DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

Sergeant Martin had just finished working out schedules and instructions, to be presented to the various search parties at the next morning's briefing meeting. He showed them to the inspector who pretended to understand them and handed them back with vigorous noises of approval.
    "What about the dragging party, George, for Willow Lake?"
    Martin confirmed it was laid on for eight o'clock in the morning, adding, "We could only scrape up another three men to help search the wood. Most of our chaps have worked double shifts as it is."
    "Fair enough," said Frost, tagging Tracey's scarf and locking it in a cupboard. "I'll look in on them later to see how they're getting on."
    Martin paused in the act of buttoning his thick overcoat. "By the way, Jack, Mr. Mullett was in earlier screaming blue murder because someone had smashed the back of his brand-new Jaguar."
    Frost's face expressed over-exaggerated concern. "Tut tut - I hope they catch the bastard who did it."
    "He left a note on your desk," Martin added.
    "Christ!" said Frost, and this time the concern was real.
    The note, written in the Divisional Commander's firm hand, read:

    County H.Q. advise me they have not received your crime statistics. I have promised them they will get them tomorrow morning, without fail. M.

    Frost flopped into his chair. "Interfering sod. If he's promised them, he should do them. Did you get those figures out, son?"
    Clive reminded the inspector that he was told to leave them.
    Frost sniffed. "You may find this hard to believe, son, but there are some rotten sods who don't do their statistical returns the proper, honest way. They cheat by doing this," and he picked up the phone and dialed his opposite number in a neighboring division.
    "Hello, Charlie - Jack. Of course my watch hasn't stopped. I'm still working and bloody hard, too. You done your crime statistics? Good, what was the trend, up or down? Seven per cent up? Disgraceful, you should be ashamed of yourself. Ours? About the same. Here, did I tell you the joke about the bloke who drunk the spittoon for a bet? Oh . . . Well, cheers. If I don't speak to you before, have a nice Christmas."
    He replaced the receiver with a triumphant flourish.
    "The figures are up 7 per cent son, so we find last month's return, we up the answers by 7 per cent, and we're home and dry. This is the wrong way to do them, of course, and must never in any circumstances be used unless you are sure you can get away with it."
    It took them an hour. The job could have been done quicker, but Frost, working out 7 per cents on the backs of old envelopes, kept getting a different answer from Clive and had to do his calculations again before he could agree. "I'm better at sums once I know the answer I'm aiming for," he explained, licking the gummed label that addressed the return to County Headquarters. "How's the time, son?"
    Clive screwed the sleep from his eyes and looked at his watch. "Nearly midnight, sir." He'd been on duty for fifteen hours.
    "Good," said Frost, "Just a couple more jobs to do, then we can go home."
    He stuck his head round the door of Search Control where a uniformed man on night shift was keeping an eye on things.
    "Just going to the woods with the new chap," he announced.
    Clive winced. The new chap! He felt as if he had been trotting along behind Frost for at least twenty years.
    The wind was waiting for them at the woods. It tore and bit and hammered as they wandered in the dark trying to locate the search party. Eventually the search party found them. A torch shone in their faces. The constable holding it was shivering with cold.
    "Call it a night," said Frost. "We don't want you all going down with pneumonia. I can't stand funerals at Christmas. Anyway, if she's spent a day and a night in the open, she's dead, so we might as well find the body tomorrow as tonight. Let the mother hope for a while longer. Come on, son."
    Back to the car. "Where to, sir?"
    "The town, son."
    Thank goodness, thought his detective constable, home and bed at last.
    As they sped toward the town a church clock chimed . . . one o'clock on a cold and frosty morning. The streets they passed were empty, the lights out in the houses, and it seemed as though they were the only two people in the world who heard that single chime rolling across the sleeping countryside.
    The Market Square at last, with its lighted shop windows and the tall Christmas tree outside the public lavatories. But what the hell was the silly old