DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

the Powell nose.
    "My son, Frank," said Powell, stiffly. "The only photograph we have now. I keep it locked away. My wife . . . she gets upset."
    Clive took the photograph and studied the medal ribbon. "The D.F.C., Mr. Powell?"
    "Yes." The eyes shone and he drew himself erect as if standing to attention. "We were so proud of him. We went to Buckingham Palace to see the King give it to him. A wonderful day."
    "I bet it was," said Frost. "Why does your wife get upset?"
    Powell replaced the photograph and locked the bureau, trying the handle carefully to make sure it was secure. "He killed himself." He tottered back to his chair and sat down heavily. "After the war he started a business with his gratuity and with some savings I was able to let him have. He made an awful mess of it, I'm afraid. We helped him out with more money from time to time, but it was like pouring water into a bottomless bucket. In the end everything got on top of him and his mind snapped. He jumped in front of a tube train. Not a hero's death, was it? His mother never got over it. She idolized him. In her eyes, he could do no wrong."
    The only sound in the room was the scratching of Clive's pen. The old man stared down at the floor, his eyes glistening.
    It was like kicking a puppy, but Frost waded in again. "As I said, Mr. Powell, you had a fair old motive for stealing the money - to pump it into your son's failing business."
    Powell turned his head slowly and twitched his lips to a thin smile of contempt. "You don't do your homework, do you, Inspector? The money was stolen in 1951. My son killed himself in 1949 - two years before. Would you mind leaving now, please? My wife doesn't like being left alone."
    Frost motioned to Clive who put his notebook away. The two detectives rose.
    "Sorry if I've upset you, Mr. Powell, but these questions have to be asked." Powell nodded brusquely and followed them out. In the passage Frost hesitated and pounded his palm with his fist. "I've got a memory like a bloody sieve. I meant to ask if you went out at all last night?"
    "I didn't," said Powell. "Why?"
    "Last night someone shot Rupert Garwood and splattered his eye to bits, but if you haven't got a gun and you didn't go out, I'll have to look around for another suspect. Thank your wife for the coffee, sir, and if I don't see you before, Merry Christmas."

    "Well, son?" asked Frost, thawing out in the warmth of the car as it nosed its way back to the station.
    "Seems a decent enough old boy, sir. I feel sorry for him. He poured all his savings into his son's business and now they're left to struggle along on his reduced pension."
    Frost considered this. "He tells a good story, I'll grant him that. I haven't felt more like crying since the chip shop burned down in Coronation Street." "You think he's lying, then?" asked Clive.
    Frost twitched his shoulder. "It would be hard to prove if he was. He's had thirty-odd years to polish up his story--and it's a real tear-jerker as you say. Son a war hero, decent parents living in penury to save his good name, and to cap it all, he's got a bad leg. But he is lying, son - I've got one of my hunches."
    The car sped past white barren blankness which just about summed up Denton to Clive - blank and barren. Except for Hazel, of course, an oasis of warmth in a desert of ice. He squinted down at his watch - nearly eight o'clock and Frost clearly running out of steam. Good. He'd be off duty at a reasonable time for once. Perhaps he could even take Hazel out somewhere first.
    At his side, Frost was stirring uneasily. "I keep getting the nagging feeling I've left something undone. It's not my flies, so what is it? Blimey - yes! Turn left here - we've got to go to the Denton Echo office. Hornrim Harry wants me to kill the disinterred kitten story. Slam your foot down, son."
    Clive increased speed and barren blankness zipped past. As long as Frost didn't think of any more jobs, he could still see Hazel at a reasonable time . . .
    Frost's voice cut into his thoughts. "I imagine they'll be putting you with Inspector Allen tomorrow, son. I can't see our Divisional Commander leaving you under my corrupting influence a minute longer than he can help. He's going to do his nut when he finds I still haven't touched that paperwork. But he'll say, 'I realize we've got to make allowances for you, Frost, in view of your recent sad loss'." He laughed mirthlessly and shook the last cigarette from the packet. "As you'll be leaving me, son, I'll