Detective Sergeant Arthur Hanlon followed the silent line of men and women as they moved slowly forward, poking and prodding. He checked his watch. It was almost too dark to see the dial. Nearly five o'clock, time to call the search off until the morning. A police whistle shrilled, echoed by other, fainter, whistles in the distance. Wearily, the searchers, miserable and dispirited, straightened up and made for their transport. A long, cold, fruitless search.
Hanlon nodded as they trudged past him to the parked cars. His back hurt from continually stooping. He was cold, his trouser legs were sodden from wet grass, his clothes clammy where moisture had dripped and trickled from overhanging branches. He ached all over and he was hungry. He looked around. Where was Jack Frost? The inspector had come down to check on progress and had then wandered over to the hospital buildings to join the few men Hanlon had been able to spare to search them yet again. A waste of time, but the inspector was insistent.
He needed to talk to Frost to find out if he should send the search teams straight out in the morning or wait for a briefing. Mullett was getting very fidgety about overtime being paid to men with cups of tea in their hands, laughing at Frost's dirty jokes, instead of getting down to the nitty-gritty of searching. And had Frost dismissed the men doing the hospital grounds search? Mullett had insisted that no overtime was to be paid for after five o'clock. Hanlon rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation, then climbed in his car and headed for the hospital grounds to find Frost.
The numbing wind cut right through him, but at least it was driving away the mist. He turned up his coat collar as he plodded over the thick carpet of wet, fallen leaves along the little-used paths at the back of the hospital. There was Frost's car, the radio chattering away aimlessly with no-one to listen to it. Somewhere in the distance someone had lit a bonfire and the wind carried the smell of burning leaves. Then another smell. Cigarette smoke. Frost was near, but he couldn't see him in the dark.
'Jack?'
A grunt in reply. Hanlon squeezed through some bushes and there was Frost, cigarette drooping, slumped against the crumbling brick wall of a derelict hospital shed. Hanlon looked around anxiously. No sign of the other men so he hoped Frost had sent them home.
'I've called off the search for tonight, Jack. We'll meet up again at the station first light tomorrow.'
Frost took the cigarette from his mouth. 'Cancel it.'
Hanlon blinked, not sure he had heard correctly. 'Cancel it?' he echoed. He stared at the inspector as the glow from the cigarette lit up his face, a face grey with fatigue, looking older than his years. 'Why, Jack? We can still find her.'
Frost stared into the distant dark, squinting against the smoke from his cigarette. 'I've found her, Arthur,' he said quietly. He jerked a thumb at the shed.
Hanlon's face creased into a puzzled frown. 'She can't be there, Jack. We searched it thoroughly this morning, and this afternoon.'
'Then you couldn't have been thorough enough,' snapped Frost, 'because she's in there.'
Hanlon moved away to look, but Frost caught his sleeve. 'Don't be in such a bloody hurry to see her, Arthur. She's dead. The bastard has raped and strangled her… he's nearly torn her apart.'
He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and hurled it savagely into the darkness, then pulled out the packet and offered it. Hanlon, who rarely smoked, took one. 'We'll need the police surgeon, Forensic-' he began.
'I've called them,' said Frost, clicking his cigarette lighter. They lit up and smoked, saying nothing. Car headlights sheared through the darkness. 'That will be them now.'
Harding, with two of his staff from Forensic, homed in on Frost's shouts. 'Where is she?' Frost led them to the shed door.
'I thought this had been searched earlier?' said Harding.
'We must have missed her,' muttered Frost, switching on his torch and pulling back a length of sacking that had once held fertilizer. He moved back so Harding could see.
Harding bent over the tiny body. The girl, wearing a green dress, lay on her side, the body slightly curved as if she had been carried in someone's arms before being dumped on the floor. In the corner of the shed, apparently just thrown in, was a child's blue anorak. The girl's eyes were open and marks of bruising were evident around her neck.
Harding briefly lifted the skirt then, with a look of disgust, straightened up. 'She's been raped!'
'Tell me something I don't know,' grunted Frost.
'Has the pathologist seen her yet?' Harding asked.
'No, so try not to move her. You know what a fussy sod he is.'
Headlights hurled their shadows against the far wall. The rest of the Forensic team had arrived. Frost took Harding's arm and lowered his voice. 'I've got the sod who did this, but not enough proof to make it stick. Find me evidence to nail the bastard, and if you can't find anything, bloody plant it!'
A nervous twitch of a smile from Harding who was never sure when Frost was joking. 'If there's anything here, Inspector, we'll find it, I promise you.' He called the rest of his team over as Frost went outside to wait for the pathologist.
He was speeding down the Bath Road on his way back to the station, a thousand thoughts swirling, like the mist, round his brain. Then he noticed the speedometer… he was doing over eighty. That's right, kill yourself, you silly sod. He slowed down to a fairly respectable sixty. He was nearly at the station when he realized he hadn't broken the news to Jenny's mother. Shit! He slammed on the brakes and squealed into a U turn. This was the part of the job he hated.
'Dead?' She broke down and he was holding her tight, saying nothing as her body shook and hot, scalding tears splashed down her face. How many times had he held mothers like this, telling them of the death of their kids? Too many times! What a bloody job!
'I never treated her right,' she sobbed, 'but I loved her. I really loved her.'
Frost nodded, patting the back of her head soothingly, still saying nothing. Pity you didn't love the poor cow more when she was alive, he thought. Aloud he murmured, as if it would make her feel better: 'We've got the bastard, love… we've got the bastard who did it.'
Ignoring the incessant ringing of the phones, Bill Wells stamped his feet to get the blood flowing, then felt the radiator in the lobby to make sure it was working properly. It was going full blast but didn't seem to be warming the place up very much. He clapped his hands over the papers on his desk to keep them in place as the lobby door crashed open and Frost, maroon scarf streaming behind him, hurtled in. 'Mr Mullett wants to see you, Inspector,' called Wells.
'Hard luck,' said Frost over his shoulder as he dashed past. 'I want Weaver in the interview room -now!'
Wells jerked a thumb to the constantly ringing phones. 'The press won't leave us alone. They're screaming for a statement.'
'They can bloody scream. Get Weaver.' And the swing doors slammed shut behind him.
Wells returned to the desk. Ignoring the outside lines, he picked up the internal phone. It was Mullett. 'Yes, sir, he's just this minute come back. Yes, I did tell him. I'm sure he will be with you soon.' He held the phone away from his ear as Mullett bleated his annoyance. 'Yes, sir, I'll tell him.' He banged the phone down and yelled for Collier to fetch Weaver from the cell, then turned his attention to the other phones. 'Yes. I can confirm we have found a body of a young girl. Sorry… no further comment at this stage…'
Weaver blinked at the light as Collier ushered him into the interview room, smoothing back his hair and rubbing his face as if he had just been wakened from a sound sleep. He gave Frost his 'always willing to help' smile. Frost stared at him, nose wrinkled with contempt as he flicked a finger to the chair. 'Sit!'
Weaver sat, looking hurt at the inspector's tone.
'You're interested in photographs, aren't you?' asked Frost, snatching a photograph from the file on the table and thrusting it in Weaver's face. It was the Forensic coloured Polaroid photograph of the dead Jenny Brewer, eyes bulging, blood trickling from her nose and mouth.
Weaver flinched and pushed Frost's hands away. He closed his eyes and refused to look.
'Recognize her?' demanded Frost, barely in control of himself. 'That's how we found her. Were her eyes open in terror like that when you raped the poor little cow? Seven years old, you bastard – seven years old.'
The colour seeped from Weaver's face. He slid his chair back from the table as if trying to get as far from the photograph as possible. 'You're trying to incriminate me,' he shrilled. 'You want a suspect, so you're framing me.'
'Did you give her one of your green sweets first? "Here little girl, have a sweetie while nice Uncle Charlie rapes you then chokes the bloody life out of you"?'
Weaver started sobbing, then leapt to his feet, sending the chair crashing back to the wall. 'You framed me. You planted the body… you…" Then his eyes opened wide and his hand went to his throat, tearing open his collar. He was making deep wheezing noises as he desperately tried to suck in air. Frost sprang up and flung the door open. 'Bill! Get his bloody inhaler.' He looked helplessly at Collier, hoping the constable would know what to do as Weaver sank to his knees, fighting for breath. After what seemed ages, Wells returned with the inhaler. 'Get him a doctor,' said Frost, 'and bloody quick.' He snapped a glance at Collier. 'Interview terminated at 8.20.'
'8.24,' corrected Collier.
'What bloody difference?' snarled Frost as he stamped out.
Mullett waylaid him as he slouched back to the office. He was not going to let Frost get away this time. 'You've found Jenny Brewer? Why am I always the last to know?'
'Sorry,' mumbled Frost. 'I was on my way to see you now.'
'And she was found in a place that was supposed to have been thoroughly searched earlier?'
'Yes.' He was in no mood for a bollocking and had to suppress the urge to barge Mullett out of the way and get back to his office.
'So most of today's search, which involved sixty men and women, many on overtime, was a complete and utter waste of time?'
'No. We found her.'
'But if she had been found the first time that shed was searched we could have called off the teams hours ago. Have you any idea what this little lot has cost?'
'No,' answered Frost. 'Funnily enough, that was the last thing on my mind. All I was stupidly thinking of was trying to find the poor little cow.'
Mullett glowered. 'Don't try to be clever with me, Frost. We all wanted that, but everything has to be paid for. Who was supposed to have searched that shed?'
'No idea,' replied Frost, 'but I'm going to find out.' He did know, but wanted to talk to the man before dropping him in it with Mullett.
'I want his name the minute you find out. I'm throwing the book at him, Frost.' He spun on his heels, then realized he hadn't involved Frost in this foul-up. He jabbed an accusing finger. 'You were in charge, Frost. It was your responsibility to check and double-check. Your usual sloppiness had no place here.'
He turned and stamped back to his office, sped on his way by a two-fingered gesture.
Frost slumped in his chair and stared at his in-tray which was stacked high with reports from the officers interviewing prostitutes in connection with the serial killings. As he flipped through them, WPC Polly Fletcher, sandy hair, freckles and a snub nose, came in with another wad of paper. She had been manning the phones in the murder incident room and had taken messages from toms reporting clients who liked to indulge in rough sex play. Frost smiled at her. She looked so flaming desirable. Flipping heck, he thought, if I was twenty years younger and not so bloody tired, I'd show her what rough sex play means. He took the reports and glanced through them. 'Anything helpful here, Polly?'
She shook her head. 'Descriptions are all pretty vague and none of them seem really violent. A couple of possibles which I've marked.' She bent over to show him where she had circled some details. As she did so a wisp of sandy hair brushed his cheek and he could smell the perfumed soap she had been using on that freckled skin. Suddenly he didn't feel tired any more. 'Ta, Polly.' He watched as she walked out, her little bottom wiggling delightfully. Thank God Morgan wasn't here… he'd be chewing up the furniture. And that reminded him. Where the hell was Morgan? A quick cigarette as he waited for the doctor to see Weaver so he could continue the questioning. Fortunately, one was already on the premises attending to a drunk with a cut head, so it shouldn't take long.
Bill Wells came in. 'The doctor's seen him, Jack. Only a mild attack, nothing to worry about.'
Frost gathered up the files. 'Wheel him into the interview room.'
Wells shook his head. 'He's refusing to say another word until he sees his solicitor.'
Frost hurled the files down on his desk in disgust. 'How long will that take?'
'We're trying to track him down. His office is closed and we're getting no reply from his home number.'
'Get on to his staff. He might be on a flaming round the world cruise for all we know. Tell them it's urgent. I need to find out what Weaver's done with the other kid.'
'All in hand,' Wells assured him. He paused at the door. 'Is it true Taffy Morgan was supposed to have searched that shed where the kid's body was found?'
Frost nodded.
'He should be chucked out of the force.,. He's rubbish.'
'So am I,' grunted Frost, 'but I'm still here.' He pretended to busy himself with papers until the sergeant had left. He didn't want to talk about Taffy until the man had had a chance to defend himself.
The phone gave a little cough. He snatched it up on the first ring. Harding from Forensic. 'Preliminary findings on the shed and the girl, Inspector.'
Frost cradled the phone on his shoulder as he reached for a pen. 'Let's have it.'
'Still more tests to carry out, but things don't look too hopeful. Fibres and odds and ends on the kid's clothing and hair. I expect we can prove some of these came from Weaver's house, but I understand he admits she's been there?'
'She was raped. The DNA should put the finger on him.'
'It looks as if he used a condom, Inspector.'
Frost sighed a stream of smoke. 'Safe bleeding sex has got a lot to answer for. It can't be all bad, you must have some good news?'
'We might have. Does your suspect smoke?'
'No – he's a paragon of bleeding virtues: doesn't drink, doesn't smoke and always uses a condom when he rapes seven-year-old kids.'
'Then forget the good news – we found a fairly fresh cigarette end near the body.'
'Send it down. I'll smoke it later. Anything else to brighten up my day?'
'No, but we'll keep trying.'
Frost banged down the phone. If Forensic couldn't help, he'd have to try to wring a confession out of Weaver. He rang Wells. 'Found that solicitor yet?'
'Give us a chance, Jack. It's only a couple of minutes since we last spoke.'
As he put the phone down, the outside line rang. The pathologist's secretary. 'Mr Drysdale could do the autopsy on the girl now, Inspector, if you could get over here.'
'On my way,' said Frost.
Frost stood well back from the pool of light that splashed down on to the autopsy table. He didn't want to see what Drysdale was doing to the poor kid, he just wanted to know the result, hoping the pathologist would find something that would link the crime positively to Weaver. Every now and then Drysdale would move back so the man from Forensic could take photographs.
'Extensive tearing and bruising around the vaginal area,' Drysdale intoned flatly. He lifted one of the child's arms and examined the wrist. 'Traces of adhesive… probably from sticky tape of some kind.'
Frost nodded. That was one of the first things he had spotted. The wrists would have been bound together to stop the kid struggling during the assault. He felt a surge of despair. This bloody mortuary was becoming a second home – so many nasty murder cases, so many days and nights watching Drysdale methodically cutting and slicing.
'Fading bruises on the arms, legs and buttocks,' continued Drysdale. 'Made at least a week before death.'
'Yes,' Frost told him. 'When the poor cow wasn't being raped, the mother's boyfriend used to hit her.' Drysdale grunted. That sort of background was of no interest to him. 'More signs of adhesive around the mouth… Hello!' Frost's head snapped up. Drysdale was teasing something from the child's mouth, something sodden and grey, which he dropped into a kidney bowl, then prodded with the tweezers. 'Bathroom tissue of some kind. Looks as if he used a ball of it as a gag.'
Frost joined him to examine the mess in the stainless steel bowl. 'Toilet paper! He used toilet paper!' He tugged out his mobile phone and, watched by a frowning Drysdale, got through to Control. 'Send someone over to Weaver's house right away. I want the toilet roll from his bog bagged and sent over to Forensic… and search the place for condoms. If they find any, let me know right away.' He turned back to Drysdale who was again teasing away at the mouth, extracting more tissue. 'Get it all out, doc – every piece. Try not to tear it.'
Drysdale glowered. 'I don't need you to tell me how to do my job, Inspector.' He dumped another sodden wad into the kidney bowl. 'She could have choked on this.'
'Did she?' asked Frost.
'No. She died of manual strangulation.'
'She was a feisty little kid, doc. She'd have put up one hell of a fight. Could she have scratched him? Anything under her nails?'
In answer Drysdale lifted a waxen arm and pointed to the fingers. The nails were bitten down to the quick. 'She couldn't have scratched him if she wanted to.'
'I bet the poor little cow wanted to,' said Frost bitterly. Nothing at all yet to link Weaver to the crime. 'I need something, doc, I really do.' He turned his head away as Drysdale's scalpel slashed across the tiny stomach.
'She ate two boiled sweets about half an hour before she died.' The pathologist held up a small glass jar in which little bits of green floated. 'Lime drops, or something.'
'He admits to giving her sweets,' Frost told him.
'Nevertheless, it might be an entirely different brand. Someone else might have abducted her after she left your suspect's house.'
'She left his house in a bloody bin liner,' said Frost. 'I'm not out to prove the bastard innocent. I want proof of his guilt.'
'Dead some forty-eight to sixty hours,' said Drysdale.
'Last seen alive two days ago, doc.'
'Nearer forty-eight hours, then. Ample evidence of sexual penetration, but no trace of semen, suggesting a condom was used or ejaculation did not take place.'
Frost switched off. He didn't want to hear this part. Poor little cow, mouth stuffed with toilet tissue to stifle her pleading screams, hands taped behind her back so she couldn't fight off dear old Uncle Charlie who had given her the nice green sweets. He tore himself away from his thoughts and found himself staring at the pale face. 'She was a pretty little kid,' he said.
Drysdale looked up from his cutting and gave the face a quick glance. 'Yes. I suppose she was…'
As soon as the autopsy was over, Frost hurried out to his car and radioed through to the station to fine out if Weaver's solicitor had been traced yet. 'He's on his way, Inspector. Be about an hour.'
'And Morgan?'
'Hasn't turned up yet. By the way, toilet paper from Weaver's house has been sent over to Forensic. No sign of any condoms.'
'Right.' He clicked off. An hour to kill. He didn't feel like going back to the station with Mullett lurking about so he detoured to the Forensic lab to find out if they had any joy matching up the toilet paper.
'It will be another twenty-four hours,' protested Harding, who was overseeing the work of one of his white-coated assistants.
'I haven't got twenty-four hours. I want to know now.' He knew he was being unreasonable.
Harding showed him the toilet roll taken from Weaver's bathroom. 'All we can say at the moment is that this, and the substance taken from the girl's mouth, appear to be of the same type and colour and from the same manufacturer.'
Frost sighed with relief. 'Well, that's something. I'd be up the flaming creek if they were different.'
'The trouble is, Inspector, this is one of the top-selling brands… millions are sold every week. You've probably got the same type in your bathroom.'
Frost shook his head. 'I use Mullett's memos… they give me more satisfaction.'
A technician, who was squinting down a microscope in the far corner, beckoned Harding over. They held a murmured conversation and, from the look on Harding's face when he returned, Frost knew he wasn't going to like this.
I'm afraid the probability is that the samples are from two entirely different rolls.'
'It doesn't take twenty-four hours when it's bad bleeding news, does it?' moaned Frost bitterly. 'How can you be so sure?'
'We were trying a long shot. If the sheets in the girl's mouth had been torn from the roll in Weaver's bathroom, there was a faint chance we could match up the perforations. We'd have to be damn lucky, of course.'
'And he'd have to be bloody constipated. She went missing two days ago.'
'I said it was a long shot. Anyway, no joy. The paper in the girl's mouth came from a brand new roll.'
'How the hell do you know that?'
'The manufacturers always seal down the end of the roll to stop it flapping open.' He held up a new roll. 'You can see the ridge on this one here.'
Frost nodded gloomily. 'Everything you wanted to know about bog paper, but were afraid to ask. And the roll from Weaver's house?'
'At least three-quarters used. Either Weaver got through a hell of a lot of toilet paper in a very short time, or he had a brand new roll handy and he used that. Find the brand new roll and there's a good chance we can match the perforations.'
Out with the mobile to call Control. 'Get another team over to Weaver's place. Go through drawers, cupboards, cases, the lot. We've looking for another toilet roll. If they have no luck, forage his rubbish bins. Use as many men as you like, but find it.' Back to Harding. 'Anything else?'
'Nothing that helps. We can prove she was in Weaver's house, but he's admitted that already, so it doesn't help much.'
He sat and smoked and fidgeted, watching Harding's slow, methodical examination of the clothing. He couldn't stand people being methodical, it was so Alien to his own method of working. Sod it. He couldn't sit around doing nothing. He pinched out the cigarette that was annoying Harding and decided he would look in on Weaver's place to see how the search for the elusive toilet roll was progressing.
Two police cars were parked outside and lights blazed from every window. Frost thumbed the doorbell. 'Could you spare a few moments to discuss the meaning of the scriptures?' he asked Jordan who opened the door to him. Grinning, the PC led him into the house. 'We've found it,' he announced triumphantly.
Through to the kitchen where a twelve-pack of supermarket toilet rolls lay on the table. 'Ta-ra!' fanfared Jordan.
Frost's face fell. He did a quick check, just in case, then shook his head. 'Sorry, son, these are no good. I'm after an almost new roll with just a couple of sheets torn from it.' He explained briefly, annoyed with himself that he hadn't made it clear earlier.
He wandered from room to room, watching as drawers were wrenched open and the contents tipped out, cupboard doors opened and slammed shut. Lots of noise, much activity, but achieving nothing. He went back to the kitchen and took a peek in the bread bin. The half-used loaf inside was growing thick green mould like a decomposing body. He shut the lid quickly.
Jordan joined him. 'We've looked in all possible places, Inspector. Shall we try the loft?'
'He wouldn't be such a twat as to hide it,' answered Frost. 'If he realized it might be important, he'd have destroyed it, but look anyway.'
He was beginning to feel depressed again. They had practically nothing on Weaver that would stand up in court. The last-minute stroke of luck that at times came to his rescue was having one of its many off-days. He jabbed a finger at Jordan. 'Have we searched the dustbin?'
'Yes, but the council emptied them yesterday – it was almost empty.'
Simms returned, brushing dust and cobwebs from his uniform. 'Nothing in the loft,' he reported.
The other two PCs, Evans and Howe, joined them. They too had found nothing. Frost sent his cigarettes on the rounds and they all sat and smoked as he chewed things over in his mind.
'If it's that important,' suggested Simms, 'I suppose we could do a search of the rubbish sacks down at the council depot?'
'If he realized how important it was,' said Frost, 'he'd have destroyed the damn thing. If he didn't realize, then he wouldn't have binned an almost new bog roll with plenty of wiping space left.' He stood up. 'Finish your fags. Don't rush, you're on overtime -then call it a day.'
Back to the car and a radio call to the station. 'Is Perry Mason there yet?'
'The solicitor phoned, Jack,' said Wells. 'He's stuck on the motorway behind a lorry that's shed its load. He'll be at least a couple of hours.'
'Another couple of hours?' echoed Frost. 'Sod it, we can't wait. Tell Weaver he's got to come up with a brief who can turn up in fifteen minutes, otherwise he'll have to make do with the duty solicitor.'
'We can't force him to do that, Jack.'
'But he might not know that. Try it on.' Frost waited patiently for Wells to radio back.
'He won't wear it, Jack.'
'Then sod him… burn his bloody toast for breakfast.' He had no sooner replaced the handset when his mobile phone rang and a voice he didn't recognize asked, 'Inspector Frost?'
'That depends who's calling,' he replied guardedly.
'We haven't met – Detective Chief Inspector Preston, Belton Division.' Belton was the neighbouring Division to Denton.
'What can I do for you?' asked Frost, hoping there was nothing.
'It's what I can do for you, Inspector. You reported Bertha Jenkins, a big fat tom, missing. I think we've found her.'
George Owen, Station Sergeant, Belton Division, clicked on his polite smile. 'Can I help you, sir?'
'Chief Inspector Preston, please.'
'Oh – you'll be Inspector Frost. Mr Preston told me to expect you.' Preston had said: 'If a scruffy bastard in a dirty mac turns up, it'll be Jack Frost from Denton. 'Mr Preston is at the incident site. I'll try to contact him.' He popped into the Control room leaving Frost to mooch around the lobby, reading the tattered police notices about the Colorado Beetle and Foot and Mouth Disease. Suddenly he was staring at a familiar face. Vicky Stuart, smiling her gapped-tooth grin… 'Missing Girl'. He turned away. What had that bastard Weaver done with this poor little cow? He looked at his watch, anxious to get back to Denton before Weaver's brief arrived.
The station sergeant returned. 'Mr Preston says can you make your own way to the site? He's got no-one available to bring you.' He gave Frost directions, adding, 'You can't miss it.'
He missed it, finding himself floundering down country lanes that led nowhere and the fog thickening. Eventually he managed to get back to the main road and spotted the turn-off guarded by a young constable who seemed glad to have a car to stop. 'You can't go down here, sir.' He wouldn't believe Frost was an inspector until he had studied the dogeared warrant card. 'Just round the bend, sir,' he directed, fumbling for his radio to let the chief inspector know.
It was a dark, bumpy, rutted dirt road, overhung with dripping trees, but as he turned the bend everything sprang into life with floodlights, cars double parked, radios chattering, men crawling over the grass verge and a small tent-like structure glowing orange from the lights within.
Heads turned as he approached the taped-off area to the tent which was well back from the road. One or two of the old hands recognized him and waved. The younger men wondered who the scruff was.
Detective Chief Inspector Preston, thin, balding and unsmiling, greeted him with a curt nod. 'We could have done without this. It's your damn crime with the victim dumped in our Division.'
'Stick her in the car and I'll take her back to Demon,' grunted Frost, hating the man on sight. 'Where is she?'
'Where do you think? We didn't put the tent up to go camping.' He ducked through the flapped entrance and Frost followed.
She lay on her back, eyes open, like the others. Naked, her heavy sagging breasts sprawled over the rolls of fat on her stomach, a stomach disfigured with weals, bruises and burns. Dyed red hair, now blackened by wet grass, cushioned the head. Frost stared down at her. 'That's her,' he said. 'That's Big Bertha.' He knelt on the polythene sheeting spread alongside the body and lifted a cold, heavy, wet hand. Deep marks were grooved into the raw blooded wrist. 'The poor bitch has had a right going-over,' he muttered.
'Suffocated, probably with a pillow,' said Preston. 'The doctor reckons she's been dead a couple of days at least.'
Frost straightened up and rubbed his hands together to get the chill of death out of them. 'Who found her?'
'A motorist cut through to relieve himself and spotted her.'
'Our last one was found by a motorist having a pee,' said Frost. 'He wouldn't give his name.'
'Ours ditto,' said Preston.
Frost consulted his watch. The solicitor should be well on his way by now. He lifted the flap and measured the distance to the road with his eyes. 'If she was lugged all this way, whoever dumped her must have been a strong bastard.'
'She was probably dragged,' said Preston.
Frost dropped down on his knees again and lifted the body slightly, ignoring Preston's alarmed protests that Drysdale wouldn't like it. 'If he'd dragged her there would be abrasions.' He pointed. There weren't any.
'Needn't have been one strong man – could have been two men,' suggested Preston, annoyed that he hadn't spotted the absence of abrasions.
'Or the seven bleeding dwarfs,' snapped Frost. 'We've got to get this bastard and bloody quick – he's got the taste for it.'
A slamming of car doors and the murmur of voices sent Preston dashing over to the tent flap. He peeked out and signalled urgently to Frost. 'It's Drysdale,' he hissed. 'If he thinks we've moved the body…'
'Don't panic,' said Frost, lowering the body back to its original position. 'All we've got to do is look innocent and lie.'
Drysdale, followed by his blonde secretary, pushed through the tent flap, his warm smile of greeting to Preston freezing when he saw Frost standing behind him. 'Twice in one day, Inspector,' he sniffed.
'Some days you can't believe your luck,' said Frost. He checked his watch again. 'Sorry to disappoint you, doc, but I must love you and leave you. I've a suspect to interview back at Demon.'
Preston took Frost to one side. 'We need to cooperate on this – pool our resources, share our information.'
'I'll send over what we've got,' said Frost. 'It amounts to sod all: no descriptions, no leads, nothing, but it might help. I'm pinning my hopes on catching the sod in the act.' With a brief nod he ducked through the flap on his way back to his car.
Bill Wells looked up as Frost marched over. 'Solicitor's here. I've put him in No. 2 interview room. He doesn't like being kept waiting.'
'He kept me waiting long enough,' said Frost. He unbuttoned his mac and loosened his scarf. 'Any sign of the flaming Welsh wizard?'
Wells shook his head. 'He never came back here, Jack. I even sent someone round to his digs, but no-one in. I reckon he's on the nest somewhere.'
'He probably thinks having it away is more fun than having his goolies chewed off by me,' said Frost. 'If he does condescend to make an appearance, I want him.' He pushed through the swing doors and made his way to the interview room.
Fosswick, the solicitor, had been to an official function and was still wearing evening dress under his thick black overcoat. He was annoyed at being dragged away and even more annoyed, after hurrying through that damned fog, to be dumped in a drab, cold interview room and told to wait. A scruffy little man who matched the scruffy little room came in and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Frost.
The solicitor acknowledged him mournfully. He was hoping for someone far more senior and impressive to make his evening less of a waste of time. 'I don't know why you've dragged me down here, Inspector. We rarely do criminal work and I hardly know the man. We dealt with the purchase of his house about three years ago, and that's about it.'
'It's not me dragging you down here, sir, it's your client. We're holding him for questioning in connection with the abduction, rape and murder of a seven-year-old girl.'
The solicitor's face was expressionless. 'I see. And what makes you think my client is involved in this?'
Fosswick listened intently as Frost outlined the details, a growing expression of concern and distaste on his face. This was not the sort of case he wanted to be involved in. He pulled out a gold fountain pen and made a few notes, telling himself that he would pass the details on to someone else first thing in the morning, someone more used to dealing with such sordidness. 'You haven't actually charged him yet?'
'No, sir, but it is our intention to do so.'
Fosswick replaced the cap on his pen. 'I'd now like a few words with my client.'
I'll go and get him for you.' Frost opened the door, then closed it again. 'The other little girl might still be alive, sir.' He held up a photograph of Vicky. 'If you could persuade your client to tell us where she is…'
Fosswick scowled. 'I am not here to do your job for you, Inspector. My first duty is to Mr Weaver.' He looked at the photograph and his expression softened. 'However, I'll see what I can do.'
Not such a bad old bastard after all, thought Frost as he made his way to the cell area.
The shrill, urgent ringing of a bell sliced through his thoughts. The alarm from the cell area, usually rung when an officer was being assaulted or a prisoner was taken sick. At first he took no notice. Probably the drunk causing trouble. The uniformed boys were quite capable of handling crises like that. He was aware of the sound of running feet and voices raised in panic and the other prisoners banging their cell doors and shouting. Over it all Bill Wells calling, 'Cut him down, quick…' then, yelling up the corridor, 'Get an ambulance.'
Frost raced down to the holding area. The door to Weaver's cell was wide open. Two uniformed men were bending over a figure on the floor, one pummelling the chest, the other giving the kiss of life with Wells looking anxiously on.
Frost stared down at Weaver, skin blue, neck strangely elongated. 'Bloody hell! What happened?'
'He's topped himself,' said Wells, sounding furious | as if this was personally directed against him. 'The silly sod has hanged himself.' He pushed past Frost and yelled again down the corridor. 'Where's that 1 bloody ambulance?'
One of the PCs stood up. 'No hurry for the ambulance, Sarge. He's dead.'