R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

‘If you’d given me some decent whisky,’ replied Frost, ‘I’d have kept the body on ice until a more convenient time.’

‘But is it the missing girl’?’ insisted Lane.

Frost shrugged. ‘She hasn’t been identified yet.’

‘Don’t sod me about, Jack. I’ve been up all night and I’m tired.’

Frost smiled up at him. ‘That whisky you gave me was like cat’s pee.’

‘All right,’ sighed Lane. ‘Two bottles of Johnnie Walker.’

‘It’s not the missing schoolgirl,’ said Frost. ‘We are working on the possibility that it may be connected with our investigations into a nurse reported missing from Denton General Hospital.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Off the record, multiple stab wounds. For the record, we are awaiting the result of the post mortem, but suspicious sods that we are, we suspect foul play.’ After Taffy Morgan’s foul-up with the press, Frost was treading on eggs.

‘Was she raped?’

‘The bit I saw wasn’t raped,’ answered Frost, ‘but then it was only her hand.’

Lane’s eyes widened. ‘The bit you saw? You mean she was dismembered… cut into pieces?’ He jerked a thumb. ‘And in a butcher’s shop?’ His face brightened. ‘Wow! We’ve got a terrific story here, Jack. The London papers would die for this. Give me some details?’

‘That’s all you’re going to get for now, Sandy, but you can say that a forty-six-year-old man is helping us with our inquiries. We’ll be issuing a press release after the autopsy and after we’ve had positive identification.’

‘Three bottles of whisky, Jack?’

‘Piss off.’

Lane grinned, waved his goodbyes and went back to his car. As he pulled out, a gleaming black Rolls Royce purred round the corner and filled Lane’s vacated parking space. It was Drysdale, the Home Office pathologist. ‘Where’s my little fat roly poly?’ muttered Frost to himself as he stepped out to meet him.

‘Mucky one for you this time, Doc,’ said Frost.

‘Your ones usually are,’ sniffed Drysdale. ‘Lead the way, please.’

‘Follow your nose,’ said Frost, taking a deep breath as he bade a temporary goodbye to fresh air and led the way in, followed by the pathologist and his faded blonde secretary

The harsh emergency lighting hammered off the white tiled walls. Seeing the mess made the smell seem stronger than ever. Frost found a cigarette and lit up, only to be stopped by Drysdale.

‘Put that out, Inspector,’ he snapped. ‘I can’t smell what I want to smell.’

‘Whatever turns you on, Doc,’ muttered Frost, spotting a box of face masks on a chopping block and slipping one on thankfully. Drysdale disdained the offer and his secretary, following her master’s lead, shook her head, although she was looking distinctly green.

Even with the mask on, the smell seeped through. There were too many people inside the tiny room, making it hotter than ever. ‘The bleeding place seemed twice the size in the dark,’ muttered Frost to himself. ‘Everyone wait outside,’ he called. ‘The doc can’t appreciate the bouquet with all you sweaty sods in here.’

They needed no second bidding. With the lights streaming down, the scene looked even gorier than before. Forensic and SOCO had done a good job of sorting out the bloody pieces, which were laid out on green polythene sheeting like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. The head and limbs had been sawn from the trunk, which was naked. The hands and feet had been sawn from ‘the limbs. Parts of the foot were missing – obviously the pieces that had been turning up in Denton Woods. The throat had been slashed, the stomach split and organs removed. It was like something out of Jack the Ripper

‘Is she dead, Doc?’ asked Frost.

Drysdale, who didn’t appreciate Frost’s humour, gave him a cold glare and bent down to examine the carnage more closely. He prodded the trunk with his finger.

‘She’s been dead between one and two weeks.’ His secretary briefly took away the handkerchief she had clasped to her nose and scribbled the great man’s findings down in her shorthand notebook. ‘Collect some of those maggots for the entomologist. He’ll be more precise.’

Drysdale straightened up and consulted his wristwatch. ‘I can fit in a post-mortem at three this afternoon. Get the body to the mortuary, with the other bits of foot you tell me you have found. Stress to the attendant I do not want it washed or cleaned in any way until I say so.’ He pointed to the tiled floor. ‘And get samples of dried blood from all parts of the floor and walls… mark the location of each and take photographs. I need to confirm if any of it is human, which could mean she was killed in here.’

‘Sure, Doc,’ nodded Frost, hoping he could remember all this. ‘So, for the record, cause of death?’

‘She more than likely died from the many knife wounds – her throat’s been cut, but I’ll need to do the autopsy to determine if that was the prime cause. Three o’clock, Inspector. And I’d be obliged if, just for once, you weren’t late.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said Frost.

Frost’s cigarette was alight the minute his foot touched the pavement. The rest of the team were huddled in their cars, most of them smoking. He watched the rear lights of Drysdale’s Rolls disappear round the corner, then called out, ‘As you’ve been so good, I’m letting you go back inside again.” He issued Drysdale’s instructions about getting the body over to the morgue, together with the other parts they had found previously. ‘He wants the matching set. And the flaming prat wants maggots and blood samples from all over the walls and floor and every bloodstain photographed. It would be easier to ask Lewis where he killed her, but Drysdale wants to do it the hard way.’

He beckoned DS Hanlon over. ‘Arthur, get on to the Electricity people. I want the current restored to this place so we can get the refrigeration room operational. Drysdale’s bound to discover one of her nipples is missing or something, and we’ll have to send some poor sod back in to fish it out, so let’s get it chilled down. And we’d better have a uniform guarding the doors in case souvenir hunters want a bit of ear-hole for their scrapbook.’ He raised his voice to address the others. ‘When you’ve finished, back to the station for breakfast – brains and liver on toast. And no pinching bits of meat for your dinner. It’s been counted.’

‘Superintendent Mullett wants to see you,’ called Wells as Frost pushed through the swing doors.

‘He can go and – ’ began Frost, then picking up the sergeant’s urgent face-twitching signal that the superintendent was within earshot, hastily amended, ‘He can be assured he’s only got to ask.’ He turned to see Mullett in the door way. ‘Oh hello, Super. Didn’t see you there.’

‘My office!’ barked Mullett, spinning on his heels and marching back down the corridor.

‘It’s the third door from the end,’ called Frost.

Mullett got up from his chair and opened a window wide as Frost entered.

‘Yes, there is a funny smell in here, Super,’ said Frost, flopping in a chair. ‘I noticed it the minute I came in.’

Mullett frowned. ‘Hardly the time for cheap humour, Frost.’ He looked the DI up and down, scowling his displeasure. ‘You look a mess. You’re dishevelled, unshaven, and those clothes have seen better days.’

‘Sorry’ said Frost. ‘Next time I fight for my life in the bleeding dark I’ll put my best suit on.’

‘Your sarcasm about the incident is misplaced, Frost. This should wipe that smile off your face. I have just had our local radio station on the phone, wanting me to confirm that a suspect arrested this morning is in intensive care with his fingers smashed and severe concussion following a savage kick in the head.’ He repeated these last words to emphasise the seriousness. ‘A kick, Frost… in the head.’