He sighed. There'd be no one waiting for him when he got back. His house would be as cold and dead as Longley Road. Gas Off, Electricity Off, Naked Women Off. He remembered he was expecting to hear from Detective Sergeant Hanlon about the bank decoy job, and radioed Control who hadn't any news. The lights went on in Barnard's window. Feeling like a Peeping Tom, Frost saw two shadows merge, then the light went out. That decided him. It is my birthday, he told himself, slamming the car into gear and roaring eastward toward Bath Road, which the Council had newly garnished with salt. He pressed his foot down and the car leaped forward and telegraph poles swished past, his speedometer needle flickering near its limit. That's right, kill yourself on your bloody birthday!
He nearly missed the turn-off. Down the bumpy lane with the car bucking and rearing as it found all the ruts and potholes. Half way down he stopped and switched off the engine. The house was a black lump where the lane turned, but in spite of the late hour a hopeful light gleamed in a downstairs room.
A moment of indecision, then he was out of the car, head down into the stinging wind, floundering ankle deep in snow. The front gate etched a curved groove when he pushed it and deep footsteps followed him up the path. He jabbed the doorbell. A pause. A woman's voice called, "Who is it?"
"Jack Frost"
"Good God!" Bolts were drawn and the door opened. She was wearing a dressing gown, the glass in her hand half full. "What the hell do you want?"
"Just popped round to say hello," said Frost.
"What? At 2:30 in the morning? Well, you've said it. Now you can pop off home again."
"Oh!" said Frost, crestfallen.
"All right, come in. Quick, before I freeze to death."
He stepped into a hothouse. The front door slammed on the snow, on Tracey, Mullett, the skeleton, and the entire outside world.
She led him through to the lounge, dimly lit and thickly carpeted, a hi-fi unit in the corner oozing syrupy late-night music. A soft, chocolate brown studio couch absorbed the heat of a gas fire.
"Well, now you're here you might as well take off your coat."
He shrugged off his coat, stuck his scarf in the pocket, and went to the little cloakroom just off the hall. When he returned she was sitting on the studio couch, her head on one side, watching him. "I've poured you a drink." He flopped down beside her and took the well-filled glass from the sidetable.
"Here's to us, Jack." Her drink was sunk in a single gulp, but he sipped his slowly, letting his eyes run over her. She still looked good, even if the figure was now just a shade on the plump side, and she was at least forty, even by the kindest calculations.
"So what happened last Wednesday?" she asked.
"Wednesday?" He furrowed his brow, then groaned. "Hell, was I supposed to take you out?"
"Yes, you flaming were. To dinner. To make up for Monday, when you also forgot."
"Oh, Shirl, I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
" 'Sorry!' You're always bloody-well sorry. I waited for hours.. hours. And now you calmly turn up at 2:30 in the morning and expect to jump in bed with me."
"It's not quite 2:30," said Frost.
She lay back on the studio couch and watched him drop the last of his clothes on top of her discarded dressing gown, then she moved so he could join her. His hands were reaching for her when a man's voice suddenly said, "Inspector Frost. Control to Inspector Frost."
"What the hell's that?" she asked, huskily.
Frost put a finger to his lips, then stretched out an arm for his personal radio. She ran the tips of her fingers gently down his back. With as much composure as he could muster he said, "Frost here. What is it, Control?"
"Message from Detective Sergeant Hanlon, Mr. Frost. Goodtimes, the jewelers in the High Street, has had a break-in. About twenty-five thousand quid's worth of stuff taken."
Her fingertips were now tracing an intricate pattern at the base of his spine. He tried to keep his voice steady. "Have we nabbed anyone?"
"No, Inspector. We were on the scene within seconds, but they got clean away. Shall we set roadblocks up?"
"Forget roadblocks. They'll be a waste of time. Tell Mr. Hanlon I want him to put a man front and back of Sammy Jacobs' betting shop. Keep them out of sight, but they are to detain anyone who tries to leave. Right?"
"Understood, sir."
"Tell him I'll meet him outside Sammy's in about…" Shirley pressed herself close to him and breathed heavily "… in about half an hour, perhaps a bit longer. Over and out."
He clicked off the transmitter and let it drop on the expensive carpet. The fire was warm, the couch was soft, and Shirley was marvelous. In the distance, the personal radio chattered inanely on about crashed cars, drunken brawls, suspicious noises…
It was 3:25 in the morning, the car was purring sweetly, and Frost was humming to himself as he puffed away at the cigar Shirley had given him as an extra birthday present. He hadn't realized before what a beautiful night it was with the snow sparkling like white silver. He parked well short of the betting shop and walked stealthily the rest of the way, noticing that although the wind blew as hard as ever, his overcoat seemed to have grown in thickness. A shape loomed from a shop doorway.
"Jack!"
Tubby Arthur Hanlon in tweed coat and pork-pie hat, his nose as red as his cheeks, motioned toward the betting shop.
"No one's been in or out, Jack."
"Good," grunted Frost. "Fill me in on the details."
Hanlon told him the story. The owner of the jewelers lived on the premises and at 2:45 had been woken up by insistent knocking. He looked from his upstairs window and saw the beat constable who informed him that the shop's burglar alarm was ringing at the station and could he come in and look around. The jeweler slipped on his dressing gown, scurried downstairs, switched off the alarm and opened the shop door. Whereupon the "beat constable" coshed him and ransacked the shop.
"Right," said Frost, "then let's see if Sammy is still open for business."
They crossed the road to the betting shop, Sammy Jacobs, Turf Accountant, and Frost leaned on the door buzzer.
"Why here?" whispered Hanlon. "Did you have a tip-off?"
"Intuition," mumbled Frost, and gave the door a kick to reinforce the summons of the buzzer.
Then something happened. Movement from inside the shop, a door banged, then a scuffling sound. Someone was trying to get out the back way. But a uniformed man was waiting.
"Oh no you don't!"
Frost pressed his face against the glass of the door and could make out the uniformed man pushing in from the rear, frogmarching a struggling figure. The constable shoved his prize through and unlatched the front door.
"Caught him trying to sneak out the back, sir."
Hanlon's torch splashed the man's sullen face. "Sid Sexton!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "What are you doing here?"
What Sid was doing at that precise moment was uttering a string of profanities. Hanlon had indeed caught a big fish. Sid Sexton was a break-in expert with five convictions for robbery with violence and a form-sheet several pages long.
"Where's Sammy?" asked Frost, rocking on his heels and puffing at his cigar.
In answer to his question a door opened at the head of some stairs and a shaft of light sliced the darkness, backlighting a fat, bald man in an expensive dressing gown, armed with a poker. He peered down into the shop.
"Who's there?"
"Police, Mr. Jacobs," called Frost. "Real ones."
Sammy lowered the poker and thudded downstairs.
"Mr. Frost!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What's this about?"
"Do you recognize this man, sir?" The flashlight shone on the break-in expert's face, which Sammy made a great pretence of studying, finally shaking his head reluctantly.