R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘From when he fell?’

Drysdale shook his head. ‘He fell face-down. Look at the abrasions, bruises and blood on he face and embedded grit.’ He touched the nose with his forefinger. ‘Broken. He fell face-down. He was hit on the head after he fell.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Frost asked.

Drysdale pointed. ‘See how the blood from the head wound has trickled down over the face and over the bruises and abrasions? The blow to the head was struck when he was face-down on the ground after the fall.’

Frost gave a grudging nod of approval. Drysdale might be a lousy, stuck-up bastard, but he knew his job.

The pathologist had now lifted the boy’s arms. ‘Both arms broken – from the fall, I imagine – he would have tried to save himself before he hit the ground.’ He took the hands and studied them closely, front and back. ‘Palms of hands badly bruised and abrased and embedded with particles of small stones or gravel. Arms broken, as I said.’ He turned the hands over and stared again. ‘Bad bruising across the knuckles and the back of the fingers. They’ve been hit hard – very hard, but the knuckles haven’t broken – by a stick or rod of some kind.’

Frost leant over Drysdale’s shoulder to get a closer look. ‘Deliberately hit? That must have hurt, Doc.’

Drysdale winced at the ‘Doc’. ‘The pain would have been excruciating. Death occurred some forty-eight hours ago.’

Frost nodded. ‘That ties in with the day he disappeared.’ He filled the pathologist in on the details of the disappearances.

Drysdale straightened up. ‘I’d like to see the girl now. When your people have finished you can remove this body to the mortuary.’

Frost led him to the other marquee, the secretary in hot pursuit. Drysdale snapped a finger at her in mute summons to provide a small sheet of plastic from his medical bag so he could kneel beside Debbie Clark’s naked body on the damp grass. He felt the throat. ‘Broken. Manual strangulation.’

Like the other poor cow, thought Frost.

Drysdale’s hands travelled down the rest of her body. ‘She’s been sexually assaulted – brutally assaulted. No sign of semen. Her assailant must-have used a condom. How old did you say she was?’

‘Twelve,’ Frost told him. ‘A day off her thirteenth birthday. I’m going to get the bastard who did this if it’s the last thing I do. The courts will probably fine him ten quid and endorse his driving licence.’

Drysdale gave a sour smile. ‘Have photographs been taken of the body in this position?’

‘Yes, Doc.’

‘Would you turn her on her side, please. Her hands seem to be caught underneath her.’

Frost called in Morgan to help him and they turned the body on its side.

‘Her hands are tied together,’ said Drysdale.

‘Eh?’ Frost leant over. The girl’s hands were bound together at the wrists with twine which had cut deeply into the flesh. ‘Flaming hell!’ hissed Frost. ‘Look at her back!’

Her back was criss-crossed with blooded stripes.

‘She’s been beaten,’ said Drysdale. ‘With a thin cane or a riding crop.’

Drysdale took temperature readings, which weren’t of much help. ‘She’s been dead some forty-eight hours or more, the same as the boy.’ He stood up and held out his hands for his secretary to peel off his surgical gloves. ‘Get the bodies formally identified and I’ll do both autopsies at three. I’ve a very heavy schedule. It would be a welcome change if you were there on time.’ He snapped his bag shut and, with a curt nod, padded after his secretary back to his car.

Frost followed him out, then clambered up the embankment to the road, where Harding from Forensic was beckoning. Harding, who was taking photographs of a section of the fencing, pointed to a small particle of black plastic sheeting which had snagged and torn off on the rough woodwork of the fence rail. It was dead in line with the spot where the girl’s body had ended up.

‘That’s only been there for a couple of days, Inspector. I’ll lay odds the girl was dropped down from here. The body would have been wrapped in black plastic sheeting while it was transported, then lifted from the car or van, laid on the top of the rail, the sheeting pulled away and the body rolled down.’

Frost chewed this over. ‘If we managed to find the plastic sheeting, would you be able to say for sure that it was the one used?’

‘Without a doubt,’ said Harding.

‘And there was me thinking you were bloody useless,’ grunted Frost. ‘There’s bits of gravel embedded in the boy’s hands. Take a sample. It might help us find where he fell.’ He looked down at the lines of policemen searching painstakingly through the scrubland surrounding the bodies. ‘Waste of bleeding time,’ he muttered, deciding he was of no further use here. He yelled down to Morgan, ‘Phone the morgue and get them to pick up the bodies. I’m off to the station.’

‘Skinner wants you,’ called Sergeant Wells as Frost passed through the lobby. ‘He says it’s urgent.’

‘Right,’ nodded Frost. He hoped Skinner would take over and attend Drysdale’s post mortem and would also volunteer to break the news to the kids’ parents about finding the bodies, but he wouldn’t be holding his breath. He was picking up his mac from the floor, after hurling it at the hook on the wall and missing, when the phone rang. It was Sandy Lane, the chief crime reporter from the Denton Echo.

‘I understand you’ve found Debbie Clark’s body.’

He obviously hadn’t heard about the boy. Good. ‘We’ve found a body,’ replied Frost warily, ‘but it hasn’t been identified yet.’

‘Is it Debbie Clark?’

‘It hasn’t been identified yet,’ repeated Frost.

‘Cause of death?’

‘That will be determined when the post mortem is carried out.’

‘You’re not giving much away,’ moaned Sandy.

‘The Denton Echo didn’t give much away last Christmas,’ Frost reminded him. ‘A lousy Christmas card and a bleeding ballpoint pen that didn’t work. So who got my whisky?’

‘Times are hard, Jack. Our budget was slashed.’

‘Talking of slashes, I’ve got to do one, so if you’ll excuse me.’ He banged down the phone and scratched a match on the desk to light up a cigarette. As he took a drag, Skinner crashed in.

‘You were told I wanted to see you urgently.’

‘I’ve only just got in. I haven’t even done a wee yet.’

Skinner jerked his head for Frost to follow him back to his office, then nodded at a chair. ‘You’ve found the bodies. Fill me in.’

Frost sat down and gave him the details. ‘The post-mortem is at three.’

Skinner looked at his watch. ‘I won’t have time. I’ve got to get back to my old division to clear up some loose ends that the prats there don’t seem able to handle. You go – and take that useless WPC tart. I won’t have time to break the news to the families, so do that as well – and get the bodies identified.’

‘Right,’ said Frost, getting up out of the chair. ‘As long as you don’t think I’m creaming off all the plum jobs.’

Skinner ignored this. ‘I’ve had all the newspaper boys on the phone so we’ll have to give them an official briefing. Arrange a press conference for six o’clock.’

‘You want me to do it?’

‘No I bloody don’t. This is my case, sunshine, not yours.’

It’s your bleeding case when you’re in the spotlight, thought Frost, not when it comes to attending bloody post-mortems and telling people their kids are dead.

‘I’ll be back in good time, so you can update me on the post-mortem results. You’re just doing a watching brief.’

‘I like watching briefs,’ said Frost, ‘especially on half-naked women.’