Frost at Christmas (35 page)

   "You hadn't paid Fawcus his hush-money, then?"

   "No. I told him there was no chance of that now. He just smiled his false smile and said he'd leave it in abeyance. He was sure I'd find other opportunities of getting the money, providing I wasn't found out in the meantime. So I lived from day to day, praying for a miracle, but dreading every knock at the door, every ring of the phone, for fear it would be the gentlemen from Inland Revenue." Powell shuddered at the memory. "Days passed, the bank's work went on, and Fawcus kept giving me conspiratorial glances. I began thinking my son's way out was the best way. And then, the night before the funeral, Harrington was on about the cash transfer. I'd no sooner informed Fawcus that he'd be required to assist with the movement of the money than he came out with his plan."

   "His
plan, sir?" asked Frost, inching toward the old man.

   "He had a quick and cunning brain. He saw this as a chance to get his ten thousand, plus two thousand more. He was kindly going to allow me to keep eight thousand to repay all the money I had borrowed. It was very tempting."

   "What was his plan?"

   "A fake robbery. Fawcus and Garwood would leave for Exley, the money in a case chained to Fawcus's wrist. They wouldn't arrive. The police would find their car half-way between Denton and Exley, both men unconscious, the case and the money gone."

   "How were you going to work that?" asked Frost, inching a fraction nearer.

   Powell explained. The plan was almost childishly simple. Young Garwood, the junior clerk who would be driving the car, wasn't in on the plot so had to be convinced that the robbery had actually taken place. At a lonely part of the route the road would be blocked by a couple of wooden boxes. Nothing suspicious, but enough to make Garwood stop the car to remove the obstacles. When the car stopped, Fawcus would suddenly point and yell, "Look out - he's got a gun!" As Garwood's head turned to follow the pointing finger, Fawcus would bring the cosh down. Powell didn't like this part, but Fawcus brushed his objections to one side. "I won't hit him very hard, but when he comes round he'll believe everything I tell him."

   When Garwood came round, he would find Fawcus at his side, head bruised and unconscious, the windscreen shattered by a bullet, and the money case gone. And when Fawcus "recovered consciousness," he would tell of the masked man with the gun who had coshed them both.

   "But what would actually have happened?" asked Frost. If only the old man would look away for a fraction of a second, Frost was sure he could grab the gun. The old man gave no sign of intending to look away.

   "I'll tell you first what
should
have happened. The way the plan
should
have worked if everything hadn't gone wrong. I'd be attending the church service for Mrs. Kingsley and I'd make certain everyone saw I was there. After the service the cortege was to leave for the crematorium. Some of the mourners, like me, would be following in their own cars. I was to keep to the rear of the procession, gradually falling behind, then I'd put my foot down and speed off to the pre-arranged spot where Fawcus and the unconscious Garwood were waiting. All I had to do was unlock the chain, take the case, fire my Luger into the windscreen, then back to my own car, foot down, and rejoin the slow-moving funeral cortege as if I'd never left it. On the way I'd toss the gun and the empty, opened money case into the undergrowth for the police to find later, so even if they were on the scene within seconds there'd be nothing incriminating on me."

   "Except for the money," said Frost. "The £20,000."

   Powell looked at him incredulously. "But surely you understand, Inspector. That was the essence, the beauty of the whole ingenious plan. The money was in the last place anyone would think of looking for it. It was still in the bank. It had never left. The case was empty the whole time. The police would be searching everywhere for the armed man and the money . . . but how could they possibly find either of them? They were both non-existent. It was so clever, it deserved to succeed."

   "But if there were only two sets of keys to the case, the police would have been bound to suspect you, sir. They're not all stupid like me." And again he moved imperceptibly forward.

   "How could they suspect me? I had my keys with me all the time - before, during, and after the funeral service. According to Fawcus's version of events, the robbery would have taken place while I was still in full view of everyone in the church. I would be one hundred percent in the clear, whereas poor old Harrington at Exley was known to have a drinking problem and be slack. That is where the police would direct their inquiries about the keys."

   Frost nodded approvingly. Fawcus had thought it out well. Even super-sleuth Detective Inspector Allen would have been fooled. And if he could move just a fraction closer . . . "But something went wrong, sir?"

   Powell noticed the slight movement and there was an ominous click as the safety catch was released. Ruefully, Frost returned to his original 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 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.

Mrs. Uphill answered her phone. It was Farnham. "Yes," she said, "Sunday, same as usual, but from now on it's £40." She replaced the receiver and lit a cigarette. Life had to go on. Through her lounge window she could see the house across the street with its Christmas-tree lights flashing on and off.