DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

household accounts, meticulously checked as if every penny counted. He dried his palms on his coat. How the hell was he going to find anything in this lot, especially as he hadn't the faintest idea what he was looking for? There were so many papers, it would take hours to go through them. He pulled out another wad bound with an elastic band. Old bank statements, the microscopic balance at the end of each month just about able to keep its head above water before the next monthly lifebelt from the pension fund. It was no good. Finding a needle in a haystack would be easier than floundering through this lot. Well, at least he'd tried, he'd ram the papers back and go home.
    And then the hairs prickled at the back of his neck. Someone was in the room with him.
    Suddenly it was no longer dark and he was screwing up his eyes. The light had been switched on and Powell, in a thick, gray dressing gown over red-striped pyjamas, stood in the doorway leaning heavily on his stick. His face was outraged and angry.
    "What the hell are you doing in my house?"
    Frost shriveled inside his overcoat. He was caught red-bloody-handed, the window wide open where he had broken in, the bureau flap down, Powell's private papers in his hand. He wouldn't wait for Powell to report him, he'd write his resignation out that very night and hand it in to Mullett first thing in the morning and, in the circumstances, the Divisional Commander wouldn't need to go through the sham of pretending reluctance and regret in accepting it.
    But then he saw something that made his heart skip a beat and sent him smack bang on top of the world again.
    Powell, in his left hand, was holding a Luger automatic pistol - and both Fawcus and Garwood had been killed by bullets fired at close range from a Luger automatic pistol.
    "You've got a gun, sir?"
    Powell gave a hollow laugh. "What, this? I thought you were a burglar. It looks real, doesn't it, but it's just an imitation," and he dropped it into the pocket of his dressing gown. He stared hard at the open bureau. "I'm waiting for an explanation, Inspector."
    Frost should have got out - made any excuse, but got out. It wasn't safe in here, but he was cold and tired and he wanted to get it over quickly.
    He held out a hand. "Can I have a look at it, sir?"
    "No!" snapped Powell.
    "I think it's the same gun you used to kill the other two men, sir."
    The old man looked at him with such incredulity that Frost was convinced he'd made a mistake, but the gun was now back in Powell's hand and was pointing directly at Frost's head, and it was the real thing, not an imitation, and the cold, calculating expression on Powell's face was not an imitation either.
    "You're not as stupid as you look, Inspector. It was the case, wasn't it? The fact that it was empty?"
    Case? Empty? thought Frost, his mind still busy working out if he could jump the old man before the trigger was pulled. But he had an uneasy idea that the old man was not as slow or as lame as he made out. "You mean the case chained to the skeleton, sir - the money case?"
    The hand holding the gun was rock steady, the knuckle of the trigger-finger white under tight skin. "Yes. As long as it was buried, I knew I was safe. But once it was dug up, even after thirty-two years, it would be so obvious."
    It's not bloody obvious to me, thought Frost, his face impassive. Aloud, he said, "What did you do with the money, sir?" He looked around. "You clearly didn't waste it on luxuries."
    The thin lips tightened. "I didn't take it for myself, Inspector. I took it for my son. I know he was weak. I know he was a crook. But he was a war hero, a decorated war hero. He made us proud. For that I forgave him everything." Powell's shoulders straightened, his chin jutted. but the gun didn't waver a fraction of an inch "I've got a medal," said Frost, hopefully. The old man didn't seem to hear him "My son thought he was clever, but the rubbish he mixed with were far cleverer. They took him for thousands. I won't go into details, but in order to get him out of trouble he forged some signatures and misappropriated some £15,000 of his clients' money."
    Frost dutifully whistled softly, his eye glued to the unwavering gun. "A tidy little sum, sir, especially in those days."
    "It was a fortune, Inspector. He came to me. He begged. How could I refuse him, my son, my flesh and blood?"
    "You had that sort of money?" asked Frost "No. I sold my stocks and shares, drew out my savings, took out a second