DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

fool up to, now? The inspector motioned for Clive to turn the car down one of the dark side streets leading off the square. A couple of sharp right turns and, "Pull up here, son . . . quietly."
    The car coasted the last few yards and came to a halt in the dark shadow of the side entrance to Woolworth's. Across the road, brightly illuminated by a tall streetlamp, the solid shape of Bennington's Bank. Frost switched off the radio and wound down the side window. The car sucked in cold air and Clive shivered and silently cursed all detective inspectors.
    "Little spot of observation," croaked Frost. "Shouldn't take long."
    It took an hour, a long, cold hour, marked off by two more clanking chimes from the church clock. The inspector was slumped in his seat, his scarf round his ears, breathing heavily, his face child-like in repose.
    Typical, seethed Clive. The stupid git has gone to sleep and hasn't even told me what we're supposed to be watching for.
    But the eyelids were not tightly closed; they fluttered and a hand gently squeezed Clive's arm.
    In the doorway of the bank someone moved. A duffle-coated figure, the face hidden in the depths of the hood. The head moved from side to side, checking, then a long metallic object was produced from inside the coat. A scraping of metal. The shattering pistol crack of splintering wood.
    Clive grabbed the door handle, ready for the plunge across the cobbled road, but was pushed back. "Just watch son . . . that's all . . . watch."
    Someone else had heard the noise. The running feet of the foot-patrol police constable clip-clopped down Bath Hill. A loud clang as the duffle-coat dropped the jemmy and ran into the blackness of a side-turning, vanishing long before the beat man was anywhere near. Accepting defeat, the constable gave up the chase and returned to examine the marks on the bank door. He picked up the jemmy, then began to speak rapidly into his personal radio.
    Frost had seen all he wanted to see. He asked Clive to reverse quietly and at 2:15 they were straining up Bath Hill to Clive's digs.
    "Do me a favor son, keep quiet about this for the moment. Ah - this is you, isn't it?"
    Clive stepped out of the car and Frost slid into the driver's seat muttering something about an early start tomorrow.
    The lights were out at No. 26. As he bent to locate the keyhole something cold and wet kissed the back of Clive's neck. He raised his head. It was snowing, idly at first, and then in clusters of thick swirling flakes. He wondered if tracker dogs were any good in snow. He couldn't remember, he was so tired . . .

TUESDAY

TUESDAY (1)

    "... search for Tracey Uphill, the missing eight-year-old, hampered by heavy falls of snow. A police spokesman stated the operations would be resumed immediately the severe weather conditions eased. The Post Office reports a record Christmas. . . ." "Turn it off, son."
    Clive switched off the car radio and concentrated on his driving, squinting with tired eyes through the snow-splattered windscreen at a strange, silent, soft-contoured landscape. A bright and breezy Frost had dragged him out of bed at 7:15 after barely five hours' sleep and another marathon day loomed infinitely ahead.
    Strong winds drove the snow almost horizontally, and when they left the car on the outskirts of the Old Wood it was teeth-gritting hard work to push themselves along the obscured path. By the time they reached the lake they were plastered thickly with snow from head to foot.
    A small canvas marquee had been erected at lakeside for the dragging party and the wind was pounding its fists on the roof and trying to pluck out the tent-pegs. They plunged inside, thankful for its scant shelter, and sat on the small up-turned rowboat which someone must have man 'handled through the woods in the dark. Outside, two uniformed snowmen stoically smashed the surface ice with long poles.
    "Trust me to get weather like this," yelled Frost over the thunder of the flapping canvas. "Inspector Allen would have had sunshine, bluebirds singing, and little deer chasing butterflies. Who the hell's this?"
    A burly figure in an anorak butted his way toward them. He ducked into the tent and shook himself like a dog, shedding layers of snow, then pulled back the hood to uncover wire-wool ginger hair flecked with gray and a beaming, florid face mottled with large freckles. Sandy Lane, Chief Reporter of the Denton Echo, had heard the lake was being dragged and wanted to be there when the body popped