At first Hudson couldn't take it in. He stared at Frost as if the inspector had said something disgusting, then he collapsed in his chair and pulled off his glasses.
'Dead? Rupert Garwood, dead?'
'I'm afraid so, sir.'
Hudson blew his nose loudly, then dabbed the corner of his eyes. 'Garwood was very good to me. His help, when I took over this branch, was unstinting and he must have hoped he would have got the managership himself.' He blew his nose again.
Good job I didn't tell him about the dog, thought Frost, he'd have cried his bloody eyes out. He put forward Clive's theory that an intruder was after keys to the vaults, but Hudson's headshake emphatically nailed the possibility.
'Garwood didn't have the keys, Inspector. Two sets are required to open our vaults. I hold one and the other is held by senior staff on a rota basis. Mr. Garwood won't have the keys for another-' the lip quivered, '-he won't ever have them again.'
'So that's your theory booted up the arse, I'm afraid, son,' murmured Frost. Clive tightened his lips. Was it necessary to be so childishly crude?
Hudson pulled himself together. 'Those files you wanted, Inspector. Our head office is sending them by Red Star passenger train and we'll be picking them up from the station at 2:30.'
'That's what I call real co-operation, Mr. Hudson. It's much appreciated.'
A brave smile. 'If there's anything more I can do to help… anything…'
Smack into the trap, thought Frost. 'As a matter of fact, sir, there is…'
'Oh,' said Hudson, his face all eagerness to assist.
'Just a formality, sir, won't take long. We'd like you to identify the body.'
The color drained from Hudson's dismayed face and he shrank visibly. 'Oh… Is this absolutely…? I mean, I've never really seen a dead body in my life.'
'Be an experience for you then,' beamed Frost. 'There's nothing to it. A quick look under the sheet and we'd have you back in good time for your dinner.'
The mortuary was in the large grounds of Denton Hospital next to a tall-chimneyed incinerator, which was belching black greasy smoke.
'A few arms and legs going up there,' commented Frost breezily to the trembling figure in the back seat.
In the small lobby the steam heat was overpowering, but Frost advised Hudson not to take off his overcoat, as it would be freezing in the room where the body was-the stiff-store as he put it.
A notice on the wall read 'All Undertakers to Report to Porter Before Removing Bodies'. They reported to the porter, and there was a minor altercation, as the man didn't have Garwood's body booked in his custody. This meant, he explained, that if the body was here, it was still being worked on. To prove this point he stabbed a disinfectant-smelling finger at the appropriate page of his stockbook which was patently devoid of corpses named Garwood, the last entry being the old tramp found frozen to death in the woods the previous morning.
'Hold on a minute, Mr. Hudson,' said Frost with the air of a man who is going to sort everything out. Hudson's glance was straying furtively to the exit doors and Clive moved slightly to block any last-minute attempt at flight.
The illuminated sign over the door read 'Autopsy Room' and as the inspector barged through, there was a breath of air colder than cold, and the glimpse of something waxy and sheet-covered with bare feet.
Hudson decided he must make his position absolutely clear. He could not go on with it, he told Clive. He was sorry, but there it was. Some things were just not possible and this was one of them. Clive spoke soothingly, trying to reassure him, but was not helped by Frost's voice, clearly audible from within.
'You haven't sawed his head open yet, have you, Doc? I've brought someone along to identify him.'
And then the door to that awful room opened and Frost's finger firmly beckoned. Clive took Hudson's arm in a tight grip and half steered, half dragged him through. It was like walking a condemned man to the scaffold.
Inside were white tiles, pipes, hoses, running water, and things gurgling and spitting. Annoyed at being disturbed at an interesting bit, the pathologist moved back scowling and wiping his hands on a red rubber apron.
Frost pushed Hudson forward. He first saw the table, an item of horribly specific design with a perforated and channeled stainless-steel top, with pipes at each corner running down to drains. He let himself look at the body occupying such a small space on that large table. How clean Garwood looked in death, the naked skin pale under the blaze of the dazzle-free lamps, a towel draped demurely across the middle and the toes sticking so obscenely in the air.
They waited. A hose-pipe dribbled tinted water. Hudson steeled himself and let his gaze creep up to the face. He looked away quickly, being aware of some damage to the eye and of an electric bone-saw, waiting to be plugged in, on a side table.
The inspector said he had to look at the face properly. If it's cold in here, thought Hudson, why am I sweating? A quick look, then away. A swimming, blood-filled socket screamed up at him, filling his entire field of vision, then roared away to be replaced by anxious faces looking down on him as the floor hit his back and the lights went out.
He came to in the lobby with steaming eyes and jerked his head away from the stinging fumes of the ammonia bottle.
'I'm sorry, Inspector, truly I am. It was just…'
'That's all right, sir,' soothed Frost. 'I understand. I can remember the first body I ever saw. An old tramp it was…'
Clive cut in with a warning cough- One of Frost's disgusting stories was the last thing the manager should hear about in his condition.
'It was Mr. Garwood, I suppose, sir?'
Hudson managed a nod and remembered that eye. Through the door came the bone-grinding whine of an electric saw and they just managed to catch him before he fell again.
Hudson's secretary watched wide-eyed as they brought him back to the bank, his legs rubbery, his face damp and green.
'What's up with Mr. Hudson?' she asked.
Clive explained.
She shook her head and carried on with her typing. 'Shame about Mr. Garwood. He wasn't all that old.'
'His dog was killed as well,' called Frost, steering Hudson through the door to his office.
Her face darkened with anger and her eyes spat. 'It was a golden retriever. The rotten stinking bastards…'
'Rustle us up some coffee,' said Frost.
WEDNESDAY-3
Detective Sergeant Hanlon's stomach rumbled and whined in querulous protest as it realized its owner was walking past the stairs to the canteen where the Wednesday lunch of meat pie and great slabs of steamed currant pudding was screaming out its siren call. Before Hanlon could eat he had to report to Inspector Frost about his visit to the schoolmaster. He rapped at the door and entered into steam heat and a thick haze of cigarette smoke, and there was Frost at his desk, pushing papers about, his face beaming at the sight of a welcome diversion. 'It's the Fat Owl of the Remove. Grab a chair.' Hanlon lowered himself gently into the rickety chair reserved for visitors and remembered to thank Frost for his Christmas card. 'Any chance of us seeing you over the holidays?'
Frost shook his head. 'I'll be on duty Christmas and Boxing Day, Arthur, guarding the divisional peace.' Hanlon's face expressed sadness and concern, but Frost reassured him. 'I volunteered, Arthur. There's nothing for me at home and it's not too bad here-just the odd drunk spewing seasonal fare all over the lobby, but that's what Christmas is all about, isn't it? And our beloved Divisional Commander usually phones in to give us all his blessing, so what more could a man want, except for a bit of the other and a mince pie?''
Hanlon chortled, his whole body enjoying the joke. 'I've seen that chap Farnham, Jack.'
