DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

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    “They’re asking about Ben,” said his mother quickly. “They seem to think he was here on Tuesday. I’ve told them we hadn’t seen him for months.”
    “Quite right,” said Danny, still hovering by the open door.
    “And that’s all we’ve got to tell you,” said Mrs. Cornish to Frost. “I want you to leave now.” To hurry them on their way, she asked her son to let the dog in.

    Webster reversed out of the back street and pointed the car toward the town. “So what did that achieve?”
    Frost, plunged in deep thought, surfaced with difficulty. “I reckon they’re lying, son. I’ll lay odds that Ben did go home on Tuesday.” His watch told him it was a quarter past three. “Foot down, son. I must get to the bank before they close.”

    The nameplate above the cashier’s window in Bennington’s Bank said the young teller’s name was Gerald Kershaw. He took Frost’s cheque and clouted it with a rubber stamp. He didn’t look very happy.
    “Fives, please,” said Frost, watching carefully as the youth counted out the crisp, brand-new notes.
    “I’ve got to call in at the police station tonight, Mr. Frost,” said the youth gloomily.
    “Been fiddling the books?” asked Frost, taking the money and rechecking it. “I’d flee the country if I were you.”
    The cashier grinned. “No, not quite as bad as that. I’ve got to produce my driving licence and insurance details. A traffic cop caught me driving through a “buses only” lane.”
    Frost tut-tutted and shook his head at the gravity of the offence. “That’s a thirty pound fine at least, plus fifteen quid costs. It’s cheaper to rob a bank - you’d only get probation for that.”
    The youth leaned forward confidentially, keeping his voice low. “I suppose there’s no way the charge could be dropped, Mr. Frost. I know the police have discretion, and it was a first offence.”
    Frost gasped at the enormity of the suggestion. “No chance,” he said. He was stuffing the notes in his wallet and about to turn for the door when the idea struck him. He beckoned the youth closer. “Tell you what, Gerald. I might be able to fix it for you in return for a very small favour.”
    “A small favour?” repeated the teller doubtfully.
    “It’s all right; it’s official police business,” said Frost, ‘but it’s very confidential. I want to know a few minor details about someone’s account.”
    The cashier, looked furtively about him. No-one was watching. “What’s the name of the account?” he asked, moving to the monitor screen and typing in the password for current accounts information.

    Outside in the car, which was tucked, well hidden, down a side street in case a cruising police car spotted it, Webster waited impatiently. He felt like the driver of a getaway car in a bank raid. Ten minutes had passed since Frost, coat collar turned up, had sidled into the bank. How long did it take the idiot to cash a simple cheque?
    Another minute ticked by and there he was, bounding along, his mac flapping, a broad grin threatening to split his face. He slid in beside Webster and flung out his arms with joy.
    “I have a theory, son, that for every bit of bad luck you get compensated by a bit of good. So I deserve a bloody big chunk and I’ve just had it. Guess what?”
    Webster didn’t answer. He was in no mood for stupid guessing games.
    “When Roger Miller gave Harry Baskin his cheque for £4,865 to pay his gambling debts, he didn’t have a penny in his bank account; in fact, he was overdrawn by £32. But the morning after the robbery he paid in a cash deposit of £5,130, just in time for his cheque to be honoured.”
    Webster turned slowly in his seat. “The morning after the robbery?”
    Frost hugged himself with delight. “Yes, my son. Let’s go and bring the bastard in.”

    Through the dull throb of his headache, Police Superintendent Mullett bravely smiled his thanks as his secretary, Miss Smith, brought him a cup of hot, sweet tea and a large bottle of aspirins. His headache was getting worse. He took off his glasses and pinched his nose to ease the strain, then gave his full attention to the station sergeant.
    “We’ve been radioing Mr. Frost constantly since one o’clock, sir. He hasn’t responded, I’m afraid.”
    Grunting his disapproval, Mullett popped two aspirins in his mouth and swallowed them down with a gulp of tea.
    “His radio could be out of order,” suggested the sergeant.
    “Yes,” snapped