DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

further Sunday exploits, Hanlon heaved himself up to brace the cooking at The Crown. "Will you be here after lunch, Jack?"
    "Doubt it," said Frost. "We'll probably be over at the' bank. Did you know I found another body today - Garwood, their assistant manager?"
    Hanlon was shaken rigid and he had to grab the back of the chair to steady himself. "Garwood? I knew him, Jack. He arranged the bridging loan for my house."
    "Shot through the head, I'm afraid," continued Frost. "That's two bodies yesterday, one today." He shrugged. "But I'll probably go all day tomorrow without finding any."
    His phone rang. It was Forensic. He listened, frowned, then whistled softly and scribbled something across a memo of complaint from Mullett. He hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. "Ballistics. They say the bullet that killed Garwood last night was fired from the same gun that killed Fawcus thirty-two years ago. They suggest it might be significant."
    Clive gaped at the inspector. "They were both killed by the same person?"
    "I hope so, son," said Frost. "It means we can eliminate anyone younger than thirty-two from our inquiries. Now hurry up, Arthur, before they sell out of curried rissoles."

    Mr. Hudson couldn't face lunch. He'd sipped delicately at a tiny glass of sherry, and had taken the merest nibble from a ham sandwich before the dead touch of cold meat revolted him. He'd returned early to his office and was sitting quietly, trying to blank out the memory of the awful morning and subdue a rebellious stomach. His internal phone buzzed like the sound of the bone-saw ripping through poor Garwood's skull. He lifted it to his ear and croaked his name. His secretary told him the two policemen were back for the files.
    And in they came, that dreadfully scruffy one with the scarf and his assistant with the nose and the grimed black fingernails. The inspector scooped up the files with a nod of thanks and asked if they could question the other members of the bank staff and also have a look through Garwood's desk.
    Eager to get rid of them, Hudson agreed immediately and led them over to the olive green partition and through the frosted-glass door bearing the name R. Garwood - Asst. Manager.
    Frost flopped into Garwood's swivel chair and dragged off his scarf. "Did Garwood have any relatives?"
    "No," said Hudson, "none at all. All alone in the world, it seems," and he retired to his own office, managing a brave smile until the door closed behind him.
    "We'll take half his desk each," said Frost, emptying out a paperclip container for use as an ashtray. He pulled open a drawer. "There's something sneaky about looking into other people's desks, isn't there, son? I feel quite guilty when I rummage through Mullett's drawers on Christmas Day."
    The drawers yielded nothing significant - social club files, a duster, a towel, an envelope heavy with silver, which turned out to be the collection for the tealady's Christmas present. They buzzed Hudson on the internal phone and announced they were now ready to have the staff in for questioning, and in they came, one by one, in strict order of seniority, starting with the chief clerk.
    Like all things Frost did, the interviews started well, but the inspector soon became bored. No one could tell them anything that could help. Their colleague's death still weighed heavily upon them and they were all full of praise for a man who was apparently a living saint, barren of faults and never a bad word to say to a living soul. He hadn't spoken to anyone about the 1951 robbery and no one knew what his social life was outside the bank.
    Frost thought that such a man sounded so boring he deserved to get shot and he let his detective constable ask all the questions while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and swiveled from side to side in the chair, occasionally studying his wristwatch and sighing deeply.
    Clive had worked his way down the office social scale and was now questioning a seventeen-year-old typist with a lisp and a quivering, mouth-drying, figure. Frost scribbled something on a piece of paper, folded it carefully, and passed it across to Clive who excused himself to the girl and read it. It said "She isn't wearing a bra!" and, for the rest of the interview, Clive heard little of what she was saying, his eyes firmly fixed on her vibrating sweater, which showed clear proof of his superior's powers of observation.
    At last she was dismissed, leaving a hint of perfume and a beautiful