R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘Good,’ said Skinner, taking a key from his pocket and locking the drawer. ‘Have you put your house on the market yet?’

Frost looked blank. ‘Eh?’

‘You should be starting in Lexton by the beginning of the month. You won’t be able to flaming commute, will you? You’ll have to move – buy yourself a place in Lexton.’

Frost tried to hide his dismay. Lexton was even more of a shit-house than Denton.

‘To speed things up, I’m getting details of properties for sale sent to you. Nothing pricey – I’ve seen your place and you won’t get much for it. And I’ve asked a couple of estate agents to contact you about selling.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ muttered Frost with all the insincerity he could muster. The bastard had him on the ropes, but his time would come.

‘By the way, I got that case tied up last night.’

‘Oh?’

‘It was murder. Knox had run off with Gregson’s wife and Gregson faked the burglary’

‘I wish I had your brilliance,’ said Frost. ‘That never occurred to me for one second.’

Skinner paused for a moment, but decided to accept this as a genuine compliment. ‘Mind you, he wasn’t very clever. When I went round to Knox’s house to break the sad news, who do you think opened the door?’

‘Camelia Parker-Bowles what was?’ asked Frost.

‘Gregson’s wife. He didn’t stand a chance of getting away with it.’

‘You were too smart for him,’ said Frost.

Again Skinner stared hard. Like Mullett, he was never sure when Frost was taking the piss. He again decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Thanks.’ He looked up as his office door opened, ready to snarl because no one had knocked first, but it was Mullett, who gave Frost his customary scowl, then beckoned Skinner to join him outside.

Jerking his head significantly at Frost, Skinner gave Mullett a quick thumbs-up sign to show that the dirty deed with the transfer form had been done. As the door closed behind them, Frost debated whether to press his ear against the door to find out what they were talking about, or take the opportunity to have a rummage through Skinner’s in-tray. He settled for the rummage, but had hardly started when the detective chief inspector returned. Frost pretended he was blowing cigarette ash from the in-tray’s papers.

‘Superintendent Mullett has kindly invited me to join him at his club later for a celebratory lunch,’ he told Frost, pulling the in-tray out of reach. ‘And I’m steering clear of oysters.’

‘What are you celebrating?’ Frost asked, knowing damn well it was his signing of the transfer request.

Skinner hesitated, his mind whirling in search of an alternative reason. ‘The… er… the way I tied up that stabbing case last night.’

‘And without any help,’ added Frost.

Skinner pretended not to hear. ‘Keep an eye on things when I’m out. We still haven’t found those missing teenagers and I’m getting bloody worried. Go and see how the search is going.’

‘They’re dead,’ said Frost flatly.

‘For once I agree with you,’ said Skinner. ‘As if we didn’t have enough on our plates…’

Back in his office, Frost was getting ready to check up on the search parties when PC Lambert from Control came in waving two sheets of paper. ‘The body on the railway embankment, Inspector. Manchester reckon it might be one of their missing teenagers.’

‘Good. They can have her,’ said Frost. ‘Wrap her up and stick her in the post. Anyway, you want Skinner, not me.’

‘Skinner’s gone out. He said you’d attend to anything that might crop up while he was away.’

Frost took the papers. The first was a fax from Manchester Police.

… The body of a girl – Unknown Corpse All Stations Request D107 – could be missing teenager Emily Roberts, 19, reported missing by her parents six weeks ago (Sept 22). Can you confirm time of death please? Photograph etc. following.

The other sheet was a colour printout of a young girl. Frost stared at it. There was no way he could associate the bloated, slimy, rotting body with this bubbling young girl, dark-haired and smiling, showing a perfect set of teeth. ‘The teeth look as if they match,’ he said, ‘but there was nothing left of the rest of her to compare. We’re waiting for the Maggot Man to give us an accurate time of death.’

He was halfway up the stairs to the canteen when Bill Wells called him back. He pretended not to hear, but the sergeant was persistent. ‘Gentleman to see you, Jack.’

Frost sighed. ‘I was going to get something to eat. Who is it?’

‘The Forensic Entomologist.’

Frost blinked. ‘Who?’

‘The Maggot Man.

‘Shit,’ said Frost.

Frost wasn’t enjoying his meal, but the Maggot Man, bubbling over with his sole topic of conversation – detailed tit-bits about his profession – polished off his plateful with relish. ‘When a body decomposes it releases volatile compounds and that’s what attracts the flies.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Frost flatly, eyeing the piece of meat on his fork with distaste.

‘Blowflies and maggots thrive on putrefying flesh.’

‘Whatever turns them on,’ muttered Frost, pushing his unfinished meal away.

‘But,’ continued the Maggot Man, ‘when the odours of decomposition disappear, the flies leave the corpse, so by calculating the age of the maggots and the larvae and working back we can accurately pinpoint the precise date of death.’

‘Did I tell you the joke about the bloke who drank the spittoon for a bet?’ asked Frost.

‘What’s up with the Maggot Man?’ asked Wells. ‘He looked green when he left here.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Frost. ‘He was all right until I told him my joke.’

‘Not the spittoon joke – you didn’t tell him the spittoon joke?’ Wells was horrified.

‘I was fed up with hearing about the sex life of blowflies. Who cares how a bluebottle gets its flaming leg over? Get on to Manchester and tell them that the six-weeks death date has been confirmed, so it looks as if we’ve got their missing teenager – and tell them not to send the parents down to identify her – there’s nothing to bloody identify. Send us something for DNA matching.’ He buttoned up his mac. ‘I’d better go and give the search party my moral support.’

The sliding panel behind Wells slid open and Lambert called to Frost, ‘Inspector, phone call from a farm worker – Flintwells Farm – he reckons he’s found two bodies.’

Frost picked his way through a ten-acre field of corn, half of it cut and strewn with straw ready for bailing. A cloud of choking dust and the smell of diesel fumes hung over the area, through which he could dimly make out a combine harvester and a tractor towing a high-sided trailer alongside. He stepped gingerly through the stubble and approached the vehicles. A leathery-faced farmer in threadbare faded corduroys and a battered trilby hat was yelling at the driver of the combine harvester, who seemed unconcerned at the tirade.

‘Couldn’t you have waited until you’d finished the bloody field before phoning the police? We’re never going to get it done now before it bloody rains.’ He spun round at Frost’s approach. ‘Who are you?’

‘Police,’ announced Frost, flashing his warrant card.

‘About bloody time,’ moaned the farmer. ‘Get these bloody bodies out of here so we can finish cutting the corn.’ He pointed a thumb up at the darkening sky. ‘If that lot comes down before we’re finished, I lose the lot.’

‘Tough,’ said Frost unsympathetically. ‘Was it you who phoned?’

‘No, him.’ The farmer jerked his head up at the combine-harvester driver towering above them both in the driving seat.