A Killing Frost

Chapter 12

A bleary-eyed Morgan sat fuming in the office as Frost breezed in just after eight. ‘Did I say seven?’ asked Frost innocently. ‘I could have sworn I said eight. There wouldn’t have been enough people here at seven to do the search. Well, were the teddy bears having a picnic in the woods or did Lewis turn up trumps?’

‘We tramped for miles, Guv. He says it all looks different and it was night time. He pointed out about five places it might have been, but it wasn’t.’

‘Never mind, Taff. Nip up to the canteen and get two sausage sandwiches and two mugs of tea and bring them to the Incident Room.’

On his way to the Incident Room, Frost was stopped by Johnny Johnson, the duty station sergeant.

‘That bloke Beazley from the supermarket wants to know if you’ve caught the blackmailer.’

‘Tell him I’m out on a murder inquiry and you don’t know when I’ll be back.’

‘And two officers from Manchester CID are on their way. Should be here later this morning.’ Frost screwed up his face as he tried to think why two officers from Manchester would be coming. He snapped his fingers. ‘Oh – the decomposing body. I hope they take it back with them. Let Skinner see them – he should be here soon.’

The hot sausage had melted the butter, which was making the bread all soggy as Frost bit into it. He pushed the remains of the sandwich into his mouth, swilled it down with a mouthful of tea, then wiped his fingers on the front of his jacket. He had a small team assembled for the search of Lewis’s bungalow: Norton from SOCO, Harding from Forensic, PC Jordan, Taffy and WPC Kate Holby.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and fed in a cigarette. ‘You all know what this is about. Lewis walked in here last night claiming he’d murdered his wife and cut her up into pieces, which he says he chucked, but can’t remember where. He says he thinks he left her heart in San Francisco, but that might just be a song he remembers.’ He grinned at the ripple of laughter. ‘The poor sod hasn’t got all his marbles, so this could all be in his mind. He had to give up his butcher’s shop last year and his five-year-old kid died of meningitis a couple of years back. He reckons he killed his wife in the kitchen, then butchered her in the bath. That should mean a lot of blood. The place looks as if it has been scrubbed and disinfected from top to bottom, but even so, I’m hoping we can still find some. I want drains and waste pipes checked. I want the place searched thoroughly in case there’s any bits of body lying around he might have missed.’ He turned to Kate Holby. ‘Check the wardrobes and drawers and things. If she’s upped and left him, has she taken the sort of things you’d expect a woman-to take, like a chastity belt or open-crotch knickers? Jordan, I want you to knock up the neighbours. See if they can throw any light on the missing woman. Did they see anything suspicious, like her husband sawing her arms and legs off without her permission?’ He swivelled round to the cork board and pinned up a photograph. ‘This is Mrs Lewis. If you find a head, make sure it’s the right one, otherwise chuck it back. I want this to be thorough, but speedy. We’ve then got a murder site and a bike to find.’ He looked out of the window. ‘At least the rain’s stopped.’ He drained the dregs of his tea. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

Curtains twitched as the flotilla of police cars pulled up outside the bungalow. ‘Plenty of nosy sods about,’ Frost told Jordan, ‘so start knocking on doors.’

He unlocked the front door with Lewis’s key and winced as the cold, antiseptic atmosphere again hit him in the face. ‘At least you can’t smell rotting bodies,’ he muttered, ‘but even that would be preferable.’ Somehow, even without Lewis being present, he couldn’t bring himself to smoke inside, so went out into the garden to light up and watched Jordan going from house to house, knocking on doors. Clangings from the bathroom told him the waste pipes were being opened up. Behind him, Norton from SOCO was heaving up a manhole cover to inspect the drains. A cry from Taffy Morgan sent him flying back inside the bungalow.

‘There’s a loft, Guv, did you know?’ Morgan pointed to a small trapdoor over the hall.

‘Don’t tell me about it,’ snapped Frost. ‘Get your Welsh butt up there and take a look.’

Morgan located a small stepladder in the garden shed and heaved himself up, his torch flashing around the tiny loft, which had in sufficient headroom for anyone to stand. ‘It’s all clean and dusted up here, Guv,’ he reported. ‘Just a couple of suitcases and a kiddy’s pedal car.’

‘Chuck the suitcases down,’ said Frost.

They were full of children’s clothes, all ironed and neatly folded.

‘Put them back where you found them,’ Frost told him, ‘and if he asks, we never touched them.’

The clang of the manhole cover being replaced sent him scurrying back outside. Norton wasn’t optimistic. ‘It’s been scrubbed and disinfected, Inspector. I’ve taken samples but they’re probably going to be pure carbolic. If there was ever any blood it’s been well washed away.’

Frost nodded gloomily. ‘More or less what I expected.’

Back inside, Kate Holby was waiting for him. ‘I’ve checked the wardrobes, the dressing table and the coat racks, Inspector. No sign of a woman’s coat, handbag or day-to-day shoes. I’d say she packed her bags and walked out on him.’

‘Probably couldn’t stand the smell of disinfectant,’ said Frost. ‘I can’t say it turns me on. Thanks, love.’ He looked up expectantly as Harding came out of the bathroom.

‘That was a complete waste of time.’

‘Why, are you constipated?’ asked Frost.

A sour smile from Harding, who never found Frost’s jokes funny. ‘Everything has been disinfected and scrubbed clean. Even so, if he had dismembered a body in there I’d expect to find some traces of blood, but I can’t.’

‘Ah well,’ said Frost philosophically, ‘we had to check it out just to pretend we’re thorough.’ He raised enquiring eyebrows at Jordan, who had just returned from the neighbours. ‘Anyone looking after bloodstained parcels for him?’

Jordan grinned. ‘Not a lot of joy, Inspector. Mrs Lewis used to help out at the butcher’s shop from time to time and they got on well with the neighbours. But when their kiddy died they were both absolutely devastated and hardly spoke to anyone. Lewis got more and more morose – even in the shop, which didn’t help the business. They hardly saw him at all after he lost the tenancy, but they could hear flaming rows from time to time. No one saw the wife leave, but she hasn’t been seen around for a week or so.’

‘Did she have any family – anyone she might run to?’

‘Parents died years ago. One brother in Australia.’

Frost grunted his thanks and called everyone together. ‘OK, everyone. Back to the station, then I want you out looking for that bike and the murder site.’ He jabbed a finger at Morgan. ‘One more job for you, Taff. If she walked out on him, she’s going to need money. Find out if she has a credit card and if it’s been used recently. I’m busting for a pee, but that toilet looks so hygienic, I’m afraid to squeeze a drop out.’

‘Skinner’s screaming for you,’ said Wells as Frost walked through the lobby.

‘Why am I so irresistible to that man?’ asked Frost. ‘I’ll see him in a minute. We’re going to have to kick Lewis out.’

'No bits of body?’

‘No bits of body, not even the odd nipple. I reckon she walked out on him.’

‘Are you going to charge him with wasting police time?’

Frost shook his head. ‘I reckon the poor sod really believes he did kill her. He can’t face up to the fact that she’s left him. He needs treatment, not being put away.’

‘Frost!’ Skinner’s angry voice roared down the corridor. He was by his open office door and didn’t look at all pleased. ‘I want you.’

‘Won’t be two ticks,’ called Frost.

‘Now!’ bellowed Skinner, disappearing into his office and slamming the door.

‘It’s good news,’ Frost told Wells. ‘I just know it.’ He lit up a cigarette and sauntered into Skinner’s office.

Looking washed out, his skin a sickly green pallor, Skinner dropped two tablets in a glass of water and watched them fizz. ‘Bleeding oysters at Mullett’s club again,’ he muttered. ‘I should have learnt my flaming lesson after last time.’ Without looking up, he pointed to his in-tray. ‘What the hell is that?’ It was Graham Fielding’s typed statement, which his solicitor had insisted Frost should take.

Frost stared at it. ‘It’s your in-tray,’ he said, scraping a chair to the desk and sitting down.

‘Don’t play silly buggers with me, Frost. You know damn well what I mean.’ He stirred the contents of the glass with a pencil and swallowed it down. ‘This!’ He held aloft Fielding’s typed statement. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’

‘He wanted to make a statement and his solicitor insisted, so I had to take it.’

‘You had no flaming business to. I told you not to. I don’t want statements saying he’s innocent. I want statements saying he did it. This is my case, not yours.’ He winced, then with a gasp of pain he clutched his stomach and clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ he mumbled as he staggered to the door.

Hope you don’t make it, thought Frost. He frisked through the in-tray, found nothing of interest, so returned to his own office, where DC Morgan was waiting for him.

‘I’ve checked with the bank and the credit-card company, Guv. She made two cash withdrawals of a hundred pounds from their joint account on two consecutive days last week.’

‘Where from?’

‘The cash machine at Tesco’s supermarket, Catford,, south London.’

‘Right,’ said Frost. ‘That clinches it. Let’s go and tell Lewis he’s outstayed his welcome.’

Lewis blinked at Frost in disbelief. ‘But I killed her. I told you, I killed her.’

Frost shook his head. ‘I know you will find it hard to accept this, Mr Lewis, but we believe she walked out on you. She’s in Catford and she’s been drawing money from your account.’

Lewis stared open-mouthed at Frost in sheer disbelief. ‘How can she withdraw money if she’s dead?’

‘Perhaps because she’s not dead,’ suggested Frost.

Lewis buried his head in his hands. ‘You won’t believe me, will you? If only I could remember where I put the pieces.’ He looked up at Frost. ‘Someone will find them. Someone’s bound to find them.’

‘If they do, I’ll arrest you like a shot,’ said Frost, ‘and that’s a promise. And if your wife comes back, you will let me know, won’t you?’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Lewis. ‘You are absolutely wrong.’

‘It won’t be the first time,’ said Frost, ushering him out of the cell. He watched Lewis go, a forlorn figure, shoulders hunched.

At the door, Lewis turned. ‘It was the germs,’ he said. ‘The germs killed my son so I killed her because of the germs.’

Suddenly, for no reason he could think of, Frost began to have doubts. Grave doubts.

Station Sergeant Johnny Johnson looked up and switched on his ‘How can I help you?’ smile as the two men approached the inquiry desk in the lobby.

‘Detective Superintendent Barrett and Detective Constable Fussell, Manchester CID,’ announced the older of the two, a thick-set man in his late forties. ‘Would you let DCI Skinner know we’re here?’

‘I’m afraid DCI Skinner is out with a search party at the moment, Superintendent,’ Johnson told him. ‘Could anyone else help?’

Barrett frowned. ‘He knew we were coming and now he’s bloody out?’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling and gave a scoffing snort. ‘Flaming typical. It’s about the body you found – Emily Roberts.’

‘Ah – Inspector Frost is handling that at the moment, sir.’

Barrett frowned again. ‘Frost? Scruffy Herbert – always got a fag in his mouth?’

‘Yes, the one with the George Cross,’ said Johnson, unwilling to let this fat sod from Manchester bad-mouth Denton personnel. He picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Inspector Frost, two officers from Manchester CID to see you.’

Frost took them to the Incident Room and showed them the clothes recovered from the lake in Denton Woods. Barrett examined them briefly, nodding as he did so. His DC was taking his time, checking each item carefully against a typed list. ‘They look like the girl’s clothes,’ be admitted grudgingly.

‘More than flaming “look like”,’ snapped Barrett. ‘They are her bloody clothes.’

‘But still no proof they came from the body.’

‘What do you want, flaming jam on it? You’re not the Crown bleeding Prosecution Service looking for ways not to prosecute, you’re a detective flaming constable, and the way you’re going on, you’ll end your career in the force as a detective flaming constable. We’ve got a body that matches her description, we’ve got clothes that match those she was wearing. Of course they came from Emily Roberts. Give Inspector Frost the envelope.’

Fussell fished a plastic envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Frost. ‘Hairs from her hairbrush.’

‘For DNA testing,’ said Barrett. ‘Then no one can moan we’ve got the wrong body. We’d like to have a look at it, by the way.’

‘You can take it home with you if you like,’ said Frost. ‘It’s not a pretty sight. I’d rather look at Skinner than the body – that will tell you the sort of shape it’s in.’

Barrett grinned. ‘What do you think of your new DCI?’

‘Far be it for me to call a man a shitty bastard just because he is a shitty bastard,’ said Frost, ‘so I’ll keep my mouth shut.’ He unhooked his mac from the rack and slipped it on. ‘You might not feel like any lunch after this.’

Handkerchiefs clapped to their noses, the two Manchester detectives looked down at the remains. ‘And the pathologist reckons she was strangled?’ asked Barrett.

‘Yes,’ nodded Frost. ‘Broken bone in the throat, probably manual strangulation, but decomposition too advanced to see any ligature marks.’

‘Sexually assaulted?’

‘Again, decomposition too advanced to tell.’

‘I’ve seen enough,’ grunted Barrett. He turned to the DC. ‘Unless you want to make sure she’s dead?’

Fussell grinned. ‘If the pathologist says she’s dead, sir, I’ll take a chance.’

Frost signalled for the mortuary attendant to close the drawer. ‘Do you want to see where she was found?’

Barrett nodded. ‘Yeah. It won’t tell us much, but while we’re here let’s take a look.’

The blue marquee was still mounted on the rail way embankment at the spot where the girl’s body had been located. It was guarded by a fed-up-looking, freezing-cold PC. ‘If you wanted warmth and excitement, son, you shouldn’t have joined the force,’ Frost told him. They stepped inside the marquee, where the smell of death and decay still clung tenaciously. They all stared at the marked area on the grass as if it could yield up some secret, then quickly backed outside. Frost’s mobile chirped. Skinner was back and wanted to see the two Manchester men.

Skinner ushered them into his office, then, before Frost could follow them, stepped outside and shut the door.

‘I know this Superintendent Barrett,’ he said, keeping his voice down. ‘He’s a real right slimy bastard.’

Takes one to know one, thought Frost.

‘He’s going to try to dump this case on us,’ Skinner continued, ‘and we’re not going to have it. We’ve got enough on our plates. She was killed on his patch and the body dumped here, so it’s his case, not ours. We’ll give them what assistance we can, when we can and if we can, which probably means bloody never, but our stuff takes priority. Comprende?’

‘Toute suite,’ nodded Frost.

They were in Skinner’s office, seated round his desk drinking mugs of Sergeant Johnson’s instant coffee. The atmosphere crackled and sizzled with the unconcealed animosity between Barrett and Skinner. Barrett had various maps and papers spread over the desktop. ‘This is a more recent photograph. We found it in her digs.’ He passed Skinner a colour photo of a girl in her teens, her fair hair in a ponytail. Skinner gave it barely a glance before flipping it across to Frost.

‘Lovely-looking girl,’ muttered Frost, finding it hard to eliminate from his mind the way she looked now.

'Emily Roberts,’ intoned Barrett. ‘Nineteen years old. Guess where she was born?’

‘I don’t play guessing games,’ said Skinner.

‘In the fair city of Denton,’ smirked Barrett.

Skinner scowled. ‘You kept that bloody quiet. Weren’t we supposed to know?’

‘We’ve only just found out ourselves. Her parents emigrated to Australia some six months ago and we’ve had one hell of a job trying to contact them. Emily didn’t want to go. There was a family row and she stayed behind. She didn’t keep any of their letters, so we didn’t have an address. The Melbourne police managed to trace them and they are on their way over here. She was born in Denton. The family moved to Manchester some five years ago when she was fourteen. After her parents emigrated, she moved in with a girlfriend who had a flat. She worked in Tesco’s on the check-out. The night she went missing she told her flatmate she was meeting her boyfriend at a local disco. She left at around seven thirty and that was the last an saw of her. The boyfriend said he waited all evening, but she never turned up. He left the disco with his mates around midnight and went straight home.’

‘You checked his alibi, I hope?’ asked Skinner.

Barrett whiplashed a ‘Do you take me for a complete prat?’ look across the desk. He turned to his DC. ‘No. We forgot to do that, didn’t we, Constable?’ Back to Skinner. ‘Of course we bloody well checked it out. All his mates confirmed it and we checked out a lot of his movements on CCTV.’

‘Any footage of the girl on CCTV?’ asked Frost.

Barrett shook his head. ‘We checked the area near the disco and the centre of town. No sign of her.’

‘So how do you reckon she got to Denton?’ asked Frost.

‘Well she didn’t go by train. There are CCTV cameras in the booking hall and on the platforms. We’re working on the theory that she went by car, either voluntarily or she was abducted and taken to Denton, where she was assaulted and killed and the body was dumped.’

Skinner flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Without evidence to the contrary, I’m working on the theory that she was killed on your patch and her body was brought to Denton and hidden where we found it. Denton was just the dumping ground – so it’s your case, not ours. We’ll see to the coroner’s inquest, but from there on the rest is up to you.’

‘Why should he kill her in Manchester then drive all the way to Denton to dump the body?’ asked Barrett. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Skinner, ‘but as it’s your case, I’m not going to rack my brains to find out.’

‘Perhaps the killer got her in his car, tried to have sex, she resisted, so he killed her, panicked and drove like the clappers to get the hell out of there until he could get rid of her,’ offered Frost, sucking sugar from the end of the pencil he had used to stir his coffee.

‘I’ll go along with that,’ said Skinner, rising from his chair. ‘He killed her in Manchester and dumped her in Denton. So if you’ll excuse me – ’

‘Mind you,’ continued Frost, slipping the pencil back in his top pocket, ‘whoever killed her probably came from Denton.’

Skinner glowered. If looks could kill, Frost’s body would be the next one on the mortuary slab. ‘And how do you make that out?’ he hissed.

‘You’d have to know Denton bloody well to find that bridge where he dumped the body – somewhere where it wouldn’t be found for weeks. It’s right off the beaten track.’

As Skinner opened his mouth to shoot Frost down, DC Fussell said, ‘If he came from Denton, that makes it more than likely he took her to Denton to kill her.’

Skinner decided to vent his rage on the DC. Smiling sweetly, he said through clenched teeth, ‘Forgive me, whatever your name is, but might I ask your rank?’

‘Detective constable.’

‘Detective constable?’ echoed Skinner in mock surprise. ‘The way you were airing your unsolicited views, I thought you were at least a chief inspector.’

Barrett leapt from his chair and thrust his face right up to Skinner’s. ‘If you’ve got sarcastic remarks to make, Skinner, make them to your own men. And if we’re talking rank, remember I’m a superintendent and you are a chief inspector. DC Fussell’s comment was valid and I agree with him. Wherever she was killed, the odds are she was killed by someone from Denton, as I will advise our chief constable. This will be a joint investigation and I expect – in fact, I demand – your fullest cooperation. And you will be up to your knees in shit if we don’t get it.’ He pushed various papers from his briefcase across to Skinner. ‘I’m leaving these with you. Keep me informed as to the progress of your investigation. We’ll do the same.’ With a jerk of his head for DC Fussell to follow him, he swept out of the office.

Skinner gathered up the papers and thrust them into Frost’s hands. ‘You do not contradict me, do you hear? Next time, keep your bloody mouth shut,’ he snapped, his face contorted with rage.

Frost smiled. One of the unforeseen bonuses of getting the boot from the division was that there were few other sanctions left that they could throw at him.

He dumped the papers on his office desk, sniffing as he detected the siren aroma of pork sausage, chips and beans wafting down from the canteen. He decided to take an early lunch.

‘Inspector!’ Sergeant Johnny Johnson was waving excitedly, a leathery-faced man in a boiler-suit at his side. ‘We’ve got the dead boy’s bike.’

Frost hurried over. ‘What? Where is it?’

‘Out the back. In the exhibits shed!’ Frost frowned. ‘You’re not telling me it’s been there all the bleeding time?’

‘No,’ grinned Johnson. ‘This gentleman, Mr Harry Gibson, found it and brought it in for us.’

‘He brought it in?’ echoed Frost in disbelief. ‘He didn’t leave it untouched where it flaming well was?’

‘I had to touch it to bring it in,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, silly me, of course,’ said Frost. ‘So where did you find it?’

‘You know that big empty office block just off Denton Road?’

Frost nodded. He knew it. A speculative development company had plans for a business complex just outside Denton and the modern office block was to be its centrepiece. But the company ran out of money and went bust. The office block had remained empty ever since.

‘That’s where I found it.’

‘So what were you doing there?’

‘I’m a sort of caretaker for the liquidators. I repair broken windows when the kids chuck bricks, make certain the chain-link fencing is secure, cut back the undergrowth – that sort of thing.’

‘I don’t want a flaming job description,’ said Frost. ‘How did you find the bike?’

‘The grass round the outside of the fence was overgrown, so I decided to cut it back. I saw the bike and thought to myself, That could be the bike the plods are looking for, so I humped it on the van and drove it over here. I was wondering if there was any sort of reward?’

‘In heaven,’ grunted Frost, ‘not down here.’

‘It was very well hidden,’ continued Harry. ‘Whoever put it there didn’t want it found.’

Frost chewed this over. ‘Right. Hang on here a minute while I go and take a look at the bike, then I want you to take me to where you found it – the exact spot.’ He jabbed a finger at Johnson. ‘And get someone to take his fingerprints. I bet they’re all over the flaming bike.’

‘What do you want them for?’ asked the caretaker. ‘I ain’t done nothing.’

‘For elimination,’ said Johnson. ‘Now come with me.’

The bike was propped up against the wall in the exhibits shed undergoing examination by Norton from SOCO, who was on his knees, taking scrapings from the tires. He straightened up and stretched as Frost approached. ‘It’s still wet from being left out in the open, Inspector. I’ll dry it off with a hairdryer and see if I can get any decent prints from it.’

‘It’ll be smothered with prints from the git who found it,’ said Frost. ‘It’s definitely the boy’s bike?’

‘No doubt about it, Inspector.’

Frost stared gloomily at the bike, which told him nothing. ‘Let me know if you come up with anything. I’m off to look at where he found it.’

It was only mid-afternoon but it was already getting dark. The office building, some ten storeys high, looked stark and desolate against the night sky. The wind blowing round the top created a cyclone effect at ground level, where bits of rubbish and scraps of paper were lapping the building. The wind had managed to uproot the LUXURY OFFICE UNITS TO LET sign, which now lay on the ground.

‘Bleeding wind,’ said Harry. ‘As fast as I put it up, it gets blown down again.’

Frost kicked the sign to one side. The ground underneath was dry; the grass flattened and yellow. ‘It doesn’t look as if it has ever been put up again since it first fell down.’

Harry shrugged. ‘What’s the point? You put it up, the wind blows it down. It’s like painting the flaming Forth Bridge.’ He jerked his head. ‘Round here.’

Frost, Morgan and Norton from SOCO followed him round the exterior of the chain-link fencing to the rear of the building, where some of the undergrowth had been cut back. ‘That’s where it was.’ He pointed. The inspector’s torch picked out a depression in the grass. If you wanted to keep a bike well hidden and the undergrowth was uncut, this was the place to put it.

Frost chewed thoughtfully at his fingernail. ‘Why didn’t they chuck this bike in the river with the girl’s?’ he wondered. He parted some brambles so he could look through the fencing. The beam of his torch crawled over grass on to a patio area which encircled the complex. He gazed up at the building; he could just make out the windows on each floor, with their balconies and window-boxes intended to take the starkness off the design. Alongside the balconies an ivy-entwined metal trellis crawled up the wall to the top floor.

He moved his gaze from the trellis and stabbed the beam of his torch at the stone slabbed patio with its sunken, gravel-topped miniature gardens. He called Norton over. ‘A pound to a pinch of nasty stuff that gravel matches the grit we found on the boy’s body. Check it when we get inside.’ He moved slightly to the left, where his torch had picked up a section of the chain-link fencing which bulged inwards where it had been detached from its base. He beckoned Taffy Morgan over. ‘You’re a fat little sod, Taff. See if you can crawl under there.’

Morgan looked doubtfully at the sodden grass. ‘I’ll get wet, Guv.’

Frost smiled sweetly. ‘Only your clothes and your body… now get under there, fatty.’

With theatrical grunts and groans, Morgan managed to squeeze himself under the fence and emerged on the other side. He stood up, his clothes sodden, and stared ruefully at Frost from the other side.

‘That’s how the boy got in,’ said Frost. ‘You wait there. We’re coming in the dry way through the gates.’

Frost and Norton walked with the caretaker to the main entrance, which Harry unlocked. They joined Morgan. Again Frost looked up at the metal trellis. ‘Do you reckon you could shin up to one of those balconies, Taff?’

Morgan looked up and gaped. ‘You’re joking, Guv?’

‘All right,’ said Frost, ‘forget it. I’m not paying 5p for a bleeding wreath if you fall.’ He beckoned the caretaker over. ‘I want to take a look inside.’

Harry checked his watch. ‘Not tonight, Inspector. A time lock kicks in at four o’clock. We can’t get in until the morning.’

Frost snorted. ‘I haven’t got time to sod about until then. This is a murder investigation. Find a brick, Taff. We’ll smash one of those windows.’

‘Hold on,’ said Harry alarmed. ‘No need for drastic measures. We might be able to get in through the boiler house. We’re supposed to bolt it on the inside, but we sometimes forget.’

His torch showing the way, he took them down stone steps, selected a key from a bunch and opened the door. ‘Your luck’s in, Inspector. I must have forgotten to bolt it.’

I bet you never bolt it, thought Frost. The stepped into a small cellar-like room which held a bank of electric switchboards and two commercial central-heating boilers which weren’t operating. Passing through another door, they climbed some more stairs and were in the darkened lobby. Harry pressed a switch and fluorescent lights shimmered into life. A small reception desk stood alongside a lift.

‘How many floors does this place have?’ asked Frost.

‘Ten.’ He opened the lift doors. ‘What floor do you want?’

‘Let’s start at the top.’

They stepped out of the lift into black emptiness. Harry found the switch and the lights clicked on to reveal a barren, empty floor with rows of windows on each side.

‘If ever they rent this place out, the floors will be partitioned off into separate offices,’ explained Harry

There were plenty of radiators, all stone cold. The entire building was like an icebox. Their footsteps echoed eerily as they walked across the uncarpeted composition floor. Frost moved over to a window and looked out. Blackness was speckled with lights from distant Denton. So what else did he expect to see – Halley’s flaming Comet?

The balcony door wasn’t locked. Turning the handle, he pushed it open and stepped out, bracing himself and grabbing the iron rail tight against the force of the wind, his hair and tie streaming.

Frost looked down ten storeys into yawning blackness, then took the cigarette from his mouth and let it fall. It was like dropping a stone down a bottomless well. The red dot took ages before it shot out a miniature shower of sparks when it hit the ground and was swallowed up by the darkness. That was a bloody long way down. The boy couldn’t have fallen from here. He’d have done more than break his legs. He would have been smashed to pieces when he hit the concrete of the patio. He must have fallen from one of the lower floors. But which one?

Frost stepped back from the balcony and closed the door, conscious that the others were looking at him, expecting him to come up with something. Well, they could bloody well expect. It felt warmer inside after his stint on the balcony, but it was still an icebox.

‘Debbie Clark was here,’ he said. ‘Not on this floor, but she was here, in this building. It’s too dark to do a proper search tonight. We’ll get our team together and go over it inch by inch in the morning.’ He stabbed a finger at Harry. ‘When we leave, you stay out of here. This is now a crime scene. If we catch you inside I’ll have you up for perverting the course of justice.’

‘You try and bleeding help,’ moaned Harry, ‘and that’s the bleeding thanks you get.’