R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Sorry," she said, getting out of the car. "That house. There was no reply this morning when I knocked to ask about the van. Someone's in now."

"Oh the non-existent bleeding van loaded up with naked tart," said Frost, rubbing the bump on his forehead. "Well, make it quick."

He watched her walk up the path and knock on the door. An elderly man answered.

"Control to Mr. Frost."

He picked up the handset. "Frost.. He listened. It wasn't good news.

Liz was scribbling down the details the old man was giving her when the car horn blasted out repeatedly. She tried to ignore it, but it went on and on. Frost was waving frantically and yelling for her to return. Muttering apologies to the old boy, she raced back to the car. What was up now?

Frost, now in the driving seat, had the passenger door open for her. "Get in," he yelled, and the car was away even before she had the door shut.

"Why did you drag me away?" she protested. "I was getting details. The old boy saw the non-existent van going towards the Stanfield house late last night. Even gave me the colour light brown."

Frost skidded the car round a tight bend and removed several inches of hedge in the process. "I've had Control on the radio. Arthur Hanlon's search party those old bungalows. They've found a body."

Liz went cold. The boy?"

"Life's not that bleeding simple," snorted Frost. "It's not a boy it's a man, probably a dosser. It never rains flaming bodies, it pours!"

The car wheezed its way up the steep gradient of Denton Hills, its engine making unhappy noises and giving off the smell of burning oil. They were behind the woods in a barren section of the district. Years ago a sprawl of pre-war bungalows and weekend shanties had occupied the area, their dwellers living in primitive conditions without mains drainage or electricity. These substandard dwellings were deemed unfit for human occupation and some twenty years earlier the Council had re housed the occupants and compulsorily acquired the land for a building project for which it had long since given up trying to raise the money. The empty properties were quickly vandalized and opened up to the weather and were now of no interest, even to the local tearaways. Roofless, windows smashed, doors torn off their hinges, the flimsy buildings cowered under the wind and weather. The whole area was overgrown with vegetation and stunk of damp, rot and decay.

Arthur Hanlon and a uniformed man were waiting for them, hands in pockets, stamping their feet for warmth. The sun was a watery yellow in a clear sky. It was going to be a freezing cold night.

Hanlon led them across what was once a front garden, overgrown grass slapping at their legs. It fronted the shell of an asbestos-walled bungalow, painted in now-faded pink. Frost peeked in through the glassless windows on to strewn rubbish and charred floorboards where someone, years ago, had tried to start a fire, but the wood was too damp to burn. "I wish my place was as tidy as this," he muttered.

They trudged round the side to the rear. Other overgrown gardens could be seen, many of them with ramshackle wooden structures like sentry boxes. "Outdoor privies," said Hanlon. "The old bucket and wooden seat there was no mains sewerage."

"The body's not in one of them?" asked Frost apprehensively.

Hanlon shook his head.

A sigh of relief from Frost. "If he'd known I was going to be on the case he'd have died head first down an unemptied privy bucket."

Hanlon grinned. Frost had an affinity for mucky cases.

"He's in a bunker, Jack."

"A bunker? It's not bloody Hitler, is it?"

"A coal bunker. Over there." He pointed to where a uniformed officer stood guarding a taped-off section. The undergrowth was almost waist-high, but had been trampled down to form a path leading to an almost concealed brick-built coal bunker, four feet long, three feet high. A rusted sheet of corrugated iron that had once covered the open top was propped to one side. A strong smell of putrefaction drifted out to greet them.

Frost wrinkled his nose. "Bloody hell, Arthur, what have I told you about changing your socks?"

Hanlon giggled. "We reckon it's probably a dosser — crept in there to sleep and got hypothermia."

Frost took a deep breath and looked inside. "Bloody hell!" He moved back and sucked in great gulps of clean, cold air. He passed his cigarettes around and moved a few steps back, but the smell seemed to be following him. Liz pushed forward to take a look, but Frost held out a restraining hand. "Best if you don't, love."

Angrily she shook his hand off. "I've seen bodies before." She took a breath and looked down. Huddled at the bottom of the bunker, in some inches of soupy rain water, were the remains of a man. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition and the face, covered with black mould, was unrecognizable. She moved back, exhaled slowly, then took some deep breaths. She fought back the urge to be sick.

"Are you all right?" asked Frost.

"Yes," she snapped. "Perfectly all right."

"Remind me to tell you of that dead tramp I found in a heat-wave," he said. "You could have poured him away. It made this one smell like Chanel Number S in comparison…"

"Don't let him tell you that story, Liz," said Arthur Hanlon. "Not on a full stomach — I was sick for three days after I heard it."

"You're thinking of the other one," said Frost. "The bloke who drunk the contents of the spittoon for a bet."

Hanlon went white. "I'd forgotten all about that one." He pulled a face. "If you value your stomach, Liz, don't let him tell you that story either."

A short tubby figure carrying a medical bag came puffing towards them. Frost waved. "Over here, doctor."

Dr. Maltby beamed when he saw the inspector. "I thought you were on holiday?"

"They couldn't do without me, doc." He jerked a thumb at the bunker. "There's your patient."

Maltby took a quick look. "I confirm life is extinct."

"Is that all we get for our bloody money? How long has he been dead?"

The doctor shrugged. "No idea, Jack. Weeks — probably months. Was that corrugated iron sheeting on the top when you found him?"

"Yes," confirmed Hanlon.

"Sun beating down on that would make it like an oven and there's a good two inches of water down there to speed things up. Decomposition could start in hours."

"Cause of death?"

"No idea. If you drag him out I'll take a further look, but if you think I'm going to climb down inside…"

"Sod it!" sighed Frost. He pulled Hanlon to one side. "Pathologist, Forensic, SOCs, the works, Arthur. You know the drill."

"You think it might be murder?"

"There's water and broken bricks at the bottom of that bunker, Arthur. A dosser would have to be pretty hard up for a bed to sleep on that."

"I'm off then," said Maltby, backing away.

"Thanks, doc," said Frost. "If you hadn't told us he was dead we'd still be pushing aspirins down the poor sod's throat." He waved him off, then returned to Hanlon. "You'd better han ale this one, Arthur. It was your team who found him, you can suffer the consequences." He took one last look at the bunker and shuddered. "I'd hate to be one of the blokes who have to lift him out. Don't pull him up by his arms, they might come off in your hand… and for the same reason, don't lift him by his dick."

Liz screwed up her face in distaste. She didn't find death the least bit funny.

"We're going to need some more help, Jack," Hanlon called after them.

"Our beloved Divisional Commander has it all in hand," said Frost. "We're getting another detective inspector."

As they climbed back into the car, Liz had an awful thought and consulted Frost for reassurance. "You don't think Mr. Mullett is going to upgrade Sergeant Hanlon to acting DI?"

"No," said Frost, wriggling down into the passenger seat. "Arthur's a lovely bloke, but, like me, he hasn't got the making of an inspector and Mullett knows it."