DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

tell you a secret I've told no one else. My marriage was a flop. Twenty years of stark bloody misery. My wife despised me. She was ambitious; she wanted someone she could be proud of, and the poor cow got me; she hated me for being what I was. I used to dread going home. In the end I decided to leave her - there was another woman I was going to move in with. On the very night I was going home to break the news, her doctor phoned me at the station. He'd sent my wife to a specialist who'd taken X-rays and they now had the result. Inoperable cancer. She had six months to live and they'd be six rotten months. They thought it best the news was kept from her. So I changed my plans and carried on being despised. A couple of days after that this young sod shot the hole in my face and I didn't particularly care if he killed me or not. The wife was thrilled silly when I got my medal, and when they made me up to inspector she nearly burst with pride. The only thing I'd ever done right. She even stopped nagging. She was a hard woman, but it was a rotten way to die - a bloody rotten way for anyone to die." He mangled his cigarette end in the car's ashtray and stared at the roof. "All I'm trying to say, son, is it's not grief and sorrow at my wife's death that makes me sod things up - I'm just a natural sodder-upper and nothing's going to change me."
    Clive didn't know how to react to these raw outpourings. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided silence was best. The car slowed outside the Denton Echo office building and Frost shot out, asking Clive to wait.
    He found Sandy answering two phones at once and making copious notes in beautifully executed shorthand, so he waited for the reporter to bang the phones down. "Sorry, Jack, but it's going mad at the moment. Did you want me?"
    "Yes," replied Frost. "First of all I've decided to forgive you for that rotten dinner. I've only been sick three times and the hot flushes are easing off."
    "Oh, yes?" said Sandy warily, sensing a favor was about to be asked.
    "I'm in trouble with this dead cat story, Sandy. I want you to kill it."
    Sandy patted some papers on his desk into a neat pile. "You're too late, Jack, we're already printing. Sorry - I would if I could, you know that."
    Frost leaned forward and dropped his voice. "Supposing I could give you a better story?"
    Sandy's nose twitched, but he pretended only a casual interest. "Like what?"
    "Fleet Street stuff, Sandy boy. Strictly speaking our press office should send it direct to the agencies, but when you've got obliging friends who think nothing of spending 12p on your dinner . . ."
    The reporter studied Frost's face carefully, then, reaching for his house phone, made up his mind. He spoke into the mouthpiece. "George - kill that page-one story about the police exhuming the cat, and stand by for something better." He hung up. "It had better be good, Jack."
    Frost told him that the gun that killed Fawcus back in 1951 also fired the bullet that put an end to Garwood's life the previous night, Sandy's lower jaw dropped, then a smile traveled from one large ear to the other. "You're an ugly old sod, Jack, but I love you," and snatching up the phone he dictated a new story direct to a typist. The headline was to be 1951 KILLER STRIKES AGAIN - AMAZING STORY. The various facts and figures he was able to pluck from his fingertips paid tribute to an elephantine memory. Finished at last he spun his chair round to face the inspector. "What chance of an early arrest. Jack?"
    "We're following up several leads," trotted out Frost, trying to think of just one.
    "Tomorrow, Jack, we'll have a proper lunch The sky's the limit - up to a tenner a head. Now, off the record, what leads have you got?"
    "Damn all," said Frost, "and that's exaggerating. You keep your lunch and give me some information instead. Do you remember a bloke called Powell, Manager of Bennington's back in 1951?"
    "Stuck-up sod." recalled Sandy. ''His son killed himself."
    Frost stripped the cellophane from a fresh packet and offered a cigarette to the reporter. "Tell me about the son."
    Sandy tugged an ear in thought. "A bloody hero during the war but a near crook after it. He started up this dubious investment company, then blew most of his clients' money on horses and women. Criminal charges, would have been preferred if the old man hadn't stepped in and made his losses good. Had to sell his house and they now live in a wooden hut in Denton Road."
    Ash dropped from Frost's