Doc? Couldn't you just say he died of natural causes and let it go at that? Honestly, I've got enough work to keep me going for a month, even if I applied myself-which I rarely do. I don't want to be sodding about with this ancient relic.' He offered the doctor a cigarette as a bribe.
Grunts and clangs as pickaxes bit. The doctor accepted a light. 'I couldn't say natural causes, Jack-for one thing, how do you explain the chain attached to the wrist? In any case to tell you anything definite I'd need a darn sight more than half an arm. It'll require all sorts of tests and soil analysis. Your forensic boys will take it in their stride. I'm only a G.P. If it's not broken bones or constipation I'm out of my depth. I give a letter for a specialist, and that's what you want-a specialist.' He coughed with the cigarette still in his mouth, spraying the inspector with hot ash. 'I'm off home. I'll let you have my report.'
'What report?' demanded Frost. 'You haven't even examined it.'
But the doctor was already moving off. 'You want the pathologist. Besides, its snowing and he's paid a lot more than I am.'
Frost swore silently at a man who would desert him after accepting one of his cigarettes. There was a cry from the mustached P.C. He'd found what looked like the rest of the skeleton. It was some eight feet away from the hand. Clive was sent running back to the radio car to ask for a pathologist. Half-way there he met the men bringing the marquee.
By the time the pathologist and the forensic team turned up, the marquee had been erected and the canvas was flapping with sounds like rifle-shots, as the wind searched it out for weaknesses.
The pathologist, tall and cadaverous in a long black overcoat, had brought his medical secretary along-a faded, puffy-eyed beauty, who recorded her master's comments in the loops and angles of Pitman's shorthand. The pathologist seemed to find the wristband and chain more interesting than the human remains.
'I'd like to know what's on the other end of that chain, Inspector.'
A busy beaver from Forensic got to work and began scraping away with practiced, economical movements, until enough chain was uncovered to permit a firm grip to be taken. He pulled. The earth released another three feet of chain, then held the rest fast. More patient scratching with a trowel, then some work with a pickax.
The end of the chain was fastened to a metal box, about 2'6' x 1'6' x 4' deep.
Frost plucked the pathologist's sleeve. He thought he knew what it was.
'Could he have been here since the war, Doc?'
The great man winced at the 'Doc'. 'Possibly, Inspector. But I've done no tests yet so anything is a possibility until proved otherwise. Why do you ask?'
'I think I know what that thing is. It's a sort of metal attache case. They were used during the war for confidential dispatches, chained to the courier's wrist. We had some plane crashes here during the Blitz-British and German.
Could he have been thrown-or fallen-from a plane blowing up in the air, perhaps?'
The pathologist pushed his lower lip into his mouth and sucked hard. 'Again-possible. There's no telling how long the remains have been here.' He dropped on one knee and scraped some dirt away from a rib. 'If he fell you'd expect to find broken bones, but until we can get some of this encrusted dirt off…'He stood, rubbing the tips of his fingers. 'When it's completely uncovered and photographed I'll have it moved to the crime lab for a thorough examination. I'll be able to give you facts then instead of theories. Oh-and I'd like all the surrounding earth crated up and sent for tests.'
'All of it?' asked Frost.
'Well-where the arm and the rest of the skeleton have been lying, down to a depth of about three feet.'
The inspector's cigarette dropped. 'That's going to take some digging, Doc.'
'Yes,' agreed the great man, drawing on his gloves, 'but it's necessary. Oh, and you might let me have a complete list, with dates, of all the air crashes that occurred in this vicinity during the Avar years.'
'Certainly, Doc,' said Frost, wondering where the hell he could obtain useless information like that. He gave orders for the earth to be crated, then quickly tiptoed out with Clive before the pathologist could think of any more stupid jobs.
The wind hurled handfuls of snow at them as they trudged back to the car, where Hazel was waiting. There had been calls galore for the inspector, she reported. Would he report back?
'Control here, Inspector. Can you return to the station at once, please? The Divisional Commander wishes to see you urgently.'
Frost groaned. Gawd, he thought, what have I done wrong now?
Mullen was boiling with rage. He couldn't wait for Frost to close the door behind him before he started.
'I found this on your desk, Inspector,' and he held Up the envelope containing the crime statistics. Frost looked at it with horror, then dropped wearily into a chair and swore to himself as vehemently as Mullett was shouting at him. The bloody crime statistics! In the ecstacy of getting the sodding things completed last night, he'd completely forgotten to post them off… nosey bastard had to find them on his desk…
Mullett was beside himself. He, the Divisional Commander, had made a promise to County, had instructed Frost that the statistics must go off, and now. he had to bear the odious, stinging humiliation of being shown incapable of getting his own men to carry out a specific order.
Frost half closed his eyes and let the scalding tirade wash over him. Didn't the bloody tailor's dummy have better things to do than poke his ugly nose in other people's desks? And if he was so bloody clever, how come he didn't know who had smashed the rear of his car?
A timid tap at the door halted the lashing tongue in mid invective, and Miss Smith looked in to wish the commander goodnight. No need to look at the clock-the hands would be quivering at 6:10 exactly. Mullett snatched up the envelope and handed it to her. 'As Inspector Frost is incapable of obeying the simplest order, perhaps you would kindly drop this in the County postbag on your way out.' Frost blew her a kiss behind the commander's back and she scuttled out with a brick-red face.
Mullett returned to the attack. 'I also happened to notice, Inspector, that the file for the electronics theft case was still on your desk. As far as I can see, you've made no progress on it.'
You had a bloody good look round, thought Frost. Aloud he said, 'I'll get around to it when I find time, Super.'
'Make time, Inspector, it's urgent. Now what happened at Dead Man's Hollow? I promised to ring the Chief Constable.' His face darkened with annoyance as he was told about the skeleton. 'We could have done without this,' he snapped, as if it was all Frost's fault.
'If you like I could stick it back again and we can dig it up when things get slack,' said Frost, adding, 'do you want me any more?' He pre-empted Mullett's reply by pushing up out of his chair.
'Anything further from the kidnapper?'
'I haven't looked in on Search Control yet. I came straight here when I got your message-at the time I thought it was urgent.'
And he was gone before Mullett could think of a suitable rebuke.
All was peace, calm, and orderliness in Search Control. The odd telephone rang apologetically and a few routine messages purred from the loudspeaker. Frost wandered over to George Martin who was rearranging schedules for the following day in case the weather worsened.
'All quiet, Jack. We had a couple of teams searching the uncompleted section of the new Burghley Estate, but they found nothing.'
'Then they had more luck than I had,' said Frost. 'What about the phone tap?'
'Dead quiet.'
'Are we still watching that phone box?'
'Yes.'
'Heard about my bloody skeleton?'
Martin laughed. He had heard. Then he turned his head away as if he was embarrassed about something. 'Have you had a word with Johnnie Johnson?'
'No, why?'
'He-er-wanted to see you.'
And Frost knew there was more trouble.
He was queuing for tea in the canteen when he spotted the handlebar mustache at a table in the far corner. He took his cup and ambled over.
