to avoid. Not that Inspector Frost's ways are necessarily wrong, of course…' Realizing that the water was getting dangerously deep he struck out on a more promising tack. 'Do you see much of your uncle?'
Clive's answer was drowned in a roaring vibration of sound that made the building throb in sympathy. The two men ran to the window and craned their heads up to the sky.
There it was, disappearing over the roofs of the three storied houses opposite. The promised helicopter.
Detective Inspector Frost swung his head to follow the flight of the helicopter as it thundered over the Market Square. He was making his way over to the doorway of Bennington's Bank where the beat constable and a stout little C.I.D. sergeant were examining signs of an attempted break-in. Crouched, with their backs toward him, they did not notice his approach. Frost paused. The tightly trousered posterior of the fat C.I.D. man was an irresistible target. He thrust forward a carefully aimed, stubby finger.
'How's that for center?'
The reaction was hair-trigger. The C.I.D. man shot up and spun around, his face glaring and crimson. Then he saw Jack Frost and all annoyance evaporated.
'Oh. It's you, Jack!' He turned to the smiling beat constable with mock indignation. 'Did you see what this dirty devil did?'
Frost looked at his hand. 'I wish you hadn't jumped up so suddenly, Arthur. You nearly bit the end of my finger off. Now move your pregnant stomach out of the way and let me have a look.'
The heavy wooden door to the bank showed raw gouges near the lock, as if something had been forced between the door and the jamb.
Frost straightened up and scratched his head. 'Something wrong here, Arthur. You don't try to break into a bank by jemmying the front door. Even a burke like me knows that.'
'It looks as though someone's had a go, though,' insisted the fat sergeant, Arthur Hanlon, a jolly little Pickwick of a man without an enemy in the world.
'No, Arthur,' replied Frost, firmly. 'Crooks aren't that stupid, and if they were it wouldn't be our luck to have them: they'd all be over at Bridgely Division signing confessions like there was no tomorrow.' Bridgely Division, the blue-eyed boy of County Headquarters, had the lowest crime rate and the highest detection rate in the county.
'Kids,' suggested the constable, who didn't waste words.
Frost considered this. 'What time was the damage spotted?'
The constable studied the report left by his colleague from the previous shift. '4:00 a.m., sir.'
'And when did he last notice it was all right?'
Another consultation. '1:56 a.m., sir.'
Frost dug his hands deep into his pockets and sniffed. 'There you are, then. It happened between two and four this morning. You won't get kids mucking about with banks at that time-too busy reading Noddy under the bedclothes or having gang-bangs. Did you have gang-bangs when you were a kid, Arthur?'
Arthur giggled and shook his head.
'Me neither. I used to count myself lucky if I had sex more than six times a night. Any prints?'
'Millions of them, right back to the bloke who made the door.'
'You're never satisfied. Which reminds me, how's the wife and kids-looking forward to Christmas?'
'Yes thanks, Jack,' beamed Hanlon. 'But what do you reckon we should do about this lark?' He indicated the door.
'Forget it, Arthur. I'll ask the station sergeant to get his beat boys to keep their eyes open. They'll just have to sleep off-duty. Look out… the fuzz!'
A police car hurtled across the road from Eagle Lane and squealed to a shivering halt outside the bank. The uniformed driver ran over to them.
'It's this fat man, Constable,' said Frost, grabbing Hanlon's arm. 'He was trying to break into the bank. You can see the marks.'
The driver grinned dutifully. 'Lot of panic at the station, sir. I think the Divisional Commander wants to see you.'
A blur of maroon scarf dashed across the road.
Sergeant Wells let out a sigh of relief as the panting figure staggered in, wheezing and gasping for breath.
'I forgot all about the old sod, Bill.'
Wells licked a stub of pencil and pretended to make an entry in his notebook. 'When cautioned, the prisoner replied 'I forgot all about the old sod.' '
Another blast of cold air whooshed in as again the swing doors opened, this time to admit a ragged shriveled figure wearing an ex-army greatcoat many sizes too big and stiff with dirt. He shuffled over to the desk as if on crippled feet and brought with him a thick, disgusting smell.
Frost's and the station sergeant's noses shuddered and wrinkled in unison.
The object of their nasal displeasure thumped angrily on the counter with a hand dark with ingrained dirt, complaining shrilly, 'Where's my bleedin' quid? Fine thing when the effing cops rob you, isn't it?'
The station sergeant backed away until the wall stopped him, then spoke in the careful tones of an expert telling his pupil how to defuse a live bomb.
'Now step back, Sam. Don't sit down. Don't touch anything. Just stand there… and whatever you do, don't move! Good. Now we've only got to disinfect that one little spot.' He fanned his face vigorously with his notebook.
The old tramp glowered with red-rimmed, watery eyes set deep in a gray-stubbled, leathery face.
'Never mind the bleedin' insults. Where's my quid?'
Wells held up a hand and explained patiently. 'Now listen, Sam. You had six pence on you when we picked you up. Six pence is not a quid. A quid is one of these pieces of paper with the Queen's head on it, and you didn't have one. You came in with six pence and you were given six pence when we turned you out. We didn't charge a penny for our hospitality, nor for the fact that you were sick all over our nice clean floor. You had that on the taxpayers.' He explained to Frost, 'Sleeping rough, drinking meths, and urinating on the gravestones in the churchyard.'
The old man had built up a fresh head of indignation. 'I wasn't as bloody drunk as all that. I had a pound note and six pence. Your copper put it in an envelope, and when he give it back to me the quid had gone.'
Wells tried again. 'The quid was never there, Sam. Besides, we count the money out and you sign for it as being correct. We hold your evil-smelling mark on a receipt in full discharge of your six pennies.'
Cracked lips curled back to show broken brown stumps. 'I never signed no receipt.'
'The cross might have been forged, Sam, but the smell was unmistakable. You were too full of meths… you wouldn't have known what you were doing.'
'I know how much I had. I want my quid.'
'Where did you get the pound from, Sam?' asked Frost. 'Not been selling your body, I hope.'
Sam spun round and Frost jumped back as the aroma nudged its way toward him.
'I… I found it.' It was said with defiance, but he wouldn't meet Frost's eye.
'So, now you've lost it,' murmured the sergeant. 'Easy come, easy go.'
A smolder of hate. 'That young copper pinched it.'
The station sergeant brought a large thick ledger from beneath the desk and banged it down on the counter.
'Right, Sam. You've made a very serious accusation. I take it you're going to prefer charges.'
The face screwed up, the red dots of eyes burned as he swung his head from one to the other of them like a rat cornered between two terriers. 'And a fat lot of bleedin' good that would do me. You'd all lie your effing heads off.'
He hobbled out into the fresh air. It took a good thirty minutes with doors and windows open to persuade the smell he'd brought in with him to do likewise.
'You've got to know how to handle these sods,' said Wells, poking the ledger back. 'Who does he think is going to touch his money after he's wiped his grimy fingers over it?'
The internal phone buzzed. Wells answered it. 'Oh. Yes, sir. He's on his way.' The maroon scarf streaked past his eyes and off down the corridor to Mullett's office.
'These are the cells,' said P.C. Keith Stringer, who had been detailed to show the new man around.
