R. Wingfield - Frost at Christmas

"But surely someone must have come across it," Clive persisted. "I mean… a dead body!"

"We're not nosey down here, you know-not like you lot in London. And don't forget, he'd be stinking to high heaven after a few days-enough to put anyone off who wasn't frightened of the snakes already. People would have thought he was a dead animal and kept clear."

The earth, loosened by the pickax, was being gently scraped away. A cry from the constable sent Frost running over again. "What do you make of this, sir?"

Frost made nothing of it. Encircling the wrist was a band of metal to which was fastened a length of steel chain. The other end of the chain buried itself deeply in the rock-hard earth and no amount of pulling would prise it free.

And then, something even more puzzling. By scraping away the earth, more and more of the arm bone was uncovered, but then, before the elbow was reached, the arm just stopped.

They didn't have a complete skeleton. Just a hand, part of an arm, and the metal wristband… and the chain.

Frost decided that animals must have dragged the arm away from the rest of the body and his diggers were spread out over a wider area to prospect for the remainder.

The snow was falling in great white fluffy flakes and would soon cover the excavation. A distant car door slammed and they hoped it was the promised marquee, but the approaching light bobbing along the path was carried by Dr. McKenzie, the little tubby police surgeon.

"Who's in charge here? Oh-it's you, Inspector Frost. I should have guessed. If you had to find a body in a Godforsaken hole like this, did it have to be during a snowstorm?" He wiped the snow from his glasses and peered down at the excavated arm, then shook his head solemnly. "You've called me too late, I'm afraid… a few minutes earlier and I could have saved him."

"I tried to give it the kiss of life," remarked Frost, dryly, "but it stuck its fingers up my nose. Well, come on Doc-time of death?"

The doctor licked a flake of snow from his nose. "You know as well as I do, Jack… years… ten, twenty, perhaps longer. You'll need a pathologist."

Frost held the doctor by one arm and led him out of earshot of the others. "Do we really need a pathologist, Doc? Couldn't you just say he died of natural causes and let it go at that? Honestly, I've got enough work to keep me going for a month, even if I applied myself-which I rarely do. I don't want to be sodding about with this ancient relic." He offered the doctor a cigarette as a bribe.

Grunts and clangs as pickaxes bit. The doctor accepted a light. "I couldn't say natural causes, Jack-for one thing, how do you explain the chain attached to the wrist? In any case to tell you anything definite I'd need a darn sight more than half an arm. It'll require all sorts of tests and soil analysis. Your forensic boys will take it in their stride. I'm only a G.P. If it's not broken bones or constipation I'm out of my depth. I give a letter for a specialist, and that's what you want-a specialist." He coughed with the cigarette still in his mouth, spraying the inspector with hot ash. "I'm off home. I'll let you have my report."

"What report?" demanded Frost. "You haven't even examined it."

But the doctor was already moving off. "You want the pathologist. Besides, its snowing and he's paid a lot more than I am."

Frost swore silently at a man who would desert him after accepting one of his cigarettes. There was a cry from the mustached P.C. He'd found what looked like the rest of the skeleton. It was some eight feet away from the hand. Clive was sent running back to the radio car to ask for a pathologist. Half-way there he met the men bringing the marquee.

By the time the pathologist and the forensic team turned up, the marquee had been erected and the canvas was flapping with sounds like rifle-shots, as the wind searched it out for weaknesses.

The pathologist, tall and cadaverous in a long black overcoat, had brought his medical secretary along-a faded, puffy-eyed beauty, who recorded her master's comments in the loops and angles of Pitman's shorthand. The pathologist seemed to find the wristband and chain more interesting than the human remains.

"I'd like to know what's on the other end of that chain, Inspector."

A busy beaver from Forensic got to work and began scraping away with practiced, economical movements, until enough chain was uncovered to permit a firm grip to be taken. He pulled. The earth released another three feet of chain, then held the rest fast. More patient scratching with a trowel, then some work with a pickax.

The end of the chain was fastened to a metal box, about 2'6" x 1'6" x 4" deep.

Frost plucked the pathologist's sleeve. He thought he knew what it was.

"Could he have been here since the war, Doc?"

The great man winced at the "Doc". "Possibly, Inspector. But I've done no tests yet so anything is a possibility until proved otherwise. Why do you ask?"

"I think I know what that thing is. It's a sort of metal attache case. They were used during the war for confidential dispatches, chained to the courier's wrist. We had some plane crashes here during the Blitz-British and German.

Could he have been thrown-or fallen-from a plane blowing up in the air, perhaps?"

The pathologist pushed his lower lip into his mouth and sucked hard. "Again-possible. There's no telling how long the remains have been here." He dropped on one knee and scraped some dirt away from a rib. "If he fell you'd expect to find broken bones, but until we can get some of this encrusted dirt off…"He stood, rubbing the tips of his fingers. "When it's completely uncovered and photographed I'll have it moved to the crime lab for a thorough examination. I'll be able to give you facts then instead of theories. Oh-and I'd like all the surrounding earth crated up and sent for tests."

"All of it?" asked Frost.

"Well-where the arm and the rest of the skeleton have been lying, down to a depth of about three feet."

The inspector's cigarette dropped. "That's going to take some digging, Doc."

"Yes," agreed the great man, drawing on his gloves, "but it's necessary. Oh, and you might let me have a complete list, with dates, of all the air crashes that occurred in this vicinity during the Avar years."

"Certainly, Doc," said Frost, wondering where the hell he could obtain useless information like that. He gave orders for the earth to be crated, then quickly tiptoed out with Clive before the pathologist could think of any more stupid jobs.

The wind hurled handfuls of snow at them as they trudged back to the car, where Hazel was waiting. There had been calls galore for the inspector, she reported. Would he report back?

"Control here, Inspector. Can you return to the station at once, please? The Divisional Commander wishes to see you urgently."

Frost groaned. Gawd, he thought, what have I done wrong now?

Mullen was boiling with rage. He couldn't wait for Frost to close the door behind him before he started.

"I found this on your desk, Inspector," and he held Up the envelope containing the crime statistics. Frost looked at it with horror, then dropped wearily into a chair and swore to himself as vehemently as Mullett was shouting at him. The bloody crime statistics! In the ecstacy of getting the sodding things completed last night, he'd completely forgotten to post them off… nosey bastard had to find them on his desk…

Mullett was beside himself. He, the Divisional Commander, had made a promise to County, had instructed Frost that the statistics must go off, and now. he had to bear the odious, stinging humiliation of being shown incapable of getting his own men to carry out a specific order.

Frost half closed his eyes and let the scalding tirade wash over him. Didn't the bloody tailor's dummy have better things to do than poke his ugly nose in other people's desks? And if he was so bloody clever, how come he didn't know who had smashed the rear of his car?