A Killing Frost (26 page)

   ‘You’re lucky to get me,’ Drysdale told Frost. ‘I was just finishing an autopsy over at Lexford, otherwise you’d have got that overweight woman.’

   ‘I don’t deserve such luck,’ muttered Frost bitterly.

   ‘Killed elsewhere and deposited here,’ dictated Drysdale to his secretary, her pen writhing over the loops and whirls of Pitman’s shorthand. ‘Probably thrown down from the road up there.’

  
Brilliant. Tell us something we don’t flaming well know
, thought Frost.

   Drysdale ran his hands down the boy’s trouser legs. ‘Both legs broken.’ He stared at the face. ‘He’s smashed up pretty badly. I’d say he’s had a fall - and from quite a height.’

   ‘You mean before he was dropped here?’ asked Frost.

   Drysdale grunted his agreement.

   ‘And the fall killed him?’

   ‘No. He was still alive after he fell.’ Drysdale felt round the back of the head. ‘His skull’s caved in.’

   ‘From when he fell?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  
Like the other poor cow
, thought Frost.

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

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

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

   ‘Yes, Doc.’

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

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

   ‘Her hands are tied together,’ said Drysdale.

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

   Her back was criss-crossed with blooded stripes.

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

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

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

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

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

   ‘Without a doubt,’ said Harding.

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

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

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

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

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

   ‘Is it Debbie Clark?’

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

   ‘Cause of death?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   ‘You want me to do it?’

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

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

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

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

   ‘You think you’re so bloody funny, don’t you?’ snarled Skinner.

   ‘I’m my greatest fan,’ said Frost.

As he closed the door behind him, Frost paused. Identification of the bodies. Shit. Who the hell should he get for the girl? The mother was in no fit state and the father was banged up on paedophile charges. Sod it. It would have to be the father. Well, no point in delaying telling him his daughter was dead. But even though there was no point in delaying, he lit up another cigarette and sucked hard on it, before summoning up the resolve to break the news.

   The cigarette dangling from his mouth, he looked into the Incident Room where Harry Edwards, the computer man, was printing out the downloaded photographs of child pornography recovered from the various houses of the prisoners. He looked up as Frost came in and shook his head in disgust. ‘I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Inspector. I’ve got kids of my own.’

   Frost nodded sympathetically and idly picked up one of the printouts. It showed a young girl of around four or five, wearing only a vest, seated on a chair with her legs parted.

   ‘How can anyone get a kick out of looking at an innocent kid like that?’ asked Edwards bitterly.

   Frost nodded. He was about to toss the photograph back on the pile when, he paused and looked closer. Behind the child was a window with nursery-rhyme curtains. The curtains were open and the garden outside could be seen clearly. He had looked through that same window on to that same garden only two days ago. The nursery was now Debbie Clark’s room. The four-year-old was her.

   ‘They’ve all got one of those photos on their laptops,’ said Edwards, noticing Frost’s interest.

  
The bastard!
seethed Frost to himself.
Drooling over his own four-year-old daughter with the rest of those dirty sods
. ‘I’ll borrow this,’ he said, stuffing it into his pocket.

Clark, who had been sitting hunched up on his bunk, jumped up angrily as Frost came into the cell. ‘When am I going to be let out of here?’ he demanded.

   ‘Depends on whether the magistrate grants you bail,’ Frost told him, his hand closing on the photograph in his pocket. Not perhaps the time to bring it out. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news for you, Mr Clark.’

   ‘Bad news?’ shouted Clark, still angry. ‘I . . .’ He stopped and the colour seeped from his face. ‘You mean . . .?’ He forced himself to say it. ‘Debbie?’

   Frost nodded. He’d lost count of the number of times he had had to break news like this, but it never got any easier. ‘We’ve found a body.’

   Clark just stared, his mouth gaping open, then he began to shake his head vigorously. ‘No . . . no . . . Please . . . no . . .’

   ‘We’re pretty certain it’s Debbie, I’m afraid, but we need formal identification. Do you feel up to it?’

   Clark collapsed on to the bunk, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking. ‘This will kill my wife.’

   ‘Would you break the news to her?’ asked Frost hopefully. Please, he silently pleaded. It was an ordeal he didn’t want to have to go through.

   Clark’s head shake was emphatic. ‘She hates me. She’ll blame me . . . I couldn’t . . .’

  
Shit!
thought Frost.
That bastard Skinner
. . .

   Clark raised a tear-stained face. ‘How did she die?’

   Again Frost’s hand touched the print in his pocket. Were these crocodile tears?
Did you get the other dirty bastards to give you an alibi for the night she went missing? Did you kill your own daughter for fear she would tell people what you had been doing to her, and then the boy to keep his mouth shut?
‘We believe she was strangled. There will be a post mortem.’ He didn’t want to disclose any other details at this stage. There was always a chance that Clark might blurt out something he shouldn’t know about. Frost wound his scarf around his neck. ‘So if you’re ready, Mr Clark . . .?’

   He went to the cell door and yelled for Bill Wells to let them out.

The mortuary attendant, with skill born of much practice, surreptitiously parked his chewing gum under the desktop and slid his dog-eared copy of
Playboy
under some papers before opening the door to Frost and Clark.

   They followed him through to the refrigerated section. He pulled open a newly labelled drawer, folded back the covering sheet and stepped respectfully back.

   Clark steeled himself to look. He stared, bit his lip and shuddered, then nodded.

   ‘Debbie?’ whispered Frost.

   Again Clark nodded. ‘Yes.’ He moved his hands to caress the face.

   ‘Don’t touch her,’ yelled Frost, making the father start and jerk back. If this bastard had indeed killed his daughter, he didn’t want evidence on the body to be jeopardised because Clark had mauled her. ‘Don’t touch her,’ repeated Frost, more gently, but more firmly.

   ‘I can’t touch my own daughter?’

   ‘Not at this stage,’ said Frost, pulling him back and nodding for the attendant to close the drawer. He shivered at the burst of refrigerated air that was expelled as the drawer slid home.

   Clark straightened up and shook Frost’s hand off. ‘Who did this? Who did this to my little girl?’

   Frost stared back at him, hoping to see some vestige of guilt, but Clark wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘We’ll get the bastard who did this, Mr Clark,’ said Frost emphatically. ‘I promise you. We’ll get the bastard, whoever he may be.’ The print in his mac pocket crackled. What should be his next Skinner-donated treat - to confront Clark with the photograph or break the news to the girl’s mother? Breaking the news to the mother would be the greater hell, so he decided to get the worst over first.