DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

position.
    "Yes," said Powell, "something went wrong."
    He'd changed into his dark suit in the office before going on to the funeral service. The church was cool and calm and he hoped the turmoil churning away inside him didn't show as he nodded to acquaintances. He made certain he was seen, but was careful to keep aloof. It would ruin everything if some fool tagged along with him.
    When the cortege left for the crematorium, he lagged behind as arranged, then quickly cut through a side street. A fast five-minute drive and there was the pool car. Young Garwood, blood streaming from his head, was slumped across the wheel.
    "He's all right," snapped Fawcus. "It would look more realistic if you tied me up. There's some rope in the boot. It'll only take a minute."
    But it took too long. The heat, the anxiety, and the thick funeral clothes were making Powell sweat, his fingers fumble. At last it was done, the rope biting into Fawcus who was trussed like a chicken. "Now unlock the case."
    And that was when the nightmare started.
    "For Christ's sake, hurry!" screamed Fawcus as Powell, the sweat drenching his clothes, went through one pocket and then the next, digging deep, pulling out the lining. But he knew he didn't have the keys. He had put them on top of the filing cabinet as he changed clothes at the office. They were still there. He couldn't unlock the case.
    And any minute, Exley would raise the alarm because the car hadn't arrived, the police would race along the route to find the car, with Garwood unconscious, Fawcus tied, and the case double-locked with nothing inside it.
    "What the bloody hell's the matter?" hissed Fawcus.
    He explained about the keys.
    "You fool, you stupid bloody fool. Untie me quickly."
    He couldn't untie the knots. He'd need a knife. There wasn't one in the car.
    A moan from the driving seat. Garwood was coming round.
    Was it panic, or had he suddenly, clearly, seen the answer to all his problems? Fawcus would always be a danger. Like Powell's son he would always be coming back for more. And there was no way he could explain the locked, empty case. He had to act quickly. There was no time to examine motives.
    He drew the Luger from his pocket, the souvenir his son had brought back from Germany. He pointed it at Fawcus's head and pulled the trigger. Fawcus's scream was lost in the resulting explosion of sound. It was the only way. He couldn't allow the police to find the locked, empty case chained to Fawcus's wrist. He had to kill the one to hide the other.
    Another groan from Garwood. The butt of the Luger came down with a sickening crack on the boy's head.
    God, what had he done? The boy didn't seem to be breathing. Had he killed him? No, a slight movement as the lungs expanded. Garwood was still alive. But there was no doubt that Fawcus was dead, the splattered blood, the eyes wide open in surprised horror. And the sour, bitter irony of it all, as he learned later, was that he would have had plenty of time to, drive back and fetch the keys. That stupid Wendle woman had forgotten to pass on the message to Exley that the money had left. Rather than admit her error, she preferred to lie and claim he had never given any such instructions to her.
    Even now, insulated by three decades, he could still tremble at the shattering shock he had received when he returned, heart hammering, to the bank from the crematorium, to find calm and normality, and the alarm still not raised. And Fawcus's still-warm body, wrapped in a tarpaulin, jammed in the boot of his car.
    "You took a risk leaving him in your car," said Frost, straining his ears. He thought he heard a movement outside, but it was only snow falling from the roof.
    "Where else could I put it? But they weren't looking for a body. They were looking for a man on the run. I went into my office. Everything exactly as I had left it, the keys on top of the filing cabinet. I prayed no one had been in and seen them. On my way home that night, I dropped them down a drain. I should have hung on to them and unlocked the case, but I wasn't thinking straight. I just wanted to get rid of them, to let people think Fawcus had taken them. Later, when it was quite dark, I drove the car to Dead Man's Hollow. That private road hadn't been fenced off then. It took almost until morning, but I buried him."
    "His arm was cut off," said Frost, softly.
    Powell's face looked ghastly. "I try to forget that. For a week they looked for Fawcus. No one suspected me. But I kept