DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

fingerprint powder on polished surfaces and the distorted chalked outline, like a child's drawing, on the floor. He wandered over to the Ideal Standard boiler in the corner, opened the fire door, and peered inside. It was full of light gray fluffy ash and lumps of cold unburned coal.
    "Why did he let the fire go out, son? You'd expect it to be going full blast, day and night, in the winter."
    "I imagine he was killed before he could make it up for the night," answered Clive, trying not to sound too patronizing.
    "I'm glad you said that, son. It gives me one of my rare chances to shine. He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, all clean from his weekly wash. A methodical bloke like Garwood would have made the dirty fire up first."
    Clive thought again. "Then perhaps the boiler was due for a clean-out. You have to let the fire go out every few weeks to rake out the ashes, otherwise it gets clogged up."
    Frost smiled thankfully. "I'll buy that, son. We can eliminate the boiler from our list of things to worry about, then. Thank God for that, there's enough bloody mysteries as it is. Are you going to the Christmas Dinner and Dance?"
    "Dance, sir?" frowned Clive, unable to keep up with these abrupt changes of subject.
    "The Denton Division Annual Dinner. It's next Saturday. Entirely voluntary, of course, but you don't get promotion if you don't go. You can have my ticket." He opened a drawer and closed it aimlessly. "You can smell death in the house, can't you, son? A sort of empty, final feeling. You know what I mean?"
    Clive didn't know what the old fool meant so gave a non-committal shrug. It was clear the inspector was completely out of his depth, without the faintest idea of what to do next. Surely the superintendent wouldn't leave him in charge of a murder investigation?
    "What's our next move, sir?"
    Frost consulted his wrist. "Too early for lunch, even if his eye hadn't taken the edge off my appetite. You know, son, after my wife died, my house was like this - still, silent, achingly empty. It was frightening. And she'd been in hospital for nine weeks, hadn't even been at home, so why should her death have made the house different?"
    "Perhaps the difference was in you, sir, not the house."
    "More than likely, son." His mood brightened. "Do you realize I'm averaging a body a day - more if you count dogs. What you might call an embarrassment of riches. What's your theory about the murder? I think the dog shot Garwood and then committed suicide, but I'm open to alternative suggestions."
    "Garwood surprised a burglar, sir, and the burglar shot him."
    Frost thought for a moment, then shook his head reluctantly. "I hate to pour wee-wee on your suggestion, but have you taken a look in his bedroom? His bed hasn't been slept in, so presumably he was up, with the lights on, when he copped it. Even a burglar as stupid as me would wait for the householder to go to bed."
    For once, he's right, brooded Clive, then, "Sir. I've got it!" and he pounded up and down the small kitchen expounding his theory while Frost smoked and listened.
    "Garwood would be holding the keys to the vaults at the bank, sir. That's what the intruder was after. Garwood must have made a false move, so the man shot him."
    Frost pressed his cheek and popped out a smoke-ring. "A bank job, eh? So what does the intruder do after he's shot Garwood?"
    "He looks for the keys himself, sir - that's why the lounge was turned over."
    "The rest of the house hasn't been touched," mused Frost, dribbling smoke, "so he must have found the keys - unless he was disturbed. And if he found them, why didn't he rob the bank?"
    "The beat bobby was watching the door, sir - remember?"
    "It seems to fit," said Frost grudgingly. "It doesn't have the right feel, but I can't think of anything better . . . Arseholes!"
    The expletive because someone was ringing the doorbell.
    "See who it is, son. If it's the baker, no bread today; if it's the cat's-meat man, tell him he's lost a customer."
    It was Mullett, immaculate in his tailored topcoat. "Trouble seems to be following you around, Inspector," he said, studying the chalked oat line on the floor.
    "You're only doing your job, Super," said Frost, genuinely misunderstanding him, and then all his forebodings came to the boil when Mullett asked Clive if he would mind leaving him alone with the inspector for a moment.
    He's found out I smashed his bloody car, thought Frost, his mind racing through, and rejecting, other possible