, "and that's exaggerating. You keep your lunch and give me some information instead. Do you remember a bloke called Powell, Manager of Bennington's back in 1951?"

   "Stuck-up sod." recalled Sandy. ''His son killed himself."

   Frost stripped the cellophane from a fresh packet and offered a cigarette to the reporter. "Tell me about the son."

   Sandy tugged an ear in thought. "A bloody hero during the war but a near crook after it. He started up this dubious investment company, then blew most of his clients' money on horses and women. Criminal charges, would have been preferred if the old man hadn't stepped in and made his losses good. Had to sell his house and they now live in a wooden hut in Denton Road."

   Ash dropped from Frost's cigarette to his coat. He spread it about with his hand. "And, in spite of the old man's sacrifices, he kills himself?"

   "Yes - in front of a tube train. They had to scrape him off the rails. He still owed a couple of thousand then, but the old man dug a little deeper and got it together somehow and all the creditors were satisfied." He looked up. "Hello - that bloke with the wonky hooter - isn't he your assistant?"

   And it was Clive, wending his way through the maze of desks, a scowl of urgent agitation on his face. Frost excused himself to Sandy and hurried over to the detective constable.

   "What's up, son?" Then he noticed the smoldering anger.

   "Not here, sir - outside," and Clive spun on his heels leaving Frost to trot dutifully after him. In the street the young man stopped and, with eyes blazing, almost snarled at his superior officer.

   "You and your bloody hunches!"

   When the hospital phoned him about his wife, he knew. Before he picked up the phone, he knew . . . and he knew now. He held his breath to still the churning turmoil within.

   "What is it, son?"

   "Tracey Uphill. They've found her. She's dead!"

   The wind groaned and wailed.

   He knew where they'd found her, but he had to ask.

   "Where, son?"

   "Where do you bloody-well think? Stuffed in that trunk at the vicarage, along with the filthy books and the pornographic photographs."

The car screamed round the corner and juddered to a halt outside the front door of the vicarage where other cars were parked, including the Divisional Commander's blue Jaguar with its damaged rear wing.

   A uniformed man at the door saluted "Second floor, Inspector, first door."

   They took the stairs two at a time and pushed into the vicar's photographic studio where a silent group of men clustered around the opened cabin trunk Frost barged through and looked down into the staring, frightened eyes of eight-year-old Tracey Uphill, who was no longer pretty. A swollen tongue protruded obscenely from her twisted mouth. She wore her warm blue coat but would never be warm again. Frost gently touched the marble flesh with probing fingertips. The flesh was soft. He spotted the doctor at the back of the group and looked to him in mute enquiry.

   "Rigor mortis
has gone, Jack, so I reckon she's been dead since Sunday. You'll need a P.M. to pin it down to the hour, but the pathologist should be here shortly. We've had to drag him from a Christmas dance.''

   Frost dropped his eyes to the tortured white face. "How was she killed, Doc?"

   "Manual strangulation." The doctor moved the head slightly to show the marks on the throat. "No attempt at sexual assault as far as I can see, but I don't want to disturb her too much. You know what a fussy devil that bloody pathologist is."

   A uniformed man coughed to attract Frost's attention. "We found these in that corner cupboard, sir," and he pointed to a stack of dirty books and nude photographs. "We imagine they were removed from the trunk to make room for the body."

   Frost gave them a fleeting glance and grunted "The property of the vicar," said Mullett loudly, deciding it was time to make his presence felt "We can see the sort of person he is."

   "Yes," snapped Frost, still looking at the girl, "exactly the same sort as the rest of us." He waved the books away. The constable was hurt, wanting the inspector to examine them and realize their enormity. "There's nude pictures of young girls, sir - local girls."

   "I know," said Frost, impatiently, "I saw them when we searched here the other day." And not a very thorough search, he reflected bitterly, remembering how he'd hustled Clive Barnard along, and the body must have been here all the time. Then he realized Mullett was talking to him.

   "Did I understand you to say you saw these books and photographs, Inspector?" The voice was shocked. "There was no mention of them in your report - such as it was."

   Frost lit a cigarette and shrugged. "No, sir, I didn't think it relevant at the time." His eyes went back to the body.

   Mullett's voice rose to shrill and accusing incredulity. "You saw these pieces of filth, and you didn't think them relevant?"

   But Frost, deep in thought, flicked an impatient hand at his Divisional Commander. "Later sir, later Everyone in the room stiffened. Mullett was ready to explode but managed to control himself in time. He took several deep breaths, determined not to create a scene in front of the others, but as soon as he got Frost back to the station . . .

   "Who found the body?" asked Frost, completely unaware of the tension in the room.

   The area car driver who had answered the 999 call stepped forward. "The vicar's wife, sir. She went to that cupboard to see if she could find any spare hymnbooks for the carol service and found the obscene books and photographs heaped on the floor. She suspected they had come from the trunk. She opened it, and there was the kid."

   Mullett reasserted himself. "The vicar's in his study downstairs, Frost. His wife's in the lounge. She's very upset and I thought it better to keep them apart at this stage."

   "Has the vicar said anything?" asked Frost.

   The area car driver pulled out a notebook. "Another bloody memory man," snorted Frost, but undeterred the constable flicked through until he found the right page. He cleared his throat and read.

   "The vicar said he had no idea how the child had got there. He last used the room about a week ago and last saw the child when she left Sunday school last Sunday afternoon. His wife, Mrs. Bell, was hysterical and I couldn't get much sense out of her, but she said - " and he dropped his eyes to the notebook for the exact words, " - 'I knew it would come to this one day, I just knew it'." He shut the book with a snap and replaced it in his breast pocket.

   Frost made no move.

   "Well, Inspector," said Mullett with forced heartiness, "I expect you'll want to question the vicar right away. We'll hang on here until the pathologist arrives."

   Frost ignored him and sank to his knees by the trunk. Heedless of the shocked protests, he turned the body to one slide and plucked something from the back of the blue coat, then he jerked his head abruptly at Clive.

   "Come here, son. You want bloody facts, do you? Here's a bloody fact." He pointed then looked up at Mullett. "I don't want to speak to the vicar, sir, and I don't need any bloody pathologist to tell me who killed this kid." He gently replaced the tiny corpse in its original position and looked at Clive who nodded grimly. There could be little doubt. All day long they had both been brushing and brushing to get the damned things off their clothes and the back of the girl's coat was smothered in them . . . hairs - black, brown, white, tabby - from the mangy moulting fur of many different cats.