Frost at Christmas by R. D. Wingfield Read Free Book Online

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 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.