"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. "PS12,000 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. PS12,000, 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 Gar-wood'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.
THURSDAY
Mrs. Uphill answered her phone. It was Farnham. "Yes," she said, "Sunday, same as usual, but from now on it's PS40." 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.
At the vicarage, the Reverend James Bell and his wife avoided each other. Whatever love was once there when he and his girl bride had smiled happily into the wedding photographer's lens had now shriveled and died. As soon as Christmas was over, she would leave him.
The car taking Martha Wendle to the Magistrate's Court skirted the woods. She pressed her face to the window, but the cottage wasn't visible from the road.
Clive was with Detective Inspector Allen. They had scooped up the papers from Frost's desk, which now looked obscenely bare, and were working through them in Allen's office. From time to time Allen would "tut-tut" at work left undone. Clive couldn't keep his mind on the job. Every time the phone rang he would rush to answer it, hoping for news from the hospital. Frost was hanging on to life by a thread and they were operating that morning to remove the bullet.
Powell had been arrested and was waiting for Allen' to question him. He had overlooked the significance of the Luger pistol. When the bullet was dug out of Frost's skull, that too would be sent to Forensic for comparison with the bullet in Garwood… the bullet in the skeleton.
Mullett was with the Chief Constable and was very happy. The commandership of the new, enlarged Denton Division was definitely to be his, and a replacement for Frost would arrive that morning from County H.Q. Shame about Frost, of course, but things couldn't have worked out better.
Frost was having a nightmare-a nightmare he had had many times before. He was in hospital being wheeled to the operating theater where a gowned and masked figure was waiting. There were instruments-knives, saws- sharp, terrible, and shiny, laid out on a green cloth. At this point he usually woke up, trembling and wet with sweat, but this time the nightmare was going on. They rated his chances at less than fifty-fifty and expected him to die.
But Frost was never any good at figures and never did what was expected of him.
Six days to Christmas. Outside it started to snow again.