DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

realized what the cryptic note on the back of the envelope meant - "Check Aunt - Tea". Of course, Farnham, Mrs. Uphill's regular, was supposed to have gone to his aged aunt's for a nice spot of anti-climax after thirty quid's worth of strenuous exercise and his story hadn't been checked. Clive was detailed to attend to this right away.
    "Take the car, son - I'll be going in the van with the grave-diggers. When you've seen the old dear, come down to Dead Man's Hollow and join in the fun. I reckon we'll have to dig down to Australia before we find anything, though." He was to remember this remark afterward. When he was wrong, he certainly was wrong.
    Clive's hand was on the door handle when Frost had another thought. "She's probably old and nervous, so you'd better have a woman P.C. along with you. Take the same one as before . . ."
    Clive's face lit up. "Hazel!"
    "Blimey," said Frost, "Don't tell me I've done something right for a change. Don't let anyone catch you smiling, son, they might think you're enjoying working with me."
    As the door closed, Frost ripped open the two envelopes, but he knew it was just to delay what he had to do. Both Christmas cards. He dropped them on the desk, then steeled himself to pull open the top right-hand drawer of his desk. His heart sank when he saw what he expected to see.
    A quick tap and the door opened before he could say "Come in."
    "I've come for the empty cups, sir." It was Keith Stringer, the young P.C. from the front office.
    Frost waved a hand to the window ledge.
    "You didn't drink your tea, sir . . ." Mildly reproachful.
    Frost looked up wearily. "Sorry, son, by the time I got here it was cold. Hold on a minute, would you? Put the cups down . . . shut the door."
    The young man looked puzzled, but did as he was told.
    Frost's thumb indicated a chair. "Sit down." He slid a packet of cigarettes across the desk.
    "I don't smoke, sir."
    The inspector grunted and took one himself. "Keith isn't it - Keith Stringer?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Hmm." Frost rubbed his chin and patted some papers into a neat pile. Outside in the car park the sound of a car door slamming. Frost sighed and shook his head sadly.
    "Tell me, son, how much money have you pinched in total - to within a couple of quid, say?"
    Stringer's eyes widened. He searched the inspector's face for a hidden smile . . . it was a joke, of course. Frost met the gaze steadily. Stringer sprang to his feet, face hot, lips compressed.
    Frost crashed his fist on the desk. "Sit down." The young constable jerked back in his chair, seething with resentment.
    Frost stubbed out the cigarette and poked the butt back into the pocket. "Look son, you probably think me useless and decrepit, and perhaps you're right, but I'd be a real right twit if I couldn't solve a simple case of someone nicking money from my desk drawer . . . money that's always missing after you've been in with the tea . . ."
    Eyes blazed. "I'm not staying here to be insulted, sir. I'm reporting this to the Police Federation Representative, so if you want to say anything further to me . . ."
    The inspector knocked Stringer's hand from the door handle, grabbed him by the tunic, and slung him back in his chair. His eyes were soft and reproachful, his voice calm. "I'll call the Divisional Commander if you like, son, and tell him I want your pockets searched. You see . . . I marked the money . . ."
    Stringer flinched and, as if a plug had been pulled, the color drained from his face. Defiance shriveled and he crumpled in the chair.
    The door opened and the station sergeant's head poked round. "They're ready, Jack . . ." he began, then he felt the electric tension in the air. His head swivelled from the white-faced constable to the stiff figure of Frost behind the desk, the scar on his cheek twitching.
    "Thank you, Sergeant."
    The questioning raised eyebrows were ignored, so the head withdrew tactfully and the door closed.
    Frost relit the cigarette butt and sat on the corner of his desk, dribbling the smoke from his nose. "It's not only my money, son. What about that tramp we found dead - the poor old sod whose quid you pinched? If he had had that quid he might have found himself lodgings for the night and still be alive. He was hunched up in a wooden hut, no bigger than a coffin, frozen to death."
    The constable buried his face in his hards.
    Frost's face was touched with pity. "But if it's any consolation, son, I can't see old Sam wasting a good quid on rubbish like food and