The car slowed and stopped. Clive switched off the engine and they heard the wind. 'What exactly is the plan, sir?'
'You stay in the car, son. If there's trouble, you don't know anything. Now, I reckon I can open his lounge windows with a penknife and once inside I've got my spare keys for the bureau. A quick look, anything incriminating, and I lock up again and hoof it back here to pick you up. We then pay an official visit via the front door and demand he opens up the bureau for us. But if I find nothing, I swear fluently and we go home.'
'I think it's a crazy idea,' said Clive.
'It's bleedin' mad, son, but it's all I've got. Now slap some slush on the number plates, turn the car round, and keep the engine running. If I make my usual balls-up, we may have to attempt a quick getaway.' And then the car door opened and closed and Frost was away, up the road and swallowed in a swirl of snow, dive reversed, switched off the lights, left the engine gently ticking over, and waited.
Frost was making too much noise. The rusty hinges on the front gate gave a jagged scream as he eased it open and the snow on the path seemed to creak and groan with each careful footstep. He kicked a milkbottle which rolled on and on and on. It was pitch dark alongside the house, but he daren't risk his torch. It only wanted some silly sod of a public-minded citizen to dial 999 and Hornrim Harry would have kittens. He moved his hand along the wall until he found the projection of the sill to the lounge window. Pulling his glove off with his teeth he fumbled amongst the lumpy objects in his coat pocket to locate his penknife. What the hell was this? Oh-that soggy biscuit Powell had forced upon him. He found the knife and immediately dropped it and the snow swallowed it like a quicksand. Five wet, numbing minutes were wasted before his hand closed over it again, by which time the cold had sucked all feeling from his fingers and he had to warm them under his armpit before he dared trust them with the knife again.
The window catch refused to co-operate. He pushed the penknife until he was sure the blade was going to snap and his teeth ached with the effort of gritting them tightly. A bead of warm sweat trickled itchily down his nose and suddenly, a click, and it was done. Fingers under the window frame and lift. The bloody noise rumbled and rolled round the sleeping house. Someone must hear. He paused, head cocked, ready to run, holding his breath until it hurt, but no one stirred, no lights clicked on, so knee up on to the wet cold sill, leg over, and he was inside the dank funeral parlor of a lounge. Behind him the curtains flapped in the wind, as he moved cautiously toward the bureau. He pulled the keys from his pocket with a trembling hand that jangled them like a peal of bells, and then… What was that! A floorboard creaked overhead. He froze, not daring to breathe, ears straining, hearing the dull, too-fast pounding of his heart. No other sound. Just that one creak. He emptied his lungs slowly and gulped down fresh air. A small voice whispered 'Danger… danger' over and over again and the open window pleaded with him. Out of the house, back to the car and off to bed. Let Inspector Allen solve the case and get the glory, the handshake, and the fat cigar from Mullett. His heart slowed to its normal pace, the small voice was still hissing insistently, but he ignored it. He'd got this far, he'd broken into someone's house. If they were going to boot him out of the Force, let it be for something spectacular, not for being late with the sodding crime statistics.
He poked a key into the bureau lock. A pistol crack as the catch snapped back, but it was open. Resting his torch on the lowered flap he rummaged through the mess of papers inside, pulling a wad at random from a pigeonhole and finding them to be ancient 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 PS15,000 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 mortgage on the house. But even so, I could only raise PS10,000.'
'That must have been disappointing,' said Frost. 'Can I sit down?'
'Don't move,' snapped Powell, and Frost stood stock still. The old man went on with his story. 'The bank was holding the account of an old lady named Mrs. Kingsley. She was in her eighties, bed-ridden, and very rich. Couldn't get to the bank herself, so I handled all her affairs. She trusted me implicitly '
'Senile, was she?' asked Frost.
'No, definitely not. If any bills needed to be paid, I would write out the check and she would sign it without question. There was close to a quarter of a million pounds in her account, so getting the PS5,000 for my son wasn't too difficult '
