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

"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