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

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