Fatal Frost (18 page)

‘How many people were in your carriage?’

‘Can’t remember, really. It wasn’t packed.’

‘Your memory seems a little hazy.’

The girl ran her hands through her hair and eventually said in a whisper, ‘We’d been drinking.’

‘Really? What?’

‘Cinzano. We met these lads at the concert. They bought us a bottle.’

‘Cinzano?’

‘Yeah. The stuff Joan Collins has chucked over her on the telly.’

‘Of course. Well, if you do remember anything, give me a call on this number.’ Frost handed over a business card. ‘We’ll leave you in peace, then. Exams to revise for?’

‘They’re not until June,’ she replied.

‘Well, good luck,’ said Waters, noticing a sly sparkle in the girl’s green eyes.

‘She’s lying,’ Waters said as he opened the door of the Vauxhall.

‘Maybe,’ Frost replied, pulling out his Polaroids. ‘Going to be another scorcher, I bet.’

He was, to Waters’ mind, dressed peculiarly, his shirt made of some sort of cheesecloth. Strangely, Waters had found working with Simms easier. Frost’s ‘forced chaperon detail’ was a distraction. He liked him, but because he liked him he couldn’t focus on the case.

‘Now, what would a fifteen-year-old girl with her whole life in front of her have to lie about?’ Frost asked as they pulled away.

Waters shrugged. ‘I dunno, just a hunch.’

‘Hunches don’t go down too well at Eagle Lane.’

The Londoner waited, but the older man didn’t elaborate; he was too busy fumbling for matches.

‘All this,’ Waters said, gesturing at the sumptuous period homes as he turned the car on to the main road, ‘it’s sort of not real.’

‘How do you mean?’ Frost asked, winding down the window. ‘It looks real enough to me. Those motors on the driveways are certainly real.’

‘Don’t get me wrong.’ Waters looked across to Frost. ‘I know this is your manor. I’ve been here, what, a couple of days, and the people in Denton seem pretty normal, but in this place …’

‘Two Bridges?’

‘Yeah, and the one I went to first, where the rich guys got robbed – Hartley somebody or other. They all just seem so weird. It’s like they’re detached from reality. And the parents seem to have no idea what’s going on with any of their kids.’

‘Not sure I’m with you.’

‘I’m not sure I’m explaining it too well, but there just seems to be some sort of disconnect between the adults and their kids.’

‘Come on, you’ve only spoken to a couple of people. Bit of a rash judgement, don’t you think?’

‘I dunno, there’s this atmosphere of … coldness. It’s not what I’m used to.’

‘I’m guessing there’s not the same high density of mock Tudor beams and long drives in Bethnal Green?’

‘There certainly ain’t! No room to swing a cat in most of the houses, not to mention the high rises down near Columbia Road.’ Waters paused. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘No way, son, but you seem to be saying it’s down to the money. Whoa there, you want to swing a left,’ Frost said suddenly, ‘for our appointment with Dr Death.’

Clarke and Myles pulled into the car park of the Bird in Hand. After breaking the news to Tom Hardy’s parents they needed to take the edge off. Telling anyone about a death was bad enough; informing parents of the death of a child – let alone one ripped
apart
like this one – was the worst. Thank God Drysdale had been careful to conceal from the parents the full extent of the boy’s wounds. Clarke had noticed how Frost loathed these IDs and tried to wriggle out of them whenever possible, although it was fair enough this time. It wasn’t his call.

‘Two Bloody Marys, please, landlord,’ Myles ordered.

The Bird in Hand, off the Rimmington Road, was a cavernous place Clarke had only been to once. Originally a coaching inn, it was now used mainly by farmhands. By the look of them, one or two had been in here since last night. Clarke rubbed her leg, which seemed to stiffen every time she got out of the car.

They took their drinks to a nook beside a bank of mute flashing fruit machines.

‘I wouldn’t want to do that every day.’ Myles grimaced, pulling her blonde hair out of its ponytail and running her fingers through it.

Clarke nursed her vodka in silence.

‘C’mon. It’s done now,’ coaxed Myles, slapping her partner on the thigh. Clarke winced in pain. ‘Sorry!’ Myles gasped.

Clarke grasped her glass and drained half of it. ‘That was, possibly – actually, no possibly about it, definitely – the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my whole career.’

‘I’d agree with you on that, love.’

Clarke glanced up as a sunburnt young man in a vest and red neckerchief plonked a pint of what looked like cider on the fruit machine in front of them.

‘Drysdale was bit odd, don’t you think? Seemed keen to get rid of us. Said DS Frost and Waters were on their way over. Do you think we should have waited?’

‘Nah, we’ll find out what the score is as and when. And there’s no need to be formal with me, love.’ Myles smiled a broad smile. ‘You and Frost – everyone knows.’

‘Knows
what
?’ said Clarke defensively.

‘You know, no need to be coy. You got a thing going.’

‘What of it?’ she snapped.

‘Hey, I don’t mind. He’s not my type. Just trying to loosen you up a bit, after the morning we’ve had,’ she said. ‘Now DS Waters – I wouldn’t mind a bit of that.’

‘So you said.’ Clarke looked up from her drink. ‘Look, I’m sorry, you’re right. I should chill out a bit.’

‘Good girl. Now, knock that back and I’ll get another one in.’

The vodka was beginning to have an effect on Clarke, and for the first time that week she felt the tension loosen. She pulled from her bag a pack of Silk Cut and lit one. The pub was practically empty, besides the H. E. Bates type at the fruit machine, and Myles was back quickly.

‘Doubles.’

‘Is that wise? We ought to check in with uniform at Denton Woods as soon as …’ Though she wasn’t of a mind to turn it down. This morning and Jack Frost had collectively finished her off. She eyed the man at the fruit machine. Maybe she should have a fling with someone her own age; that’s what Frost was always telling her. Yeah, maybe she would – see how that went down.

‘Forget that – weather’s due to break this afternoon. Thunderstorm on its way. The woods will be a quagmire by the time we get there. Sometimes it helps to get a bit numb. Hello, anyone at home?’

‘Sorry, drifted off. Things on my mind.’

‘Problem shared is a problem halved.’

Clarke drank thirstily. She didn’t know this woman, didn’t even particularly like her – thought her a bit of a tart, if she was being perfectly honest – but did it really matter? She seemed a willing ear. ‘Since you ask’ – she exhaled – ‘it’s Jack Frost.’

The vodka had opened the floodgates and months of frustration came out: the false promises, the forgetfulness, the selfishness, all in the name of the job. ‘Even on my birthday,
he
was following up a lead on a bank robber who got away, who nobody even cares about any more.’

‘But, love, you knew he was like that from the start. You can’t expect him to change. Men never do.’

‘I guess so.’ Clarke shook her head and drained the glass.

‘Cheer up, love. Live a little.’ Myles smiled, her cheeks beginning to glow. She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I left a note for DS Waters at the front desk this morning, asking him to meet me tonight in the Eagle.’

‘You never!’ Clarke was shocked. She thought briefly about her own note to Jack, which had so far had zero response. ‘Isn’t that a bit forward? And the Eagle is a police pub! It’s practically on the doorstep of the station. Everyone will know.’

‘What of it?’ challenged Myles, shooting Silk Cut smoke towards the ceiling. ‘It’s only a drink. What else would he be doing this evening? Watching porn with Simms and Miller? I reckon it’ll be a laugh.’

The pathology lab, with its familiar cold, grey atmosphere, was of course impervious to the brilliant May sunshine outside its concrete skin. Frost knew this well enough, but yet again found himself shivering in the corridor on his way to meet Drysdale.

‘Should have put a jacket on,’ he mumbled to Waters.

‘Afternoon, gentlemen,’ Drysdale greeted them while pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘You two look like you’ve just got back from the Costa del Sol.’

‘Afternoon, Doc,’ said Frost, removing his shades. ‘It’s called sunshine to those in the world of the living.’

‘As long as it’s not fashion,’ the pathologist said drily. ‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,’ he muttered to Waters, though he didn’t wait for a response, moving off to adjust the overhead light.

‘Come closer,’ he said, ‘you’ll see nothing from there. Prepare yourselves.’

Frost took a tentative step forward as Drysdale removed the sheet. He craned his neck but couldn’t work out what he was meant to be looking at.

‘Come here, man, you’re being coy. Here.’

‘Jesus H. Christ,’ muttered Waters. Though he’d seen the scene-of-crime photos earlier that morning, the sight of the body was way more visceral than he had expected.

The pathologist explained to Frost that the fifteen-year-old boy on the slab in front of him had had most of his internal organs and his entire genitalia removed. Drysdale, in all his years of practice, had never come across anything quite like it, he went on to say. He’d only ever read about such cases in textbooks, cases like the Jack the Ripper murders.

‘But the Ripper murdered women – prostitutes. Not teenage boys,’ Waters pointed out.

‘Quite. Also, the removal of the organs in the Ripper victims was done with medical precision. The killer knew what he was doing. But here, the operation has been rather sloppy.’ Drysdale leaned into the corpse. ‘If you look here – the severing …’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Frost said. ‘Any clue to the exact cause of death?’

‘Not as yet. However, the victim was not bound as one might expect—’

‘What, he just let whoever it was slice him open, then?’ Frost said incredulously.

‘If you’ll just let me finish, Detective – there’s no chafing or bind marks, but there are pressure marks, more evident at the wrists.’

‘And the ankles?’

‘No.’

‘If he were wearing jeans, say, could that prevent chafing?’ Waters enquired.

‘Possibly.’

‘Well, can you hazard a guess at a cause of death?’ Frost persisted.

‘At this stage I’m inclined to think death was caused by these wounds.’ He pointed at what remained of the boy’s abdomen.

‘
Wounds?
Wounds is a bit of an understatement, Doc. DC Clarke suffered a wound getting jabbed with a knife on Monday …’

‘A turn of phrase, Sergeant.’

‘So,’ cut in Waters, ‘are you saying the victim was alive when this happened?’

‘It is possible. Probable, in fact. I would need the toxicology report to confirm lack of poison in the bloodstream, but on the face of it, yes, he was alive when sliced open – though not for long. There’s no sign of a blow to the head, for instance.’

‘I see.’ Frost paced the lab, his hands behind his back. He was freezing.

‘He’s been dead some time. Since the weekend, I’d say. May I ask how and where the body was found?’

‘It was left on the golf course.’

‘Hmm,’ the pathologist mused.

‘Hmm,
what
?’ Frost said. ‘C’mon, Doc, don’t come over all mysterious on us.’

‘Well, there are very few traces of soil or grass, only those from the body resting on the green, one suspects. No fibres. The body is clean.’ He peered down and pointed with tweezers at a spot on the forehead. ‘Nothing except this.’

‘What?’ Frost said. They both moved forward.

‘You’re in the light, come this side,’ Drysdale said. ‘Look.’ He very delicately lifted what appeared to be a small white pebble from the dead boy’s forehead.

‘What’s that?’ Waters asked.

‘We’d need to run tests,’ said Drysdale, ‘but on the face of it, it looks like wax.’

‘Wax?’ Frost repeated, scratching his chin. ‘Strange.’

‘How was the body found?’ asked Drysdale.

‘I’ve told you – on the golf course.’

‘Yes, but in what position?’

‘Damn, left the snaps in the car,’ Frost said, irritated.

‘He was laid out in a star shape, according to Mr Mullett,’ Waters replied.

‘In other words, a pentagram.’ Drysdale paused in thought, then looked directly at Frost. ‘I’m no expert, but perhaps the boy’s death was part of some sort of ritual?’

‘What do you make of that, then?’ Frost asked Waters. They pulled away from the lab and headed for Eagle Lane. The weather had changed ominously; dark-grey clouds were looming over Denton.

‘Grisly.’

The radio was crackling and spitting, irritating the hell out of Frost. He heard Superintendent Mullett’s name mentioned.

‘Here, we need something to lighten our mood.’ Frost leaned over and clicked off the radio. He fumbled with a cassette. ‘Do you mind? Been carrying this around all week.’