Winter Frost (12 page)

Liz was back in her flat, finishing a phone conversation with the abortion clinic in London—a clinic well away from the prying ears and eyes of Denton Division. They would admit her tomorrow afternoon for an operation to be carried out the following day. All being well, they assured her, she should be back at work within a week. She gave them her credit card details and made the appointment.

Frost mooched into the Forensic lab, all white tiles and stainless steel, ignoring scowls from Harding, the senior technician, who was showing disapproval of the cigarette dangling from the inspector's lips. Frost grunted at the array of bones laid out on the table in front of them to form a human skeleton.

   
"It's complete," said Harding proudly.

   
"Glad we've got the full set," said Frost without enthusiasm. The grinning skull, cleaned of dirt, showed yellow fangs. Frost puffed smoke into the nose cavity and watched it emerge in swirls from the eye sockets.

   
"I'd prefer it if you didn't do that," sniffed Harding.

   
Frost pinched out the cigarette and dropped it into his mac pocket. "Right. Just tell me his name, address, inside leg measurement and who killed him, and I'll be on my way."

   
A thin smile from Harding. "We can't tell you that, Inspector, but we can tell you quite a bit about him." He picked up part of the arm bone and showed Frost where it had been sawn neatly through. "The consultant at Denton Hospital did that for his tests. In his opinion we have the skeleton of a man in his early thirties." As Frost shrugged disinterest, Harding replaced the bone carefully in position, then pointed to the brown-stained leg bone where a crack showed near the ankle. "See that fracture? He broke his ankle a few weeks before the time of death."

   
"Hold on," said Frost, squinting closely at the cracked section. "How do you make that out?"

   
Harding smiled, glad of a chance to explain. "Broken bones try to heal themselves. They gradually knit together again, but the knitting process stops at death. The consultant says the amount of healing there indicates a few weeks only."

   
Frost pointed to the skull. "What about the fracture?"

   
"Definitely made at the time of death and it's probably what led to his death, although the fracture alone might not have been fatal had he received prompt medical treatment."

   
"Could it have been an accident—say his bad leg made him fall downstairs and fracture his skull?"

   
"The consultant doubts if anything other than a blow from the good old blunt instrument could have caused an injury like that."

   
"Did he say how long the poor sod had been dead? I know he can't be precise, but within a minute or so?"

   
"Definitely less than the seventy you'd like it to be, Inspector. Between forty and fifty years, he reckons. And that's borne out by this." Harding picked up a small plastic bag with the wrist-watch inside. "We managed to trace the maker. They first made this particular model forty-five years ago."

   
Frost took another look at the skull. "Anyone checked his choppers?"

   
"All his own teeth and in quite good condition apart from a couple of fillings. That doesn't help much and I doubt if we'll find any dentist who still keeps patients' records from so long ago."

   
Frost frowned at the skeleton. "He's not making it easy for us to identify him."

   
"He's being particularly unhelpful," agreed Harding. "We sifted all the earth from around the burial site and found nothing. Vegetable matter such as cotton would rot away after being in the ground for so long, but some trace of clothing should be left—buttons, buckles, zips, metal eyelets. There was nothing, absolutely nothing."

   
"Which means?"

   
"Unless he was undressed after death, it suggests he was stark naked when he was killed—apart from the wrist-watch."

   
Frost kneaded some life back into his scar. It was always freezing cold in the Forensic lab, just like the hospital morgue. He stared up at the ceiling for inspiration. "Starkers, except for his watch? The only time I'm starkers, except for my watch, is when I'm having it away but want to keep an eye on the time so I don't miss the football results on the telly." He watched Harding put the watch back in the drawer. "Thanks for sod all."

   
Harding smiled the smug smile of a man who had something up his sleeve. "There's something else, Inspector." He pulled out something from under the lab bench. A polythene bag containing something encrusted in rust. Frost took the bag. Inside, heavily corroded, were the rusty remains of a kitchen knife, its handle long-since crumbled away, the metal spike which had run through the handle ending in a metal ring so the knife could be hung on a hook. "We found it underneath the skeleton," said Harding.

   
Frost stared at the long-bladed knife. It would have been a wicked weapon when new. "Are you saying he was stabbed?"

   
Harding shook his head. "There's no way of tying the knife to the body, I'm afraid. It was under the skeleton and could have been buried long before."

   
Frost gave a snort. "Thanks for even more sod all," he said. "That helps a flaming lot." As he made for the door he paused. "Are you sure he's dead?"

   
Harding frowned. "What do you mean?"

   
"The bastard's just pinched one of my fags," said Frost, pointing to the skull which now had a lighted cigarette in its mouth.

   
"It's still not funny," snapped Harding, coldly.

   
But Frost was laughing to himself all the way back to his car.

Quarter past ten and he was back at the station with the feeling it was going to be another long, hard night. He had filled everyone in on the details known about the skeleton, but stressed they weren't to spend any time on it. "We've got the killing of more recent meat to sort out first." He looked up as the door creaked open and Morgan, hoping to sneak in unobserved, began to tiptoe across to a vacant desk. "I'd like to apologise to DC Morgan," said Frost, "for not waiting fifteen bleeding minutes before he condescended to join us."

   
Morgan gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, guv . . . damned alarm clock . . ."

   
"Yes, if you switch them off and go back to sleep they're no bleeding good, are they?" He noticed the DC rubbing his jaw. "How did you get on with the dentist?"

   
Morgan rattled a little white box. "Gave me some painkillers, guv. Said he couldn't touch it until the swelling had gone down."

   
"That's what the nurse said to me," Frost told him, "but I think she was talking about my dick." He heaved himself off the corner of the desk. "You all know what to do. Chat up the ladies of the night, spurn their tempting offers and see if they can name that torn!"

   
Back in his office he was surprised to see Liz Maud waiting for him.

   
"Quick word, Inspector."

   
"Sure." He waved her to a chair. "How's the armed robbery going?"

   
"I'm getting nowhere . . . but I'm afraid I'm going to have to hand my cases over to you."

   
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

   
"I've got to go to London for some medical treatment."

   
He looked concerned. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

   
She shook her head. "No . . . a minor operation . . . I'll be back in a couple of days."

   
"Good." It wasn't flaming good. They were already short-staffed and now all her cases were going to be dumped on him. He waited. It didn't look as if she was going into details, but he could make a guess and it wouldn't be for ingrowing toenails.

   
"I'll be off tomorrow afternoon and probably back next Friday."

   
"Well, don't come back until you're properly fit. I'll try not to sod your cases too much."

   
She smiled. "I'm sure you won't."

   
"What's the problem with the armed robbery?"

   
"They had to have swapped cars somewhere near where they shot the old boy . . . but we can't find either car."

   
Frost scratched his chin. "They might not have gone to the woods for their own car. They could have walked. They might even live near the woods."

   
"Possible," she shrugged, "but if they lived locally, they would have dumped the old boy's car somewhere in Denton . . . So why haven't we found it?"

   
"Because we're bleeding inefficient," Frost told her. "And we're working on a shoe-string thanks to Mullett's generosity in giving County all our spare manpower. We haven't got the bodies to go up and down every side street and alley."

   
She nodded. "I suppose so."

   
He found a pencil stub and turned over one of Mullett's memos so he could write on the back. "Tell me about your cases."

Station Sergeant Bill Wells took an instant dislike to the man the minute he barged through the doors. But then he felt this way with most members of the public who came crashing in with their petty grievances, expecting instant attention. This one, a lout in his late twenties with close-cropped hair and a scowling face, was snapping his fingers for Wells to attend to him. "Yes?" grunted Wells. He wasn't going to waste a 'sir' on this rubbish.

   
"My car's been stolen."

   
"Stolen car?" Wells tugged a form from a stack and pushed it across. "Fill in the details."

   
"You fill in your own flaming forms. I know who's stolen it and I want her arrested." He pushed the form back.

   
"And who do you think has stolen it?" asked Wells.

   
"I don't think, I flaming know It's my girlfriend . . . my ex-flaming-girlfriend now. She's run off and pinched my motor."

   
"You're saying she took it without your permission?"

   
The man rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "That's what stealing means, doesn't it? Would I be wasting my time with flaming wooden tops if I had given her permission?"

   
Wells gritted his teeth to keep his temper. Let's hope she's driven the flaming thing over a cliff, he said to himself. The man took a cigarette from a packet and stuck it in his mouth. Wells waited until he had it well lit before pointing to the 'No Smoking' sign. "If you don't mind," he said, hoping Frost wouldn't spoil it by slouching in with a cigarette going full blast. Scowling, the man ground the cigarette under foot. Wells smiled sweetly. "Give me the details—as briefly as possible. We're very busy."

   
"We both work nights. I usually drive her to work and pick her up in the morning. I didn't go to work yesterday as I went up to London to see the big match."

   
Wells jabbed a finger. "I remember you now. You were here last night with those other yobbos in the coach. Was it you throwing up in the bloody corner?"

   
"No, it wasn't me throwing up and yes, I was here. Anyway, as I wouldn't be able to drive her, I told her to phone her work and say she was sick or something."

   
"Why couldn't she drive herself ?"

   
"Because she hasn't passed her driving test. If she had an accident or anything, the insurers wouldn't pay out. When I got back in this morning, no sign of her and more important, no sign of my car."

   
"So what did you do?"

   
"What the hell could I do? I went to bed. I woke up about four this afternoon; still no sign of her. I waited until ten o'clock when she should be at the hospital and phoned them."

   
"The hospital?" queried Wells.

   
"She's a nurse, does the night shift at Denton General—at least, that's what she told me. When I phoned them today they said they'd never heard of her."

   
Wells rubbed a hand over his face. This was getting beyond him. "Never heard of her? Was she an agency nurse?"

   
"I don't know—what difference would that make?"

   
"Some of these part-time agency nurses give false names to avoid having to pay income tax. She might have used a different name."

   
"According to Denton General, the only nurses working nights in her ward were two West Indians and a nun . . ." He tugged a photograph from his pocket and stuck it under Wells' nose. "Does she look like a bleeding nun?"

   
Wells squinted at a photograph of an attractive girl in a very low-cut dress, leaning forward to show yards of cleavage. The cleavage was so attractive, it took him a while to look at her face. He stared. "Just give me a moment, sir." He used the phone in Control, out of earshot of the man, and buzzed Inspector Frost. "You'd better get out here right away, Jack." He looked again at the photograph. She definitely wasn't a nun . . . she was the murdered tom.

Frost tapped a cigarette on the packet and lit up. He was leaning against the wall of the interview room, watching the man closely as Liz interviewed him.

   
"What the hell's going on?" asked the man. "The wooden top outside says you're all terribly busy, now I get two detective inspectors falling all over me about a stolen car."

   
Liz made an attempt at a reassuring smile. "Just a couple of questions." She glanced at the form on the table. "You are Victor John Lewis, 2a Fleming Street, Denton?"