DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

worrying that someone might find the body. And as soon as they saw the empty locked case . . ." He shuddered. "So, a couple of nights later, I went back. I took a spade and an ax. It made me sick. The flesh was swollen . . . the hot weather. I couldn't get the chain off. I dug another hole and reburied the arm. When I returned home I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands until they bled. I still have nightmares."
    Powell looked ready to drop, all of him except the hand holding the gun. "And I needn't have bothered. No one found him. For thirty-two years, no one found him. And then it was the arm you dug up. If I'd left the body alone - "
    "Still, you had the money, sir. You could cover up the deficit in your books."
    "I had too much money," said Powell. "£12,000 too much. You can't keep that sort of surplus hidden in a bank for long. I had to destroy it. I burned it. Each night I took some down to the basement and burned it in the furnace. £12,000, up in smoke. Later on, when I realized the full extent of my son's indebtedness to the people he'd cheated, I could have done with that money. But I burned it."
    "That's the saddest part of the story, sir. So your son's creditors had to go unpaid?"
    "Oh no. I repaid every penny. I borrowed at an exorbitant rate of interest. I'm still not clear of debt, hence this place." His eyes flickered round the cold room.
    "Why did you kill Garwood?" asked Frost, realizing he must keep the old man talking, because when the talk finished . . .
    "In my anxiety to convince the police that the money had actually left the bank, I told them that the three of us, Fawcus, Garwood, and myself, had each checked the money into the case. I needn't have bothered as it happened. They never suspected otherwise. I saw Garwood in the hospital and asked him to go along with my story. I let him think it was a strict head-office rule that money for transfer was treble-checked, but that I had overlooked this. He agreed to back me up if the police asked, but they never did. I should have kept my mouth shut. I was becoming involved in unnecessary lies. And then when you found what was left of Fawcus, and the empty case, I was certain that you would immediately realize its significance. If you questioned Garwood he would remember how I had asked him to lie for me. I couldn't let that happen. When you've killed once, the second time is so much easier."
    "It's a proper balls-up from start to finish, isn't it, sir?" asked Frost. "You turned over all the drawers in Garwood's house. What were you looking for?"
    Powell frowned. "I wasn't looking for anything. I was trying to give the impression that robbery was the motive for the killing."
    "Oh," said Frost, realizing that there were no secret papers in the bureau, and that he'd rumbled Powell for the wrong reasons. "Like I said, sir, a proper balls-up all round." He gave his friendliest smile. "Now you've got it off your chest, why don't we pop down to the station and get it all sorted out?" He tried to keep his voice calm, but was seriously disturbed by the look in Powell's eyes.
    "I'm sorry, Inspector," and the old man shook his head in infinite sadness, "but as I've already said, once you've killed, it becomes sickeningly easy the next time."
    Frost stared at Powell and saw death. He made a last-minute attempt to duck. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, Powell squeezing the trigger, the gun leaping in his hand, and Frost still trying to move. Then a blood red shattering explosion inside his skull. Pain. Blackness.
    Powell stepped over the body, kicking aside the maroon scarf, which tangled with his foot. He picked up the phone from the top of the bureau and dialed 999. When he spoke, his voice was trembling and barely audible.
    "Police? My name is Powell, Mead Cottage, Exley Road. For God's sake, get here quickly. There's an intruder in my house." Then he screamed "No . . . please . . . no . . ." and crashed down his stick, at the same time jerking the phone wire from the wall. For a man of his age he was remarkably strong.
    He knocked over some chairs, scattered papers from the bureau about the room, then slumped down on the settee and waited. Through the open window the approaching wail of a police siren.
    On the floor, among the scattered papers, Detective Inspector Jack Frost looked untidier than ever.

THURSDAY

THURSDAY

    Mrs. Uphill answered her phone. It was Farnham. "Yes," she said, "Sunday, same as usual, but from now on it's £40." She