DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

called Frost, steering Hudson through the door to his office.
    Her face darkened with anger and her eyes spat. "It was a golden retriever. The rotten stinking bastards . . ."
    "Rustle us up some coffee," said Frost.

WEDNESDAY (3)

    Detective Sergeant Hanlon's stomach rumbled and whined in querulous protest as it realized its owner was walking past the stairs to the canteen where the Wednesday lunch of meat pie and great slabs of steamed currant pudding was screaming out its siren call. Before Hanlon could eat he had to report to Inspector Frost about his visit to the schoolmaster. He rapped at the door and entered into steam heat and a thick haze of cigarette smoke, and there was Frost at his desk, pushing papers about, his face beaming at the sight of a welcome diversion. "It's the Fat Owl of the Remove. Grab a chair." Hanlon lowered himself gently into the rickety chair reserved for visitors and remembered to thank Frost for his Christmas card. "Any chance of us seeing you over the holidays?"
    Frost shook his head. "I'll be on duty Christmas and Boxing Day, Arthur, guarding the divisional peace." Hanlon's face expressed sadness and concern, but Frost reassured him. "I volunteered, Arthur. There's nothing for me at home and it's not too bad here - just the odd drunk spewing seasonal fare all over the lobby, but that's what Christmas is all about, isn't it? And our beloved Divisional Commander usually phones in to give us all his blessing, so what more could a man want, except for a bit of the other and a mince pie?''
    Hanlon chortled, his whole body enjoying the joke. "I've seen that chap Farnham, Jack."
    "Who the hell's Farnham?"
    "The schoolmaster."
    Frost snapped his fingers. "Of course - Mrs. Uphill's bearded regular. He was supposed to have staggered from her emporium last Sunday to have tea with his aunt, but auntie hasn't seen him for weeks. What's his story now?"
    Hanlon pulled a notebook from his pocket and Frost snorted with disgust.
    "You're not going to read it out, are you? You only saw him five minutes ago."
    But Hanlon did things his own way, and he read from the notebook. "He said he lied to you and he's sorry. He didn't go to his aunt's."
    "You're reading beautifully, Arthur."
    "Then don't interrupt. He said he was walking back to the railway station when he was accosted by a woman in a leopard-skin coat."
    Leopard-skin coat, thought Frost, his finger sawing away at his scar. Now, where have I . . . ? "Sinful Cynthia!" he exclaimed, joyfully, then, seeing Hanlon's puzzled face added, "Cynthia Collard--you must remember her, Arthur - got a pair like a couple of Christmas puddings."
    The culinary reference gave the fat sergeant the required mental picture. "I didn't know she was back in Denton."
    "Still, I expect you managed . . . But go on with your reading. When he was accosted, he said 'Sorry, but I don't do things like that on a Sunday' - right?"
    Hanlon waited patiently for Frost to finish, then went on. "Farnham went with Cynthia, in her car, to her room."
    "So she's got a room, now?" murmured Frost with surprise. "The doorway of the butcher's shop isn't good enough for her any more." He flicked the point of his ball point pen in and out, then scratched his ear with it. "So he'd had two women in one day. He must have been ashamed to tell us about the second one in case we thought he was greedy. Well, we'll have to see if Cynthia confirms this story of debauchery. Have you had your lunch, Arthur?"
    Arthur's stomach woke up and growled. Meat pie and double chips. "Not yet, Jack."
    "Good, then you can have it at The Crown. She plies for hire from there."
    A roar of protest from his stomach - the food at The Crown was notoriously poor. "I'm not certain what she looks like, Jack."
    "Then use some subtlety, Arthur. Sit there with it hanging out and she'll come to you. But you'll recognize her, Arthur - bleached hair, leopard-skin coat, and a tattoo on her stomach saying 'No money refunded in any circumstances'."
    Clive returned from the washroom where he'd spent a quarter of an hour scraping at the coal-dust with the nailbrush. His back still felt gritty and itchy and his suit was filthy. He'd be wearing the Carnaby Street monstrosity tomorrow, so that should give the yokels something to laugh about. He nodded warmly to the fat detective who'd done a magnificent job with the jewelry-shop robbery the night before. A pity Frost wasn't as efficient as that.
    As the inspector filled Clive in on Farmham's