DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

entitled to an hour for lunch and I assumed they were taking it in Exley before driving back. Nevertheless, I got the Wendle woman to phone and ask what time they had arrived. She was dialing the number when Harrington came through on the other line. He wanted to know what the arrangements were, as it was getting very tight for time. The factory wages clerks were due at three. I realized that, contrary to my instructions, Martha Wendle hadn't phoned when they left, but overriding that was the chilling fact that they hadn't arrived!" His face relived the horror of that moment. "I can remember going quite cold. A blazing hot day and I was shivering, and Harrington saying 'Hello? . . . Hello?" out of the phone."
    He stretched his hands to the dull glow of the electric fire. "I can remember, to my shame, hoping they might have had some minor accident, but that the money was safe. I phoned the police. They put a search in hand right away. They found the car in a lane off Denton Road, young Garwood slumped across the wheel, Fawcus and the money gone. The police asked me to check that I still had the keys to the security case. I opened the safe in my office where I had put them. They were not there."
    Clive looked up from his notebook. "Fawcus was able to open your safe, wasn't he, sir?" He had read the file a little more thoroughly than his inspector who was nodding as if he was just going to ask that himself.
    The old man gritted his teeth and moved his right leg with his two hands. "Yes, he had his own safe key."
    "What's up with your leg?" asked Frost.
    Powell's eyes iced over. "If you must know, I had a stroke three years ago. At one time I couldn't walk at all."
    "Oh," said Frost, "I thought it might have been a dog bite. While I think of it, you had a caretaker. What was his name, son?"
    "Albert Barrow," supplied Clive.
    "That's it, Barrow. My colleague was wondering if it was significant that Barrow went missing shortly after the money vanished."
    Powell thought for a moment. "I remember him - bald and shifty. After he left we checked his stores and found that goodness knows how many packets of tea, towels, toilet rolls, etc., were missing. Been helping himself. We'd suspected it for some time. He even had the cheek to go and get himself a job at another of our branches six months later. He cleaned them out as well."
    "Exactly what I suggested to my colleague," said Frost, beaming at Clive.
    Powell fumbled for an old-fashioned pocketwatch which he consulted pointedly. "If that is all, Inspector."
    "Sadly it's not, sir." Frost worried at his scar. "We're now left with rather a tricky question. If Fawcus didn't pinch the money, then who did? Who shot him and chopped his arm off? Who had the opportunity, and the motive?" He cleared his throat. "Now, apart from yourself, very few people knew about the transfer, let alone the exact details." He paused. The old man, his face set, his eyes hard and expressionless, said nothing. Undeterred, Frost plunged into the icy water right up to his neck. "You, for example, sir, had opportunity . . ."
    He got no further. With the aid of his stick, Powell heaved himself up and towered over the seated inspector, quivering with rage. He stretched a hand to the door. "Get out! Do you hear me? Get out of my house!"
    Frost didn't budge. He lit another cigarette, leaned back, and waited. The effort of standing proved too much. Powell's body sagged and he sank into his chair, fighting to control his breathing.
    Frost continued as if nothing had happened. "It's got to be said, sir, whether you chuck us out or not. You had the opportunity, didn't you?"
    A weary hand fluttered limply to indicate the miserable room. "Look around you, Inspector. This cold, depressing room. If I had stolen £20,000, do you think I'd be living in a pigsty like this?"
    Frost lowered his eyes and found the name on his cigarette of consuming interest. "Now we come to motive, sir. You may not have wanted the money for yourself, but I understand you had a son."
    Wind roared down the chimney and rustled the crumpled paper in the fireplace. Powell gnawed at his lower lip, then dragged himself over to an old, dark oak bureau in the corner. A key from his watchchain unlocked it and, from the bundles of papers stuffed in pigeonholes, he pulled a photograph, which he passed over to the inspector. It showed a young man in R.A.F. uniform, a peaked cap at a rakish angle over devil's eyes, and an Errol Flynn pencil mustache under