Hard Frost

One

Hallowe'en, 31 October

A lone sky rocket clawed its way up to the night sky, scrabbled feebly as it started to lose height, then burst into a cluster of green puff-balls.

PC Mike Packer, twenty years old, barely gave it a glance as he turned the corner into Markham Street. This was his first night out on the beat on his own and he had other things on his mind. He patted the radio in his top pocket, reassured he could call for help if he needed it.

A clatter of footsteps. Two teenage girls, heavily made up and dressed as witches, tottered past on high heels trailing a cloud of musky perfume. They whistled and called to him, blowing wet-lipped kisses. On their way to some Hallowe'en party and already drunk. Someone was going to score tonight. Grinning ruefully, Packer wished it was him! But no such luck. He was on duty on this cold and windy night, pounding his lousy beat until six in the morning. He drew his head tighter into the snug warmth of his greatcoat and watched until the girls turned the corner. The wind snatched away the last whisper of their perfume and he was on his own again.

He cut through the narrow alley which brought him into Patriot Street, a backwater of small lock-up shops and an empty space that was once a second-hand car site.

The street was dark, its single street lamp vandalized long ago.

The hollow echo of his footsteps pattered behind him giving him the uneasy feeling he was being followed. Once he even stopped suddenly and swung round, but there was no-one there. Outside the shops, piled up on the pavement, were plastic bags of rubbish, ready for collection the following morning. Packer weaved his way around them and flashed the rock hard beam of his brand-new torch into shop doorways, rattling the odd handle to make sure all was secure.

The end shop, long empty and boarded up, was once a butcher's. A faded sign, swaying gently in the wind, said "This Valuable Property To Let'. The doorway was piled high with rubbish sacks which had obviously been dragged there from outside adjacent shops. Why, wondered Packer, had someone taken the trouble to do that? Again he clicked on his torch, watching the beam crawl slowly over the pile. He half expected to disturb a dosser or perhaps even the boy they had been told to look out for, the seven-year-old who had gone out with his guy and still wasn't home at eleven o'clock at night.

Packer stiffened. There was someone crouching behind the bags in the corner. Someone keeping very still. "All right I can see you! Come on out." No movement. Keeping the torch handy for use as a weapon if necessary, he started pulling bags out of the way. Then suddenly the figure lunged at him and the face… God… it wasn't human… it was green and malevolent. Dropping the torch he fumbled for his radio. The radio… he couldn't find the bloody radio…

"Denton police." Police Sergeant Bill Wells stifled a yawn as he lifted the phone to his ear and muttered into the mouthpiece. He wasn't really concentrating on what the caller was saying as he was still simmering with rage. He had been going through the new duty rosters to the end of the year and was livid to see that Mullett had yet again put him down for duty on Christmas day. Well, Superintendent flaming Mullett had another think coming. Let some of his blue eyed boys do their share of holiday nights for a change because the worm was about to turn. He frowned at the agitated voice buzzing away in his ear. "Try and take it easy, madam… just tell me what happened

… What?… Where? How bad is he?" His pen scribbled furiously. "Don't worry. I'll get someone over there right away."

He snatched up the internal phone and jabbed the button for Wonder Woman's office… Detective Sergeant Liz Maud. Let that flaming tart do some work for a change instead of painting her lousy fingernails. He'd noticed from the roster that she had all of the Christmas period off and she'd only been here two bloody weeks.

"Yes?"

The impatient edge to her voice always put his back up, so his tone was curt. '17 Crown Street… break-in and stabbing little boy, one year old."

"I'll need back-up," she said.

"We haven't got any," said Wells, happy at last.

Packer was sweating with relief, thankful he hadn't been able to get to his radio. They would never have let him live it down. It was a guy, a child's guy, and the green face was Guy Fawkes. He pulled some of the sacks away to get a better look. Behind the guy a rubbish sack, propped up against the shop door, looked wrong. He touched it and his hand jerked back as if he had received an electric shock. He had never seen a dead body. Part of his training would involve a visit to the mortuary to view a post-mortem, but this had not happened yet. Burton had said that the pathologist always cut a long slit under the corpse's chin so he could peel the face off like a rubber mask. Packer hoped he would be able to see it through without fainting when the time came. But now, before he was ready, he knew he had a dead body. Too small for an adult. A child.

As he reached out, it toppled over and he thought he heard a grunt. Still alive? Was it still alive?

He tore off his gloves with his teeth and fumbled at the cord tying the neck of the sack. Then he was staring at a face. A young boy. Brown masking tape bound round the eyes as a blindfold. More masking tape, pulled tightly into the mouth forcing the lips back into a mockery of a grin. Vomit dribbled from the mouth and nose. Packer dropped to his knees and gingerly touched the flesh. Ice cold and no sign of a pulse. The brown dribble of vomit had a naggingly familiar hospital smell which he couldn't quite place. He opened the plastic sack wider, holding it by its extreme edge, and shone his torch inside. The boy, knees bent, was naked.

He straightened up and pulled his radio from his pocket, then took a few deep breaths and called the station. To his surprise he managed to keep his voice steady. He sounded as if he met death in the street every day. "Packer here, Patriot Street. I think I've found the missing kid… and he's dead. Looks like murder."

"Stay there," ordered Wells. "Whatever happens stay there!"

Packer moved out to the street and waited. An eerie silence seemed to hang over the area, and the tiniest sounds were magnified. The rustling of the wind on the exposed plastic sacks. The creaking of the "For Sale' sign over the butcher's. The hammering of his heart.

Then, just audible but getting louder, the wailing siren of an area car. Wells wasn't going to send out the murder team until he had checked. Not on Packer's first night out on his own.

At the station it was chaos with Bill Wells in near despair. Everything was going wrong. A murder investigation and no senior CID officers available. Detective Inspector Allen, who should have been on call at home, had left a contact number which rang and rang but no-one answered. Jack Frost was on holiday and that sup id cow Liz Maud must have switched her radio off as he had gone near hoarse calling for her. He was now ringing the Divisional Commander's home number, but knew he would get short shrift there. He could hear Mullett's sarcasm now. Surely you are competent enough to sort this out for yourself, sergeant? The phone was hot against his ear and the ringing tone went on and on. Then he was aware of a tapping on the desk in front of him. A little tubby man in a camel-hair coat trying to attract his attention. "Be with you in a minute, sir."

"You'll deal with me now, sergeant. I'm in a hurry."

Wells groaned. One of those pompous little bastards. Just what he needed tonight… His attention was snatched back to the phone. Someone had answered. Not Mullett, but his half-asleep, disgruntled, toffee-nosed cow of a wife peevishly demanding to know who it was. "Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, Mrs. Mullett, but is the superintendent there?… No? Do you have a number where I could contact him? Yes, it is urgent." Of course its urgent, you stupid cow. Would I be phoning if it wasn't? "Thank you." He scribbled on his pad and hung up.

The man was glaring at him. "I am still waiting, sergeant."

"Please take a seat, sir. I'll deal with you as quickly as I can." He looked up hopefully as PC Lambert came in from Control.

"Still no answer from that Inspector Allen number, sarge."

"Keep trying. Any luck with Wonder Woman?"

"Not a dicky bird!"

"Bloody cow's useless." Wells ripped the sheet from his pad. "See if you can get Mr. Mullett on this number."

Lambert frowned. "This is the same number I'm trying for Mr. Allen, sarge."

Wells looked at it again. Lambert was right. "Mullett ii and Allen, both out together at eleven o'clock at night. I wonder where?"

"A cut-price knocking shop?" suggested a familiar voice, helpfully.

Frost! Jack Frost in his crumpled mac and maroon scarf beaming at them.

"Jack!" cried a delighted Wells. "I thought you were on holiday."

"I am. I've just nipped in for some fags. Did you get my comic postcard?" He struck a pose and declaimed:

"I cannot get my winkle out Now there's a funny thing. The more I try to pull it out The more I push it in!"

Wells grinned. "I stuck it on the notice-board, but Mullett made me take it down. He said it was near pornographic'

"There's nothing pornographic about a man eating winkles," said Frost. "So what's all the panic?"

"Patriot Street. Body in a dustbin sack."

Frost grimaced. "Where did people hide bodies before dustbin sacks were invented? We find more bloody bodies than rubbish in them these days."

"This one's a kid," said Wells, 'a boy, seven years old. We've got a murder investigation, a detective constable in sole charge, the pathologist on his way and Mullett and Allen conveniently unobtainable. A proper sod-up!"

"Not as good as some of my sod-ups," said Frost, 'but I'm glad I'm on holiday. I'll just nick some of Mullett's fags and go." He disappeared up the corridor.

Seeing Wells with nothing to do, the man in the camel-hair coat sprang across to the desk.

"Perhaps you can now spare me some time. I've lost my car a metallic grey Rover, registration number '

"Stolen car, right," said Wells, pulling the forms towards him. The quickest way to get shot of him was to take the details.

"I didn't say it was stolen. I just don't know where it is. I drove down from Bristol for the firm's function. I parked it down a side street somewhere. I must have got confused I can't find it. My wallet, credit cards, everything, are inside it."

"It's probably been pinched by now," said Wells cheerfully.

"I'm sure it hasn't, sergeant. It's fitted with anti-thief devices."

"And you've no idea where you left it?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?"

Wells put his pen down. "So what do you want us to do about it?"

The man sighed as if explaining to an idiot. "I would have thought that was obvious, sergeant. If one of your men could drive me around the side streets, we could look for it."

"I've got a better idea." Frost had returned with one of Mullett's best cigarettes dangling from his lips. "Why don't you piss off and go and look for it yourself? We've got more important things to do."

The man spun round angrily, jabbing a finger at Frost. "I'll have you," he spluttered. "I've got friends in high places. I want your name."

"Mullett," said Frost. "Superintendent Mullett."

"Right," said the man, scribbling this down. "You haven't heard the last of this." He stamped out of the station.

"You bloody fool, Jack," said Wells.

"He won't take it any further," said Frost, but now beginning to have doubts himself. "Anyway," he brightened up, "I'm on holiday so Mullett won't suspect me."

"If you were dead he'd still suspect you," said Wells grimly.

Lambert slid up the dividing hatch to the Control

Room. "Still nothing from that number, sarge. I got the exchange to trace it for us. It's the Clarendon Arms, that big pub and restaurant over at Felstead."

Wells's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are they doing there? Those two are up to something, you mark my words. Why isn't anyone answering the phone?"

Lambert shrugged. "There could be a fault on the line. We'll have to send someone over there to pick Allen up."

"We can't spare a bleeding car," said Wells. He groaned. There was no other option. "AH right send Charlie Baker. We want Allen back here. Tell him it's a murder enquiry."

The hatch slammed shut. Wells spun round quickly, just in time to catch Frost before he sidled out. "Hold it, Jack."

"I'm on holiday until the end of the week," said Frost.

"We've got to have a senior officer over there… Please, Jack. I only want you to hold the fort until Allen arrives fifteen minutes, half an hour at the most…"

"All right," sighed Frost reluctantly. "But if he's not there in half an hour, I'm off."

"You're a diamond," said Wells.

"I'm a prat," said Frost.

The door was closing behind him when Lambert slid up the hatch. "I've got hold of Liz Maud, sarge."

Detective Sergeant Maud was late arriving at the house. She still didn't know her way around Denton and the ancient, well-thumbed street map Sergeant Wells had given her was falling to pieces with lots of the street names unreadable. After twice retracing her route, she pulled up outside the front door just as the doctor was leaving. "Kiddy's not too badly hurt," he told her. "Couple of superficial wounds to the upper arm, which only required a dressing." He glanced back and winced at the hysterical shrieking and sobbing from inside. "That's the mother. She's in a worse state than the kid. I offered her a sedative, but she chucked it at me." He edged past her. "I wish I could stay, but I've got other calls." He plunged out into the street, relieved to get away from the noise.

Liz switched off her radio. She didn't want her interview with an overwrought mother interrupted by trivial messages. She homed in on the crying which was now accompanied by a banging noise. It led her to the child's bedroom, a small room with a single cot, its walls decorated with nursery wallpaper.

The banging was caused by a middle-aged man who was hammering nails into the window frame which had been forced open by the intruder. A young woman, the mother, jet black hair, slightly olive skin, was sitting in a blue-painted chair, rocking from side to side, moaning and sobbing continuously. Liz sighed. She obviously wouldn't be much help.

A plumpish woman in her fifties was standing next to the mother, holding the child, wrapped in a blanket. The child, a boy, barely a year old, his face flushed and tear-stained, had cried himself to an exhausted sleep.

"Detective Sergeant Maud," announced Liz, holding out her warrant card.

"Took your time getting here," said the man, knocking in one last nail and putting down the hammer. He gave the window frame a testing shake. "That should keep the bugger out."

"If you could try to avoid touching things," said Liz. "There could be fingerprints."

"You wouldn't need fingerprints if you got here earlier and caught him," said the man.

Liz ignored this. "Are you the husband?"

"I'm her next-door neighbour George Armitage." He nodded at the woman with the baby. "And that's my wife."

Liz addressed the mother. "What's your name, love?"

It was Mrs. Armitage who answered her. "Lily Lily Turner. She's in a bit of a state, I'm afraid."

"Is there a husband?"

"Well there's a father. Not sure if he's actually her husband, if you follow my meaning." She lowered her voice. "He's inside… doing eighteen months stealing radios from cars."

Liz gently touched the mother's arm. "Lily, I'm from the police. Can you tell me what happened?"

The mother's only response was to moan louder.

Liz turned to the other woman. "Perhaps you can tell me what happened, Mrs. Armitage."

"Half a mo." She gently laid the boy down in the cot and pulled the bedclothes over him, careful to avoid touching the injured arm with its strip of pink plaster. There were tiny flecks of blood on the sheet. "Lily was in the other room watching- telly when she heard little Tommy crying. When she tried to get to him, she couldn't get the door open."

"The bastard had jammed that chair under the door handle," said the man, pointing to the chair the mother was sitting on. Liz made a mental note to ensure it was fingerprinted, and nodded for the woman to continue.

"The kiddy was screaming and she could hear someone moving about. She thought it was burglars. Anyway, she came running in to us and George went straight back with her and managed to kick the door open."

"Let me tell it now," said the man. "I kicked the door open. That window was wide open with the wind roaring in. I nipped across and looked out, but there was no sign of him. The kid was crying fit to bust, so she picked him up and then she spotted the blood and next she was yelling and screaming louder than the bleeding kid. I got my wife to phone the police and the doctor. The rest you know."

Liz walked over to the window and looked out on to a small back garden. There was a gate in the rear fence leading to a lane. Easy to get in and out without being spotted. The window had been crudely levered open, exactly the same as the other three stabbings. "Do you know if she's noticed anyone watching the house, or following her?"

"We're not on speaking terms," said Armitage. "We wouldn't be in here tonight if it wasn't an emergency. I was one of the people her old man nicked a car radio from, so we're not coming in for tea and biscuits and a chat, are we?"

Liz snapped her notebook shut. She would have to come back again tomorrow when the mother had calmed down. "Well, thank you very much. Try not to touch anything. There'll be a fingerprint man here in the morning."

Mrs. Armitage walked with her to the front door. "Do you think you'll catch him?"

"We'll get him," said Liz. She wished she shared her spoken optimism. A maniac who had a thing about seeing blood on children. They had no description, no fingerprints they didn't even know if it was a man or a woman, and all of the known sex offenders she had painstakingly questioned had cast-iron alibis. "We'll get him all right." The front door slammed shut behind her, but she could still hear the mother wailing.

In the car she switched her radio back on and they told her about the dead boy. She fished out the map and tried to find how to get to Patriot Street.

"She had her damn radio off!" said Wells incredulously. "What does the silly cow think we give her a radio for — just to keep in her bloody handbag?" The phone rang. "Yes?" he snapped.

It was Mullett and he sounded just the tiniest bit drunk. "My wife tells me you've been trying to reach me, sergeant."

Wells clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and yelled for Lambert to call back the area car. Then he told Mullett about the murdered boy.

Mike Packer stamped his feet and flapped his arms. It was damn cold. He wished he could go back on his beat and walk around to keep warm, but he had been delegated to stand with a cupboard and record details of everyone who approached the body. So far he had recorded himself, PCs Simms and Jordan, DC Burton and the two Scene of Crime officers in their white overalls who had screened off the area, plus, of course, the police surgeon who was in and out in a flash, simply confirming the boy was dead and the circumstances were bloody suspicious. Across the road Jordan and Simms, in the warmth of the area car, were waiting to be told what to do. No sign yet of the pathologist, nor Detective Inspector Allen who should be in charge.

An old Ford Escort wheezed round the corner and shuddered to a halt. Simms nudged Jordan who climbed out of the area car, ready to send the newcomer away. But the man getting out of the car, maroon scarf streaming in the wind, was Detective Inspector Jack Frost. What was he doing here? He should be on holiday.

Burton, kneeling by the body, heard the car draw up and swore softly. Control had told him that Detective Sergeant Liz Maud was on her way over, so this must be her. The pompous little cow would soon start taking charge, lording it over everyone and barking out her orders. But that raucous laugh that came slicing across the gloom had him hurrying out. There was only one person with a laugh like that.

Frost took a quick look round the scene. Everything seemed to be in order. The street was cordoned off and a tent-like structure erected around the shop doorway. A small generator installed by the SOCmen chugged away, providing the emergency lighting, and everyone seemed to be doing what they ought to. He nodded happily to himself. DC Burton was competent enough to handle all the fiddling details.

"Right," he said, after lighting up one of Mullett's cigarettes for Burton, "I'd better know what we've got, just in case some nosy bastard asks."

"Dead boy, aged about seven," said Burton, leading him to the body. "Believed to be Bobby Kirby, reported missing from home. Mother separated from husband. She and her boyfriend nipped out to the pub for a couple of hours leaving Bobby watching telly. When they got back around ten o'clock, Bobby wasn't there."

The body was still in the plastic sack and wouldn't be removed until the pathologist, a stickler for insisting on things being left exactly as found, had examined it. Frost knelt down and looked at the white face, the brown plastic masking tape round the eyes and mouth still in place. He shook his head sadly. "Poor little sod. Have the parents been told?"

"Not yet," Burton told him. "We're waiting for Mr. Allen."

"Rather him than me," said Frost. He peered more closely, his face tight with compassion. "What dirty bastard did this to you, sonny?" He examined the tape binding the mouth, and the dribble of vomit. He sniffed. That smell. What the hell was it? He knew it from somewhere

… Of course, the hospital. It was always lingering around the ward when he went to visit his wife, when he sat by the bed for hours on end to watch her slowly dying. He worried away, trying to identify it, but gave up. It wasn't his case, so it wasn't his problem. "Cause of death?"

"The police doctor thinks he might have choked to death on his own vomit."

"How long dead?"

"Wouldn't commit himself. He said ask the pathologist."

"Helpful bloody bastard." Frost straightened up and squinted at his watch. "Where the hell is Allen?"

"He and Mr. Mullett are on their way over now, sir," Burton told him.

"Mullett? Don't let him see your fag, son… he might recognize it as a long-lost friend." Frost took one last look at the body. "I'm only the token inspector, so just carry on until Smart-arse gets here." He found a dustbin to sit on while he waited.

Detective Sergeant Liz Maud skidded round the corner. She knew she was driving too fast, but she was in a state of high excitement. A murder case! Her first. And Inspector Allen unavailable. Now was the time to make her mark.

As she parked tight into the kerb behind a police car, she glanced across the road and frowned. The area was supposed to be cordoned off, but there, sitting on a dustbin, hunched up against the wind, was an old tramp dragging on a cigarette. How had the fools let him get so close? Heads would roll for this. She flung open the door of her car and sprang out. "Hey you!" The man, who was in the process of flinging his cigarette end into the gutter, looked up briefly, then, ignoring her, rose to walk towards the canvas enclosure where the body was. She frowned in disbelief as the two fools in the police car in front of her just sat and watched.

Liz raced across the road, fumbling in her shoulder bag for her warrant card. "You in the mac hold it!" She shoved her warrant card in his face.

Frost barely gave it a glance. "No thanks, love I've already got one." Then he was yelling at two uniformed men who were starting to shift the sacks of rubbish out of the way. "Leave them be! I want them checked for prints and examined." He turned to Liz and introduced himself. "Detective Inspector Frost. You must be new?"

She managed to keep her voice calm, but inwardly she was boiling. Her one big chance and this idiot had to come back from holiday early. "Detective Sergeant Liz Maud. I was transferred from Fenley Division last week."

Frost eyed her. In her late twenties, a bit on the thin side, her dark hair scragged back emphasizing her sharp features. But she wouldn't be a bad looker if she took a bit of trouble and wore something different from that drab grey and black striped skirt and jacket.

"All right if I have a look at the body, inspector?"

Frost spread his hands. "Be my guest, love. I'm only keeping it warm until Allen turns up."

She winced at the 'love' but tried not to show her annoyance. Before she could move, a sleek black car slithered round the corner. A Rolls-Royce. The pathologist had arrived.

"Shit!" muttered Frost. "It's Dr. bleeding Death. I'd better take over. He's insulted if he has to deal with sergeants." He looked longingly up the road, hoping to see the headlights of Allen's car roaring to the rescue, but no such luck. Lighting another of Mullett's specials, he mooched across to the tented area, Liz following hard on his heels.

A man in white overalls stopped them. This was PC Reg Evans, a Scene of Crime officer. "There's about twenty rubbish sacks there, Mr. Frost. Do you want us to fingerprint them all?"

"Better than that, Reg. I want you to take them all back to the station and open them up as well. The killer might have dumped the kid's clothes in one of them."

Dr. Samuel Drysdale, Pathologist for the Home Office, had wasted no time. He was out of the car and kneeling by the body before Frost returned. He studied the face very closely, watched by his female secretary who was directing a torch to augment the spluttering emergency lighting. "Steady," he snapped as the beam wavered. Above him, the canvas flapped angrily in the wind, almost drowning the constant radio chatter from the police car in the street.

The dribble of vomit from the nostrils and the corner of the mouth held his attention. He lowered his face until his nostrils were almost scraping the boy's cold flesh, then sniffed carefully. He nodded. He was able to place the smell which had baffled Frost. Next, he transferred his attention to the taped mouth. Behind it, the skin round the lips was an inflamed red and there were tiny filaments of white fibre.

"How's it going, doc?"

Drysdale stiffened. He didn't have to raise his head to identify the speaker and the shower of cigarette ash which floated down confirmed it. He flapped the ash away angrily and slowly looked up. There he was. Detective Inspector Jack Frost in the same battered mac, a button hanging loose, a maroon scarf trailing from his neck. Drysdale glowered. "I thought this was Mr. Allen's case… and kindly put that cigarette out!"

"We're trying to find Allen," said Frost, pinching out the cigarette and crouching down beside the pathologist. "He's attending a piss-up somewhere." He jabbed a finger at the boy's face. "What are those bits of white?"

"Cotton wool," said Drysdale. Before he could elaborate there was a scurry of activity outside with car doors slamming and the buzz of voices. Detective Inspector Allen, in evening dress, a white scarf round his neck, made a slightly unsteady entrance into the tent, bringing with him the strong reek of cigar smoke and whisky. He nodded curtly to Frost as he made his apologies to Drysdale. "Sorry for the delay, sir. I was off duty." He stared down at the body, shaking his head sadly. "What can you tell us?"

The pathologist straightened up. "The child was anaesthetised." He pointed to the lips. "Those white fibres are from the pad of cotton wool which was used to apply the anaesthetic. It was clamped over his mouth and nose. When he was unconscious, a gag of cloth was inserted into the mouth, then the plastic tape was applied to keep it in place. Unfortunately, this meant that when the boy was sick the stomach contents couldn't escape and he choked to death on his own vomit."

He moved to one side so Allen could examine the mouth, which he did with difficulty, his eyes trying hard to focus. He nodded. "I see."

Must have been a bloody good booze-up, thought Frost.

"Any sign of sexual assault?" asked Allen.

"I haven't been able to examine him in detail. This isn't the place. Get him to the mortuary. Don't remove him from the sack and leave the plastic tape in place."

"We'll need the sack for fingerprints," said Frost.

"After I've removed it from the body."

"Time of death?" asked Allen.

"It's a cold night, which tends to slow rigor down. I would suggest he has been dead somewhere between seven and eight hours. I can be more precise once I get him to the mortuary."

Allen studied his wrist-watch very carefully, holding it much closer to his eyes than he usually did. "Which makes the time of death …" Brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving, he did mental sums.

"About five or six o'clock this evening," offered Liz Maud.

"I can do my own sums, thank you," snapped Allen, who was a long way from calculating the answer. "Did he die here, Mr. Drysdale?"

"No," said Frost, buttoning his mac, ready to leave them to it. "He wasn't dumped here until six at the earliest."

Drysdale scowled. The question had been addressed to him. "Share your medical expertise with us, inspector."

"You don't need medical bleeding expertise," said Frost. "The shops don't shut until six and that's when they put their rubbish sacks out."

A grudging nod from Drysdale. "Yes. He died elsewhere and was dumped here probably four hours ago."

A burst of wind rattled the canvas and creaked the metal stays. Frost wound his scarf round his neck and lifted the canvas flap. "I'll leave you to get on with it. I'm off home."

"Hold it, Jack." Allen followed him to the street where the wind was like ice on his flushed, sweating face. "You couldn't do me a favour, I suppose?"

No way, thought Frost. When have you ever done anything for me? "A favour?" he asked warily.

"Flaming hell, Jack I've been drinking. Look at me. I'm in no state to take over tonight."

Hard bloody luck, thought Frost. You knew you were on call. You sweat it out, mate, I'm on holiday and I'm off home.

"Just for tonight, Jack. I'll take over again first thing in the morning."

No way, decided Frost. You wouldn't lift a finger if it was me asking you. But he said nothing. He stared at Allen, his face impassive.

"And look at me, Jack. Evening bloody dress… half cut… How can I break the news to the kid'-s parents looking like this?"

Frost dropped his gaze. Allen had him there. A man stinking of whisky and cigars, in evening dress, swaying, speech slurred, telling you that your seven-year-old son was dead… murdered and probably sexually assaulted. Bloody hell. The bastard had got him. "All right," he grunted.

Allen squeezed his arm. "You're a good 'un, Jack. I owe you one." He walked unsteadily towards the police car that had brought him from Felstead.

There was another passenger in the car, a man also in evening dress sitting bolt upright in the back seat. Frost managed to get there before Allen opened the driver's door. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose, winking at the driver. "What a stink of cheap booze in here, driver. Get your prisoner to the drunk cell and then come straight back." He paused and reacted as if he suddenly realized who the 'prisoner' was. "Mr. Mullett! Sorry, super — didn't recognize you in the monkey suit."

Mullett kept his face expressionless, not giving Frost the satisfaction of showing his annoyance. He stared straight ahead at the back of the neck of the police driver who was almost choking as he tried to suppress a snigger. A curt nod to Frost as Allen clambered in and dropped heavily on the seat beside him. A few muttered words to the driver and the car sped away.

Liz Maud, seeing Allen make his exit, had renewed hopes that this would mean she would be in charge, but was disappointed to see Frost, grinning all over his face, return to the tented area where Drysdale was pulling on his leather gloves. "There's something you should see." He took the torch from his secretary, crouched by the body and shone it inside the bag. "Take a look."

Frost squatted down beside him. There was something white, covering the boy's right hand, fastened around the wrist with yet more masking tape.

"What is it?" asked Frost.

"It looks like a small plastic bag," replied Drysdale. "I can't make anything of it at the moment, but once we get him on the table, I can take a better look." He straightened up and clicked off the torch. "You can remove the body now, inspector. I'll do a brief examination at the mortuary tonight, then a full post-mortem at ten tomorrow."

"I'll let Mr. Allen know," said Frost. This was getting too complicated for him and he would be glad to dump it back in Allen's lap. He beckoned to Burton. "Whistle up the meat wagon."

As the Rolls-Royce slid away, its place was taken by the undertaker's plain, unmarked van. Frost checked that the undertaker and his assistant were wearing gloves before they touched the plastic sack and watched as it was Lifted and zipped in a black body bag.

PC Evans, the SOC officer, squeezed past to take photographs, and to examine the area on which the body had been lying.

Frost drew Liz to one side. "Get back to the station and open up the murder incident room. Then ask Bill Wells for our list of known child molesters."

"I've already got it," replied Liz. "Some pervert has been breaking into houses and stabbing toddlers in their cots."

"Right," said Frost. "Round them all up… any with their dicks out still warm and throbbing, treat with suspicion. Burton, you come with me."

Liz hesitated. "Wouldn't it be better if I came with you and Burton opened up the incident room?" If Frost was leading the enquiry, she wanted to stay with him.

"You're not missing any fun," said Frost. "We're going to break the news to the parents a job that Mr. Allen wriggled out of. You're welcome to come if you like."

She shook her head. She couldn't face any more hysterical mothers tonight. "I'll get back to the station."

It was easy to spot the boy's house in Lacey Street. It was the only one with its lights still on. Even before Frost's Ford had scraped its tyres to a stop along the kerb, the front door was flung open and a woman came rushing out.

Wendy Kirby, the boy's mother, aged around twenty-five, eyes swollen from crying, had wrenched open the door. "Have you found him yet?"

"Let's go inside, love," said Frost, lighting up the cigarette he needed to bolster up his courage.

"We only went out for a quick drink. We hardly ever go out.".

Frost nodded sympathetically. A man in his mid-twenties was at the door. He wore a black, imitation leather zip-up jacket. "Have you found the little sod? I'll wring his bleeding neck…"

"Are you Mr. Kirby? asked Frost.

"No, I'm damn well not. I'm her boyfriend. That kid's ruined our bloody evening."

The boyfriend! Shit, thought Frost. He was hoping it was the father so he would only have to break the bad news once. "Let's go inside."

They were taken into the lounge where the mother dropped into an armchair and grabbed at a table lighter. She had difficulty lighting her cigarette. Frost leant over and lit it for her. Burton stood by the door, watching, feeling superfluous.

"It's bad news, isn't it?" said the mother. "I know it's bad news."

"You're always bloody negative," said the boyfriend. "Always looking on the black side. Be bloody positive for a change."

That's right, thought Frost. Raise the poor cow's hopes so I can smash them down again. He took a deep drag, then slowly exhaled. He couldn't put it off any longer. "Mrs. Kirby…" he began.

The woman had taken a framed picture from the side table and was holding it to her chest, rocking slowly from side to side. Frost paused. "Is that Bobby?"

She nodded.

He held out his hand. "Could I see it?"

She handed it to him. A school photograph. A freckle-faced boy with light brown hair grinning shyly at the camera. "Taken last week," she said.

Frost studied it, then handed it to Burton.

Burton raised his eyebrows in surprise.

It wasn't the dead boy.