DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

Frost.
    She pulled him down, her hands cool, busy, and he was tempted to keep quiet, to let Frost take it out on the door until he gave up and went away.
    "Open up, son . . . please!"
    There was something about that "please". He pulled gently from her and swung his feet to the floor. She was angry and covered herself with the bedclothes. "Don't bring him in here," she hissed, then, with heaving shoulders, presented her back.
    "Hold on, sir - won't be a minute," He dressed quickly. Out of bed, away from Hazel it was sub-zero. Grabbing his thickest coat, he opened the door and slid outside.
    And there was Frost, in his old overcoat and his tatty scarf, his scarred face troubled and apologetic. He noticed the hump under the bedclothes as the door squeezed shut. "Sorry, son. After tonight you won't be bothered. It's just that I need your help."
    Wondering if Hazel would still be there when he got back, Clive tiptoed down the stairs after the inspector. He didn't bother to ask what it was about; whatever it was, he was committed. And, as Frost had said, tomorrow Inspector Allen would be in charge - tidiness, efficiency, regular hours, and undisturbed sex after close of business.
    Snow was falling and the car shivered in the street outside. Frost stepped back to let Clive slide into the driving seat.
    "Where to, sir?" The engine started first time.
    "Didn't I say, son? Mead Cottage."
    Clive blinked. Mead Cottage was where old-man Powell lived. It would be nearly 11:30 by the time they got there. "Do you think they'll be up, sir?"
    "Christ, I hope not," said Frost. "She might offer me some more of her bloody coffee." Then, lighting two cigarettes and poking one in the driver's mouth, "Do you think I'm a nut-case, son?"
    Clive shook his head, his nose delicately savoring the heady Hazel perfume that the heat of the car was driving from the pores of his body.
    "Well, you will in a minute. I'm going to break into his house."
    Clive hammered the horn and a drunken pedestrian leaped back to the safety of the pavement and swore at the car as it swept past.
    "Hard luck, son, you missed him," said Frost.
    Clive swallowed hard. Then, without looking at the inspector, said quietly, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't want any part of this."
    Frost sighed. "That's all right, son, I quite understand. We'd better turn back."
    "Why do you want to break in?" asked Clive and they passed the intersection where he should have turned and Mead Cottage was getting closer and closer.
    "After you left tonight, son, I had a word with Sandy Lane. Something had been nagging me. Do you remember, when we were leaving Sandy's office last night, that young reporter poked his head in and said he'd phoned the bank manager about finding the skeleton but he'd refused to give a statement? I thought, at the time, he meant Hudson, the current bank manager, but he didn't - he meant Powell, the old one. So last night old-man Powell was one of the few people in Denton who knew we'd dug up Fawcus. He was also one of the few people in Denton who were actually involved in the 1951 robbery."
    "Apart from Garwood, sir."
    "Yes, son, but Garwood got himself shot, so I'm chancing my arm and removing him from my limited list of suspects. That leaves Powell. He claimed that the first he knew of Fawcus's being found was when he read about it in this morning's paper. So he lied. And a man who tells lies is the sort of man who wouldn't hesitate to strike down a lovable golden retriever. Which leads me to the inescapable conclusion that Powell killed Garwood."
    Clive's cigarette had burned down to the filtertip. He laid it to rest in the ashtray. "With respect, sir, it sounds very thin to me."
    "That," said Frost, loosening his scarf, "is because my standards are a bloody sight lower than yours."
    Clive declined another cigarette. "But how does breaking into his house help?"
    "I didn't like the way he kept that tatty old bureau of his locked. He can't keep valuables in there, the house is hardly burglar-proof."
    "He could keep insurance policies or securities, sir."
    "He could, son, but I'd guess he'd keep them in a safe-deposit box at the bank. As he's my only suspect, I'm hop ing he did the decent thing and killed Garwood and then ransacked his lounge, looking for something, which he found and now has locked up in his bureau. So I'll take a look. If there's nothing there, no harm done."
    There must be some way to talk him out of this sheer bloody madness, thought Clive. They'd be