"Albert Barrow," supplied Clive.
"That's it, Barrow. My colleague was wondering if it was significant that Barrow went missing shortly after the money vanished."
Powell thought for a moment. "I remember him-bald and shifty. After he left we checked his stores and found that goodness knows how many packets of tea, towels, toilet rolls, etc., were missing. Been helping himself. We'd suspected it for some time. He even had the cheek to go and get himself a job at another of our branches six months later. He cleaned them out as well."
"Exactly what I suggested to my colleague," said Frost, beaming at Clive.
Powell fumbled for an old-fashioned pocketwatch which he consulted pointedly. "If that is all, Inspector."
"Sadly it's not, sir." Frost worried at his scar. "We're now left with rather a tricky question. If Fawcus didn't pinch the money, then who did? Who shot him and chopped his arm off? Who had the opportunity, and the motive?" He cleared his throat. "Now, apart from yourself, very few people knew about the transfer, let alone the exact details." He paused. The old man, his face set, his eyes hard and expressionless, said nothing. Undeterred, Frost plunged into the icy water right up to his neck. "You, for example, sir, had opportunity…"
He got no further. With the aid of his stick, Powell heaved himself up and towered over the seated inspector, quivering with rage. He stretched a hand to the door. "Get out! Do you hear me? Get out of my house!"
Frost didn't budge. He lit another cigarette, leaned back, and waited. The effort of standing proved too much. Powell's body sagged and he sank into his chair, fighting to control his breathing.
Frost continued as if nothing had happened. "It's got to be said, sir, whether you chuck us out or not. You had the opportunity, didn't you?"
A weary hand fluttered limply to indicate the miserable room. "Look around you, Inspector. This cold, depressing room. If I had stolen PS20,000, do you think I'd be living in a pigsty like this?"
Frost lowered his eyes and found the name on his cigarette of consuming interest. "Now we come to motive, sir. You may not have wanted the money for yourself, but I understand you had a son."
Wind roared down the chimney and rustled the crumpled paper in the fireplace. Powell gnawed at his lower lip, then dragged himself over to an old, dark oak bureau in the corner. A key from his watchchain unlocked it and, from the bundles of papers stuffed in pigeonholes, he pulled a photograph, which he passed over to the inspector. It showed a young man in R.A.F. uniform, a peaked cap at a rakish angle over devil's eyes, and an Errol Flynn pencil mustache under the Powell nose.
"My son, Frank," said Powell, stiffly. "The only photograph we have now. I keep it locked away. My wife… she gets upset."
Clive took the photograph and studied the medal ribbon. "The D.F.C., Mr. Powell?"
"Yes." The eyes shone and he drew himself erect as if standing to attention. "We were so proud of him. We went to Buckingham Palace to see the King give it to him. A wonderful day."
"I bet it was," said Frost. "Why does your wife get upset?"
Powell replaced the photograph and locked the bureau, trying the handle carefully to make sure it was secure. "He killed himself." He tottered back to his chair and sat down heavily. "After the war he started a business with his gratuity and with some savings I was able to let him have. He made an awful mess of it, I'm afraid. We helped him out with more money from time to time, but it was like pouring water into a bottomless bucket. In the end everything got on top of him and his mind snapped. He jumped in front of a tube train. Not a hero's death, was it? His mother never got over it. She idolized him. In her eyes, he could do no wrong."
The only sound in the room was the scratching of. dive's pen. The old man stared down at the floor, his eyes glistening.
It was like kicking a puppy, but Frost waded in again. "As I said, Mr. Powell, you had a fair old motive for stealing the money-to pump it into your son's failing business."
Powell turned his head slowly and twitched his lips to a thin smile of contempt. "You don't do your homework, do you, Inspector? The money was stolen in 1951. My son killed himself in 1949-two years before. Would you mind leaving now, please? My wife doesn't like being left alone."
Frost motioned to Clive who put his notebook away. The two detectives rose.
"Sorry if I've upset you, Mr. Powell, but these questions have to be asked." Powell nodded brusquely and followed them out. In the passage Frost hesitated and pounded his palm with his fist. "I've got a memory like a bloody sieve. I meant to ask if you went out at all last night?"
"I didn't," said Powell. "Why?"
"Last night someone shot Rupert Garwood and splattered his eye to bits, but if you haven't got a gun and you didn't go out, I'll have to look around for another suspect. Thank your wife for the coffee, sir, and if I don't see you before, Merry Christmas."
"Well, son?" asked Frost, thawing out in the warmth of the car as it nosed its way back to the station.
"Seems a decent enough old boy, sir. I feel sorry for him. He poured all his savings into his son's business and now they're left to struggle along on his reduced pension."
Frost considered this. "He tells a good story, I'll grant him that. I haven't felt more like crying since the chip shop burned down in Coronation Street." "You think he's lying, then?" asked Clive.
Frost twitched his shoulder. "It would be hard to prove if he was. He's had thirty-odd years to polish up his story-and it's a real tear-jerker as you say. Son a war hero, decent parents living in penury to save his good name, and to cap it all, he's got a bad leg. But he is lying, son-I've got one of my hunches."
The car sped past white barren blankness which just about summed up Denton to Clive-blank and barren. Except for Hazel, of course, an oasis of warmth in a desert of ice. He squinted down at his watch-nearly eight o'clock and Frost clearly running out of steam. Good. He'd be off duty at a reasonable time for once. Perhaps he could even take Hazel out somewhere first.
At his side, Frost was stirring uneasily. "I keep getting the nagging feeling I've left something undone. It's not my flies, so what is it? Blimey-yes! Turn left here-we've got to go to the Denton Echo office. Hornrim Harry wants me to kill the disinterred kitten story. Slam your foot down, son."
Clive increased speed and barren blankness zipped past. As long as Frost didn't think of any more jobs, he could still see Hazel at a reasonable time…
Frost's voice cut into his thoughts. "I imagine they'll be putting you with Inspector Allen tomorrow, son. I can't see our Divisional Commander leaving you under my corrupting influence a minute longer than he can help. He's going to do his nut when he finds I still haven't touched that paperwork. But he'll say, 'I realize we've got to make allowances for you, Frost, in view of your recent sad loss'." He laughed mirthlessly and shook the last cigarette from the packet. "As you'll be leaving me, son, I'll tell you a secret I've told no one else. My marriage was a flop. Twenty years of stark bloody misery. My wife despised me. She was ambitious; she wanted someone she could be proud of, and the poor cow got me; she hated me for being what I was. I used to dread going home. In the end I decided to leave her-there was another woman I was going to move in with. On the very night I was going home to break the news, her doctor phoned me at the station. He'd sent my wife to a specialist who'd taken X-rays and they now had the result. Inoperable cancer. She had six months to live and they'd be six rotten months. They thought it best the news was kept from her. So I changed my plans and carried on being despised. A couple of days after that this young sod shot the hole in my face and I didn't particularly care if he killed me or not. The wife was thrilled silly when I got my medal, and when they made me up to inspector she nearly burst with pride. The only thing I'd ever done right. She even stopped nagging. She was a hard woman, but it was a rotten way to die-a bloody rotten way for anyone to die." He mangled his cigarette end in the car's ashtray and stared at the roof. "All I'm trying to say, son, is it's not grief and sorrow at my wife's death that makes me sod things up-I'm just a natural sodder-upper and nothing's going to change me."