DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas by R. D. Wingfield Read Free Book Online

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 burk 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