Free DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas by R. D. Wingfield Page B

wanted to damage the door, someone with a grudge against the bank."
    The inspector wasn't having this either. "You could do more damage peeing through the letterbox. Ah well, life has its little mysteries. Well, come on, son, what are we waiting for? Reverse and back out the way we came."
    Barnard reversed. "Where are we going, sir?"
    "To find this lucky sod with the beard, the appendix scar, and the weekly season ticket."
    "And how are we going to do that?" persisted Clive.
    Frost smiled and rearranged his scarf. "If he came by train, we start with the railway station. I'll tell you the way."
    They passed a dark, gloomy building. Frost jerked a thumb. "That's the vicarage and Sunday school. The church is farther back."
    "Looks a bit of a dump, sir."
    "Yes. My wife's buried in the churchyard."
    An uneasy silence as the journey proceeded, then: "Doing anything for Christmas, son?"
    "I don't know yet, sir."
    "I'm on duty Christmas Day. You can come on with me if you like."
    Christ, thought Barnard, I'd rather have all my teeth out. Aloud he said, "I might have to go to my uncle's."
    "Well, don't say I didn't offer," replied Frost. "Oh, we should have turned right at that crossing."

MONDAY (4)

    A taxi was parked on the railway station forecourt; there was no sign of the driver. Clive pulled up alongside and the two men got out. The sky was darkening and the wind had gathered strength since the morning.
    The booking office was empty, the platforms deserted, no signs of porters or ticket collectors.
    "The mystery of the Mary Celeste," murmured Frost, leading Clive past the ticket barrier to a door painted olive-green and marked "Staff Only". Voices bubbled gently from inside. The inspector quietly turned the handle and crashed the door open.
    "All right - nobody move!"
    A tiny room reeking of shag tobacco, over-stewed tea, and sweat. Four startled heads jerked to the door. A small bald man clutching an enormous brown-enameled teapot was the first to recognize the intruder.
    "It's the bloody fuzz! They can't catch crooks, but they can smell a teapot a mile off." Then he smiled. "Come on in, Jack."
    They squeezed in. The room now held six people and very little air. Apart from the detectives there were the three absent railwaymen - the bald teapot holder who was the booking office clerk, a fat ticket collector sucking at a spittle-soaked, homemade cigarette, and a gangling young apprentice porter in jeans and a railway cap wedged on top of lank, ragged hair. The fourth man wore horn-rimmed glasses and a beaming smile. He was the missing taxi-driver, in for a warm and a cup of tea.
    Two battered enamel mugs were produced for the guests, blown free of dust, and filled with strong, viscous tea.
    Frost introduced Clive as his smart young assistant from London.
    "Just taking him around Denton to show him where all the toilets are," he explained. "Nothing worse for a rising young cop than to be taken short and caught peeing in the gutter." He pointed in the direction of the grimy window. "If you're ever in really dire straits, son, there's one at the end of the platform. You can find it easily in the summer because of the flies buzzing over it. These lazy sods, paid a king's ransom by British Rail, spend all their time guzzling tea instead of cleaning it out."
    "We daren't go in for a week after you've used it," accused the bald booking clerk. "Anyway, what are you here for?"
    Frost swallowed a mouthful of tea. "Were you lot on yesterday afternoon?" They nodded. "I'm trying to trace a man aged about thirty-five, bearded, travels here every Sunday, arriving around two o'clock. Travels back about four."
    The fat ticket collector had a bout of coughing and splattered ash from his homemade cigarette over his waistcoat. "Vaguely remember him," he said.
    "Light brown hair?" said a voice. "Dark coat and a scarf?" Frost wheeled round. It was the taxi-driver.
    "I pick him up every Sunday, 2:15, regular as clockwork - apart from yesterday. He was