A Killing Frost

Chapter 6

The man who had found the body – sharp-nosed, in his late fifties and wearing a scruffy railway-company jacket and cap – was waiting for them at the side of the road on the bridge crossing the railway line. He flagged them down. ‘Are you the police? I’m Fred Daniels. It’s down there.’ He pointed over the side of the bridge, down to the overgrown railway embankment that hugged the railway line. He was excited, anxious to make the most of his moment of fame. ‘As soon as I opened my eyes this morning, I knew something awful was going to happen, I just knew.’

I don’t want your bleeding life story, thought Frost, shutting his ears and staring down at the track. He shuddered. He was sharply reminded of an earlier occasion when he’d clambered down this very embankment to view a woman’s decapitated body, and the farce of having to call the police surgeon in to certify death. They never found the head. It must have been pulverised by the engine. He couldn’t remember any other details – one of so many cases – but the picture of that mangled, headless body was embedded in his brain.

‘You all right, Guv?’ Taffy Morgan was looking at him anxiously.

‘Yes.’ Frost turned to Daniels. ‘So where is the body?’

‘I’ll show you.’ The man scrabbled over the bridge wall and dropped down to the embankment on the other side. ‘Follow me.’

Frost left Morgan to wait for the rest of the team and heaved himself over the wall.

‘This way,’ urged the man eagerly. ‘And be careful. It’s very steep. You could slide down to the railway line if you don’t watch it.’ He slithered down the incline, stopping at a clump of bushes and pointing. ‘Behind there.’

Frost didn’t need any further guidance. His nostrils twitched and he felt the first stirring of a protesting stomach. A too familiar smell: the rancid, cloying, decaying reek of death. Gingerly he made his way round the bushes. The smell hit him hard, making him gasp. He lit up a cigarette, but the smoke tasted of decomposed flesh. He tore the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it down on to the railway line.

The body was almost hidden by the overgrown vegetation. The smell was unbearable. Frost held his breath and parted the grass to look down on rotting slime that once was flesh. Human, but too decomposed to immediately ascertain the sex. It had been there some time so, thank God, it wasn’t Debbie Clark or Jan O’Brien. It wasn’t easy to make out if the body had both feet, but it looked too decayed for the bits they had been finding to have come from it.

Stepping back, he yelled up to DC Morgan, who was in animated conversation with a young woman who seemed anxious to know what was going on. ‘I don’t want any bloody sightseers, Taffy. Get rid of her and come on down here.’ He switched on his mobile and called the station. ‘Seren-bleeding-dipity’ he told Sergeant Wells. ‘When you look for one body, you find a different one. It’s neither of our missing girls. Get the duty doc and the full murder team down here – and tell them an empty stomach is advisable.’

He turned his attention to the railway worker. ‘It’s well hidden. How come you spotted it?’

‘I’m working on the line down there. I wanted a slash so I nipped up here to do it behind the bushes and that’s when I found it. Flaming heck. It was the last thing I expected.’ His nose quivered and he screwed his face up in disgust. ‘When the wind changes, you can’t half smell it, can you?’

‘Smell what – your pee?’

‘No – the body.’

‘Right. Thank you, Mr Daniels,’ said Frost, anxious to get rid of him. ‘When you get a chance, would you call in at Denton police station and give us a written statement – just for the record.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Daniels enthusiastically. ‘I’ll do it now. If they think I’m coming into work after this, they’re flaming well mistaken. Shaken me up rotten, this has. Like the time I tripped over a flaming body at the side of the line. Three trains had gone over it and the drivers hadn’t noticed… How could they bleeding miss it?’ He glanced at the bushes. ‘At least this one is in one piece and not all mashed up in bits.’

‘Yes, there’s always a bright side,’ agreed Frost.

A blue plastic marquee – erected with some difficulty because of the sharp slope of the embankment – had been set up over the body. Frost stuck his head inside and withdrew it quickly. The rotting-flesh smell was now concentrated inside the enclosed space. He turned his attention to the team from Forensic, backs bent, white-overalled, painstakingly doing a fingertip search of the surrounding area and coming up with masses of junk… spent matches, scraps of paper, rusty tin cans, plastic. carrier bags. All absolutely useless, but all would have to be logged and grid-referenced. All a complete waste of bleeding time.

‘Jack!’ Dr Mackenzie, the duty police surgeon, was making his way down the slope with much difficulty. Frost steadied him as he slid to a halt outside the marquee. ‘What have you got for me?’

‘I’ve got a body with no nose,’ said Frost.

Mackenzie had heard this chestnut many times before, but he went along with it. ‘No nose? How does it smell?’

‘Bloody horrible,’ said Frost, cackling at the ancient joke.

‘You’ll have to get yourself some new material,’ said the doctor, as Frost stood to one side to let him enter the tent first.

‘This job’s full of laughs,’ said Frost, filling his lungs with fresh air before following Mackenzie in. ‘I don’t need new material.’ He nodded at the body. ‘It’s not in tip-top condition, so I want to know if it’s male or female, age, cause of death, and how long, to the nearest minute, it has been dead.’

Mackenzie, his handkerchief clapped over his mouth, took a quick look at the body. ‘If you think I’m going to touch that for the sort of money the police pay me, Jack, you’ve got another thing coming. It’s dead…’ He bent and peered at it. ‘I think it’s female, probably young, but I’m not prodding about to find the cause of death. Let Drysdale enjoy himself doing that.’ Drysdale was the Home Office pathologist, very much disliked by Mackenzie.

‘Has she got two feet, Doc?’ asked Frost.

Mackenzie blinked in astonishment. ‘Eh?’

‘We’ve been finding bits of a chopped-off foot. I want to know if it came from her.’

Mackenzie parted the overgrown grass and peered down. ‘She’s been chewed about by more animals than you can shake a stick at, but both feet seem to be there.’

‘How long has she been dead?’ asked Frost.

Mackenzie shrugged and spread his hands. ‘Weeks, months – you tell me.’ He looked down again. ‘There’s no clothing on the body. It could have been torn off by animals or stripped before being dumped, but I’d guess he or she was stripped before being dumped here. Drysdale will tell you.’

He stepped out of the marquee and took a deep breath. ‘God! Doesn’t fresh air taste good? I’ll send in my bill, and make certain they pay it promptly this time. They made me wait weeks for the last cheque.’ He clambered up the embankment to his car.

Harding from Forensic, who was in charge of the fingertip search, approached Frost. ‘We’ve thoroughly searched the area up to the bridge, Inspector. We’ve found plenty of junk, but not a scrap of clothing. Do you want us to widen the search area?’

Frost tugged at his lower lip, then shook his head. ‘No. It’s my gut feeling she – if it is a she, Mackenzie wouldn’t say for sure – was stripped naked before she was dumped here. My other gut feeling is that the clothes we found in the lake belong to this poor cow.’ He shook a cigarette from the packet and lit up. ‘Drysdale should be able to give us some idea as to how big she was and we can see if the clothing would fit.’

‘I think Drysdale’s retired or cutting down his hours,’ Harding told him.

Frost brightened up. ‘Ah well, not all bad news then.’ He would have to let Dr Mackenzie know. He beckoned Morgan down.

The detective constable slithered down the embankment. ‘Do you want me to get you some thing to eat, Guv?’

Frost nodded at the open flap of the tent. ‘Stick your nose in there, Taff, and tell me if you feel like eating.’ He looked up. A plumpish woman in her early forties, wearing slacks and a thick windcheater, had clambered over the bridge wall and was cautiously making her way down. ‘Who the bleeding hell is that, Taffy? You’re supposed to be up there, stopping any fat tart who feels like it from coming down for a sniff.’

‘You told me to come down here,’ protested Morgan.

‘I don’t care what I said – get rid of her.’

Morgan clawed his way up to head her off, but to Frost’s annoyance soon made his way down again with the woman in tow.

‘I thought I told you to get rid of her,’ hissed Frost.

‘You don’t know who she is, Guv. She’s the new Home Office pathologist.’

Frost gaped. ‘Flaming heck, Taff. There is a God after all!’ He introduced himself to the woman. ‘Detective Inspector Frost.’

She flashed a smile, showing perfect teeth. ‘Dr Ridley. What have you got for me, Inspector?’

‘We’d better look at the body first,’ said Frost with a giggle. He hesitated at the flap. ‘It’s a bit whiffy in there.’

She opened her bag and took out a gauze mask that covered her mouth and nose, then stepped inside, her forehead wrinkling in distaste as she saw the body. At first she seemed as reluctant as Mackenzie to actually touch it. ‘Not much I can tell you until I get her on the autopsy table.’

‘She?’ queried Frost. ‘Definitely female?’

‘Yes, female. She’s been dead anything up to a month, could be more. Animals have had a good old go at her.’

‘Any idea of age?’ asked Frost.

The pathologist shook her head. ‘She’s in too poor a condition – you can just about tell the sex. I’d guess she’s in her late teens or early twenties, but it’s only a guess at this stage. Don’t ask cause of death, because again, I don’t know yet.’

‘Sexually assaulted?’ asked Frost.

‘The state the body’s in, we will probably never know, but again, wait for the autopsy. Any ID?’

Frost shook his head. ‘We retrieved a dustbin sack full of girl’s clothes from the lake in the woods yesterday. I’m hoping they tie in with the corpse.’

‘Get them over to the autopsy room. I’ll try to match them up with the body.’ She took a last look at the remains. ‘Nothing more I can do here.’ She straightened up, snapped her bag shut and squeezed through the tent flap to the fresh air outside. She tore off her mask and sucked in gulps of air. ‘Some pathologists take it in their stride, but I can never get used to it.’

She dictated a few brief notes into a small cassette recorder, then dropped it in her pocket and zipped up her windcheater. ‘Where do we do the post-mortems?’

‘The mortuary at Denton General,’ Frost told her. ‘Meet me at Denton nick first and I’ll take you there.’

‘No need. I’ve got a map.’ She consulted her wristwatch. ‘Too late to do it now. Tomorrow afternoon – say one o’clock.’

‘I’ll be there,’ called Frost, admiring her plump little bottom which was wiggling provocatively as she walked away.

‘Cor. I couldn’t half give her one,’ whispered Morgan.

‘That’s because you’re a randy Welsh git,’ snapped Frost. ‘And in any case, I saw her first so it’s droit de seigneur, my little leek-muncher.’ He returned the wave she gave him as she clambered over the bridge wall, then called Harding over.

‘The pathologist’s doing the PM tomorrow afternoon. Get the body to the morgue as soon as you’ve done your stuff. We might have to get the Maggot Man in to tell us how long she’s been lying there, so bring the creepy crawlies as well. Did you get any DNA from those clothes we found in the lake?’

‘Yes,’ Harding told him.

‘Good. Let’s hope we can match it up with the body. But get them over to the morgue. The pathologist might be able to tell us if they would fit.’

‘Did she give any indication as to the cause of death?’ asked Harding.

‘No. Hopefully the autopsy will tell us.’

‘So at this stage, for all we know, it could be natural causes?’

‘The poor cow’s naked. You don’t take off all your clothes, lie down on a railway embankment and die of natural causes.’

‘There’s chunks of her missing, Inspector. Animals could have torn her clothes off.’

‘If you find bits of clothes underneath her when we shift the body, then it’s possible. But if animals had done it there’d be shreds of clothing in the vicinity and you didn’t find any. It’s her clothes we fished out of the lake. I just know it.’

His mobile trilled. ‘I’m busy – what is it?’ he snapped.

‘Is that you, Frost?’

Bloody hell! It was Mullett. ‘Yes, Super, but I’m rather busy. ..’

‘What on earth is going on? I’ve had Debbie Clark’s father on the phone threatening to go to the Chief Constable. This is intolerable… absolutely unforgivable!’

‘Sorry about that, Super,’ breezed Frost, apologising on autopilot while trying to work out what the hell he was supposed to have done now.

‘Sorry? Being sorry isn’t good enough,’ spluttered Mullett.

Then I’m not flaming sorry, thought Frost, still wondering what it was all about.

‘His daughter is dead and he has to find out from a third party. Even by your standards, this is disgraceful.’

Frost frowned. What was the prat on about? ‘Dead? Debbie Clark dead? Flaming heck, Super, I didn’t know that.’

‘Didn’t know? What are you talking about? You find her body, but you tell the press before you tell the family? The first they know of it is when a reporter from the Denton Echo hammers on their doorstep to ask for a photograph of their dead daughter – ’

‘Hold on, Super,’ cut in Frost. ‘We haven’t found his daughter’s body. The poor cow we’ve found is maggot-ridden. She’s been dead for at least a month.’

‘Then why tell the press it was Debbie Clark?’

‘I never told the press.’

‘Don’t try and get out of it, Frost. I’ve checked. Even for you this seemed unbelievable, so I phoned the Denton Echo myself. They assured me that their reporter was informed by the police that it was Debbie…’

‘Then he’s a bleeding liar,’ said Frost. ‘I’ll ring you back.’ He cut Mullett off, dialled the Denton Echo and asked to be put through to the editor.

‘What the hell are you playing at, Sandy,’ he demanded, ‘sending one of your reporters round to the Clarks and telling them we’d found their daughter’s body?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ Lane asked.

‘We haven’t found her bleeding body, that’s what’s wrong with that.’

‘Balls, Jack. She checked with one of your men and was told categorically you had found Debbie Clark’s body. I’m running the story under her byline now.’

‘She? It’s a bloody she?’

‘Yes, Jack. A new girl, very keen. She’ll go far.’

‘Not bleeding far enough, if I get hold of her. If she says she’s checked with one of my men, she’s lying.’

‘Jack,’ insisted Lane, ‘she may be new but she knows the ropes. She would never go ahead with a story like that if she hadn’t been given the facts.’

‘Sandy, I and another officer viewed the body, which definitely wasn’t Debbie Clark, and we certainly didn’t speak to a reporter.’

‘I’m sorry Jack. She spoke to one of your men.’

‘None of my men would be so stupid,’ began Frost – then he remembered that Taffy Morgan had been chatting up a young woman as Frost was slithering down to view the body. He went cold. ‘I’ll call you back, Sandy.’ He dropped the phone in his pocket and yelled for Morgan to come over.

‘Press, Guv?’ said Morgan. ‘No, I haven’t spoken to the press.’

‘Well, some silly sod has and you’re the only silly sod around here.’

‘Not guilty this time, Guv.’

‘Did you speak to anyone?’

‘No, Guv. Definitely not.’

‘Someone with big tits, perhaps?’

Morgan opened his mouth, then shut it again as his eyes widened ‘Ah…’

‘Ah bleeding what?’ asked Frost.

‘There was this girl, Guv… a right little cracker…’

‘With big tits?’

‘Now you come to mention it, Guv… and she had this tight sweater on.’

‘I don’t want to know how the cow was dressed. What happened after you dribbled all over her dugs?’

‘She asked if the body was Debbie Clark.’

‘And what was your negative reply?’

Morgan pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘I just said something vague.’

‘Something vague? Like “Yes it is, no bloody doubt about it”?’

‘Of course not, Guv. I just said something like…’ His voice dropped to a mumble. ‘Something like, “Yes, we believe it is.”

‘We believe it is!’ echoed Frost shrilly. ‘You gave that reply to a reporter who thought she was talking to a bona fide member of the police instead of to a stupid Welsh prat?’

‘Reporter? I didn’t know she was a reporter, Guv.’

‘Why not? Because she wasn’t carrying a Speed Graphic camera and you thought the word “Press” on her sweater was an invitation?’

Morgan shuffled his feet and put on his whipped-puppy look.

Frost sighed in exasperation. ‘In future, keep your bloody Welsh mouth shut, Taffy. Madam flaming Big Tits went straight round to the Clarks’ house and asked for a photograph of their dead daughter so she could splash it all over the front page.’

Morgan stared down at his feet. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘You don’t know how bleeding sorry you’re going to be,’ snarled Frost. ‘I’ve got to go round there now and squirm and apologise to Debbie’s mum and dad for causing them this flaming grief and get a bollocking from her loud-mouthed father. You stay here and give no more exclusive interviews to the press.’

‘You can rely on me, Guv,’ said Morgan.

‘You’re the last person I can bleeding well rely on,’ retorted Frost.

The front door crashed open as soon as his car pulled up in the drive. Clark, his face crimson with rage, bellowed at Frost. ‘You! I might have bloody guessed. Detective flaming Inefficiency. Thanks to you, my wife is in a state of collapse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Frost. ‘The reporter had no business coming to you.’

‘No bloody business,’ shrieked Clark. ‘She was told by the police that they had found my daughter’s body.’

‘She made a false assumption.’

‘She said she was told by the police, and was surprised you lot hadn’t been to us first.’

‘She made a false assumption,’ insisted Frost again.

Clark slammed the front door shut behind the inspector. ‘Don’t try to bluff your way out of this. She said she was categorically told this by the police.’

‘She asked one of my colleagues, who had not yet seen the body, if it was Debbie. My colleague said, “We think so.” She knew he hadn’t seen the body so this was conjecture, not fact.’

‘This is not bloody good enough, Detective Inspector whatever your bloody name is. If he didn’t know, he should have told the reporter he didn’t know. My wife is having hysterics. Nothing I do or say can convince her that it was a police balls-up.’

‘I can only express my regrets,’ mumbled Frost, mentally disembowelling Taffy Morgan.

‘Regrets? You’re going to have cause to regret this. I’m making an issue of it. Now go and put things right with my wife.’

He stamped up the stairs, followed by Frost, and opened the door to a darkened bedroom in which Frost could dimly make out the figure of Mrs Clark lying on the bed. She shot up as the two men entered the room and screamed at her husband, ‘Get out! I don’t want you near me.’

‘The policeman in charge of the investigation is here.’ He pushed Frost forward.

Her tear-stained face crumpled as she stared at Frost. ‘You’ve come to tell me she’s dead, haven’t you? My lovely daughter… my baby… she’s dead. That woman told me…’

‘I’m not here to tell you that, Mrs Clark,’ said Frost gently. ‘We haven’t found your daughter. We are still looking.’

‘But that reporter said…’

‘We have found a body, but it is definitely not Debbie.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘This body has been dead for at least a month, Mrs Clark. There is no way it can be Debbie. I’m afraid the reporter jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

She expelled a breath and started to cry again. ‘Thank God.. . Thank God…’

Clark stepped forward. ‘Now you’ve made your pathetic apology, Inspector, I will insist you are never allowed to have any dealings with this or any other serious case again. Now get out!’ He flung the door open.

‘Why are you so keen for him to go, Harold?’ demanded his wife. ‘Are you afraid he will discover the truth about your lies?’

Frost looked at Clark. ‘What is this about, Mr Clark?’

‘Nothing. My wife isn’t well.’

‘Nothing?’ his wife screamed. ‘Nothing? He lusted after his daughter… his own daughter… did you know that?’

‘Please, Anne,’ said Clark. ‘You’re not well…’

‘You’re the one who’s not well. He threatened to kill that boy, Inspector… and he lied to you. He said he was indoors the evening Debbie went missing. He wasn’t. He was out. He was out for over an hour. Did you know that, Inspector?’

Clark grabbed Frost’s arm and steered him outside, shutting the bedroom door firmly behind them.

‘I did not go out, Inspector. My wife is not well. She has mental problems and often imagines things that haven’t happened.’

‘Are you sure they haven’t happened?’ asked Frost. ‘Lying to the police is a very serious matter.’

‘How dare you adopt that threatening tone with me?’ snapped Clark. ‘My wife’s GP is Dr Cauldwell. Check with him – he will confirm what I’ve told you. Now get out.’ He propelled Frost to the front door, pushed him outside and slammed the door shut.

‘I will bloody check,’ muttered Frost. Back in the car, his stomach rumbled to remind him that he hadn’t had his dinner yet. He hoped fish and chips would still be on by the time he got back to the station.

‘Mackerel salad!’ echoed Frost in disbelief. ‘What sort of dinner is mackerel salad?’

‘It’s all we’ve got left,’ said the woman. ‘Of course it’s all you’ve got left. No one flaming wants it.’

‘Superintendent Mullett always asks for it.’

‘I’m talking about normal people. Give me a baked-bean-and-bacon toasted sandwich.’

The Tannoy called him, so he took his sandwich down to the lobby.

‘Jordan’s brought in that tom you wanted to see,’ Wells told him.

Frost frowned: ‘What tom?’

‘Maggie Dixon. The tom who was hovering round Market Square last night.’

‘Oh, her!’ He took a bite of his sandwich. ‘That cow in the canteen said they’d only got mackerel salad.’

‘Sounds fishy to me,’ said Wells.

‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Frost, taking his sandwich and mug of tea to the Interview Room.

Maggie looked distinctly unappetising in the harsh light of day: thick lipstick and mascara and a heavily powdered face gave her an almost clown-like appearance. Her straw-blonde, bleached hair added its twopenn’orth to her unattractiveness. She was none too pleased to have been hauled in at this unearthly hour and stood, arms folded, glaring at Jordan. She transferred her glare to Frost as he entered.

‘What’s the bleeding idea, dragging me in here? I’ve got to get ready to go out and earn the rent.’

‘Won’t take long, Maggie,’ soothed Frost. ‘Sit down.’

She plonked herself down in a chair, still scowling.

‘I’m hoping you can do something for me, Maggie.’

‘I don’t give policemen freebies, you know.’

Frost shuddered. ‘Is that a promise?’ He offered her a cigarette, which she snatched from the packet and rammed in her mouth, then she leant over the table to accept a light. Frost lit his too and sucked down smoke. ‘You were near a Fortress Building Society cashpoint last night.’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Who says so?’

‘I bleeding say so. I saw you. Now don’t drag this out, Maggie, there’s a good tart. The quicker we get this over, the quicker you can be off your feet and on your back, keeping the landlord happy. Now, you were in the vicinity of that cashpoint last night while your client was trying to take money out so he could put his dick in.’

‘What if I was? Is it a crime?’

‘All I want to know is, did you see anyone use it?’

‘Yeah.’

Frost fired off a salvo of smoke rings. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Describe him.’

‘It wasn’t a him, it was a her.’

Frost’s mouth dropped open. A half-formed smoke ring dissipated.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. They don’t have to have their dicks hanging out for me to know if it’s a man or a woman.’

‘Can you describe her?’

‘Getting on a bit, dark coat, kept her head down.’

‘Can’t you tell us more than that?’

‘You want a lot for one bleeding fag. I’ve told you all I know. As soon as I saw she was a woman, I switched off. I don’t earn money from women. And talking of earning money, can I go now?’

Frost nodded. ‘Take the lady back to where you found her, Jordan, but try not to succumb to her charms on the way.’

‘I’ll try,’ grinned Jordan, ‘but I’m only human.’ When they had left, Frost pushed the rest of his toasted sandwich in his mouth and flushed it down with a swig of tea. A woman? He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and made his way to the Incident Room.

‘Let’s see the CCTV video of the blackmailer again,’ he said to Collier.

Again the blurred, indistinct image shuddered across the screen.

‘Could be a man, a woman, or even a bleeding giraffe for all the good this flaming thing is,’ he muttered.

As he passed through the lobby on the way back to his office, Bill Wells waylaid him. ‘Graham Fielding wants to make a statement, Jack.’

‘Bloody prisoners. Just because they’ve raped and murdered someone, they think they can make statements any flaming hour of the day or night. He’s Skinner’s prisoner, not mine. Skinner should be back tomorrow.’

‘If a prisoner wants to make a statement, he’s entitled to make one, Jack.’

‘Stall him. I’ve been warned to keep my dirty hands off this one and you know how I always obey orders.’

DC Morgan was engrossed in the Daily Mirror when Frost returned to the office. He pushed it away hurriedly. ‘We managed to get the body over to the morgue more or less in one piece, Guv. The undertaker says you owe him one. Oh – and Mr Harding said to tell you there were no traces of clothing under the body, so he reckons she was stripped before she was dumped.’

‘That figures. It makes me more and more certain those clothes we fished out of the lake were hers. As soon as we get some idea from the pathologist as to age, height, how long dead, and so on, we’ll try and find out who the hell she is. We’ve already put out an all-stations request on the clothes, but sod all so far.’

Someone had dumped a wad of papers in his in-tray. He gave the covering memo a cursory glance.

It was from Mullett: Frost: this is urgent. PL. attend. SCN Divisional Commander. Without bothering to see what it was about, he chucked it over to Morgan. He had enough on his plate without any of Mullett’s rubbish. ‘Get this done, Taff.’

‘What is it, Guv?’

‘I don’t know, but Mullett says it’s urgent. Read it and chuck it in the waste bin – not necessarily in that order.’

Morgan turned to the front page, then let out a low whistle. ‘It’s from the FBI – the Federal Bureau of Investigation.’

‘The FBI? They’re not investigating my flaming car expenses, are they?’

Morgan grinned. ‘No.’ He read for a while, then looked up. ‘The FBI have cracked a big paedophile ring op on the internet. They’ve got the names of people paying by credit card for pornographic images of kids to be downloaded to their computers.’ He flipped through the next two pages. ‘And some of them live in Denton.’

‘Anyone we know?’ asked Frost.

Morgan carefully studied the pages before replying. ‘No, Guv.’ He turned a page. ‘Lots of small fry but there’s a bloke from Denton here who’s supposed to be a lay preacher – he’s spent a packet on child porn over the last few months – well over a thousand quid.’

‘Right, Taff,’ said Frost. ‘See Sergeant Wells. Get search warrants, get a computer expert and a couple of uniforms to assist and bring the bastards in.’

As Taffy left, Frost’s phone rang. Mullett wanted to see him.

‘What’s happening about that paedophile ring?’ asked Mullett.

‘Being dealt with even as we speak, Super. I gave it top priority as you requested.’

‘Good,’ nodded Mullett. ‘DCI Skinner won’t be back today. Some form of stomach upset.’

‘Yes, I heard you treated him to a meal,’ said Frost. ‘You have to be very careful what you eat in these transport cafes – some of them just have buckets for toilets.’

‘I took him to my club,’ retorted Mullett indignantly, ‘as you know damn well, Frost. Anyway, he wants you to keep an eye on his cases, but take no action without consulting him first.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Frost.

As he passed through the outer office, Ida Smith, Mullett’s secretary; was hammering away at her keyboard at finger-blurring speed.

‘Poor old Skinner,’ said Frost. ‘He swallowed a bad winkle. Have you ever had a bad winkle stuck inside you, Ida?’

She affected not to hear him. The man was foul-mouthed, uncouth and insufferable. She pretended to be concentrating on her work and typed even faster.

Frost’s phone was ringing incessantly as he came back to his desk. No bleeding peace for the wicked, he thought as he picked up the handset.

‘Jack,’ said Sergeant Wells, ‘Fielding’s brief is here. He wants bail.’

The solicitor was a young woman in her early twenties, severely dressed, with a big nose, no chest and horn-rimmed glasses.

‘I want police bail for my client,’ she told Frost. ‘He is happily married, runs a courier business which needs his presence and has a full answer to this accusation.’

Frost scraped a chair across the brown lino, dumped the case file on the table and sat down facing them. ‘I’m standing in for my colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Skinner. There’s no way we can grant bail.’

Fielding leapt up. ‘I must have bail. I can’t stay locked up here. I’ve got a business to run.’

His solicitor waved him down. ‘Leave this to me, Mr Fielding.’ She turned to Frost: ‘I understand you have DNA evidence from semen found on the victim’s clothes.’

‘That’s right,’ nodded Frost. ‘On her dress.’

‘My client now admits that he did have sexual intercourse with this girl, but on an earlier occasion. The semen could well have come from that occasion – after thirty years there is no way you can prove otherwise.’

‘A good point,’ agreed Frost. ‘I wish I’d thought of that. Trouble is, she wore that dress for the first time on Christmas Eve – she bought it for a party, so there’s no way the semen could have got on it earlier. And to sod your client up even further, the scrapings of flesh from under her fingernails match your client’s DNA too.’

She stared at Frost, then at her client, who wouldn’t meet her gaze. She shuffled through her papers to give herself time to think. She had never been presented with a situation such as this at law school. With a last glare at her client, she took-a deep breath. ‘I might have misunderstood my client’s instructions, Inspector. Might I have a few words with him in private?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Frost grandly, gathering up the file and leaving them to it.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Wells as he passed Frost, who was leaning on the wall in the passage outside the Interview Room, sucking at a cigarette.

‘Him and Fanny are concocting a new story line to prove he didn’t do t. I think she raped herself, then strangled herself. How’s the paedophile thing going?’

‘We got the search warrant you wanted and they’re on their way now. Do you think you can trust Morgan with this?’

‘By the law of averages he must do something right now and again,’ said Frost. ‘But I’ll poke my nose in as soon as I get Skinner’s ancient murder out of the way. Ah!’ The door opened and the solicitor beckoned him in.

‘We’re ready, Inspector.’

He stubbed out his cigarette and followed her back in. ‘I’m all ears,’ he said, dumping the file on the table and dropping down into his chair.

The woman nodded for her client to begin.

‘All right, Inspector,’ said Fielding. ‘I’ll tell you the truth. I was afraid to say it before as it looked bad for me. Yes, I was with her on Christmas Eve. Yes, we had sex, but she was alive when I left her. I swear by my baby’s life, she was alive when I left her. I didn’t beat her up. I didn’t kill her. When I heard she was dead, I panicked. I didn’t come forward.’

‘Are you saying she willingly submitted to sex?’ asked Frost.

‘Yes.’

‘That doesn’t add up, I’m afraid, son. The poor little cow must have been terrified. She fought off her attacker… fought like mad. Like I told you, there was skin under her fingernails where she had scratched him. And it was your skin, son. The DNA test proves that conclusively.’

‘I’d been with her a couple of times before, Inspector. At her climax she liked to rake your bare back with her nails. It gave her pleasure. It gave me a bit of pleasure at the time too, but it bloody well hurt afterwards. Some women are like that.’

‘Yes, some like to bite your dick off, but I’ve never met any, thank God. So where did you have this back-lacerating sex?’

‘Denton Woods.’

‘Where in the woods?’

‘By the lake.’

‘Right, so what happened after you disentangled your lacerated body?’

‘I dropped her off just outside Denton and we arranged to meet on Boxing Day.’

‘Why didn’t you take her home?’

‘She said she had to meet someone and they’d give her a lift back.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t remember, Inspector. It was a long time ago.’

‘It’s a long time ago now, son, but it wasn’t then. When you heard she’d been murdered, why didn’t you tell the police the name of this bloke she was meeting?’

‘I don’t know, Inspector. I think she muttered a name which meant nothing to me and I could hardly make out what she was saying. Perhaps I didn’t ask her… it was a bloody long time ago…’

‘All right. Let’s say I’m stupid enough to believe you. The next day, Christmas Day, she is found stripped naked, beaten up, raped, strangled, and dumped in a churchyard. The police put out appeals for help. Her parents are crying their bleeding eyes out. Why didn’t you come forward then?’

‘Because I was bloody scared. I was only seventeen. You don’t believe me now. I’d have been lynched if I’d gone to the cops then. They were screaming for blood.’

‘I was on duty at the time,’ Frost told him. ‘I had to break the news to the girl’s parents. I’d have lynched you my bloody self. So you’re trying to tell me that you had willing sex, had your back torn to ribbons, dropped her off and someone else murdered her?’

‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

Frost shook his head sadly. ‘If I were you, son, I’d make sure you get yourself a bloody good lawyer.’

Fielding scowled. ‘You don’t believe me?’

‘It’s not my job to believe you, that’s the jury’s job. But if I were on the jury, I wouldn’t have to retire to find you guilty.’

‘It’s true,’ Fielding shouted, banging his fist on the table.

‘Then be prepared for a gross miscarriage of justice,’ said Frost, ‘because you will certainly go down for life.’

‘My client’s story sounds perfectly plausible to me,’ said the solicitor. ‘I intend to demand bail.’

‘My colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Skinner, will be back tomorrow. He will question your client, take a statement and formally charge him. You can then ask the magistrate for bail.’

‘I didn’t do it,’ insisted Fielding.

‘Most of the people I arrest say that,’ Frost told him. ‘Funnily enough, the ones who confess are usually lying.’

He was in the car, driving to Denton Woods to check on the search team, when his mobile rang. It was Taffy Morgan.

‘Guv, I’m outside that paedophile’s house. We’re just about to serve the search warrant.’

‘I didn’t ask for a flaming running commentary – just serve the flaming warrant.’

‘You should hear this, Guv, it’s important.’

‘It had better be flaming important,’ cut in Frost. ‘I’m driving and on my mobile. It’s against the law. I might have to arrest myself.’

‘You’ll like this, Guv. Guess who’s just gone into the house?’

‘Prince Philip?’

‘No – better than him.’ He paused for effect. ‘Harold Clark – Debbie Clark’s father.’

Frost rammed his foot on the brake and swung the car into a screeching U-turn. ‘Stay put. Don’t do anything, Taff. I’m on my way. ..’