'He's in a bunker, Jack.'
'A bunker? It's not bloody Hitler, is it?'
'A coal bunker. Over there.' He pointed to where a uniformed officer stood guarding a taped-off section. The undergrowth was almost waist-high, but had been trampled down to form a path leading to an almost concealed brick-built coal bunker, four feet long, three feet high. A rusted sheet of corrugated iron that had once covered the open top was propped to one side. A strong smell of putrefaction drifted out to greet them.
Frost wrinkled his nose. 'Bloody hell, Arthur, what have I told you about changing your socks?'
Hanlon giggled. 'We reckon it's probably a dosser — crept in there to sleep and got hypothermia.'
Frost took a deep breath and looked inside. 'Bloody hell!' He moved back and sucked in great gulps of clean, cold air. He passed his cigarettes around and moved a few steps back, but the smell seemed to be following him. Liz pushed forward to take a look, but Frost held out a restraining hand. 'Best if you don't, love.'
Angrily she shook his hand off. 'I've seen bodies before.' She took a breath and looked down. Huddled at the bottom of the bunker, in some inches of soupy rain water, were the remains of a man. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition and the face, covered with black mould, was unrecognizable. She moved back, exhaled slowly, then took some deep breaths. She fought back the urge to be sick.
'Are you all right?' asked Frost.
'Yes,' she snapped. 'Perfectly all right.'
'Remind me to tell you of that dead tramp I found in a heat-wave,' he said. 'You could have poured him away. It made this one smell like Chanel Number S in comparison…'
'Don't let him tell you that story, Liz,' said Arthur Hanlon. 'Not on a full stomach — I was sick for three days after I heard it.'
'You're thinking of the other one,' said Frost. 'The bloke who drunk the contents of the spittoon for a bet.'
Hanlon went white. 'I'd forgotten all about that one.' He pulled a face. 'If you value your stomach, Liz, don't let him tell you that story either.'
A short tubby figure carrying a medical bag came puffing towards them. Frost waved. 'Over here, doctor.'
Dr. Maltby beamed when he saw the inspector. 'I thought you were on holiday?'
'They couldn't do without me, doc.' He jerked a thumb at the bunker. 'There's your patient.'
Maltby took a quick look. 'I confirm life is extinct.'
'Is that all we get for our bloody money? How long has he been dead?'
The doctor shrugged. 'No idea, Jack. Weeks — probably months. Was that corrugated iron sheeting on the top when you found him?'
'Yes,' confirmed Hanlon.
'Sun beating down on that would make it like an oven and there's a good two inches of water down there to speed things up. Decomposition could start in hours.'
'Cause of death?'
'No idea. If you drag him out I'll take a further look, but if you think I'm going to climb down inside…'
'Sod it!' sighed Frost. He pulled Hanlon to one side. 'Pathologist, Forensic, SOCs, the works, Arthur. You know the drill.'
'You think it might be murder?'
'There's water and broken bricks at the bottom of that bunker, Arthur. A dosser would have to be pretty hard up for a bed to sleep on that.'
'I'm off then,' said Maltby, backing away.
'Thanks, doc,' said Frost. 'If you hadn't told us he was dead we'd still be pushing aspirins down the poor sod's throat.' He waved him off, then returned to Hanlon. 'You'd better han ale this one, Arthur. It was your team who found him, you can suffer the consequences.' He took one last look at the bunker and shuddered. 'I'd hate to be one of the blokes who have to lift him out. Don't pull him up by his arms, they might come off in your hand… and for the same reason, don't lift him by his dick.'
Liz screwed up her face in distaste. She didn't find death the least bit funny.
'We're going to need some more help, Jack,' Hanlon called after them.
'Our beloved Divisional Commander has it all in hand,' said Frost. 'We're getting another detective inspector.'
As they climbed back into the car, Liz had an awful thought and consulted Frost for reassurance. 'You don't think Mr. Mullett is going to upgrade Sergeant Hanlon to acting DI?'
'No,' said Frost, wriggling down into the passenger seat. 'Arthur's a lovely bloke, but, like me, he hasn't got the making of an inspector and Mullett knows it.'
'Oh,' said Liz. She smiled to herself. Then it would definitely be her.
Bill Wells sipped his mug of tea and took a sly drag at his cigarette. His first chance to relax all afternoon. Mullett had been flapping in and out, wanting to know if anyone had been asking for him, but not explaining who he was expecting. A blast of wind as the main doors opened. With practised skill, he pinched out the cigarette and slid his mug of tea under the counter top. 'Can I help you, sir?'
The man, carrying a suitcase, walked across to the desk. Fair-haired, thickset and in his early forties, he gave a curt nod.
A cry of recognition from Wells, 'jim Cassidy! What are you doing back in Denton?'
Cassidy put down the suitcase and twitched a wan smile. His manner was far less enthusiastic than the sergeant's. 'Hello, BUI.'
'I've heard you've been in the wars some bastard stabbed you?'
Cassidy nodded, his expression making it clear this was something he didn't want to talk about. 'I'm here to seeMrMullett.'
So this was why Mullett had been flapping. And not a word to a flaming soul! 'May I ask what about?' said Wells, picking up the internal phone and dialling Mullett's number.
Cassidy frowned. Surely the news should have been out by now? 'I'm back in the division for a while. I'm going to be your acting detective inspector.'
Well's jaw dropped. Cassidy! Acting detective inspector? Cassidy who was a trainee constable while Wells was already a sergeant. Some people, if their faces fitted, would always rise in the ranks. While others who flogged their guts out, worked all the hours God sent, were bunged on the rota every bloody Christmas… He realized Mullett had answered and was barking angrily in his ear. 'Detective Sergeant Cassidy to see you, sir… Yes, sir.' He put the phone down. 'Go straight through, Jim. You know the way.'
Cassidy nodded and slid his suitcase across the counter top for safekeeping. At the swing doors he paused. 'Important point, sergeant. While I'm acting inspector, I want to be treated as such. Call me inspector, or sir not Jim.'
Forcing a smile, Wells seethed inwardly. You bastard! Pulling rank on me! 'Very good… sir,' he said, through clenched teeth. 'By the way… sir. I saw your wife — sorry your ex-wife in town the other day.'
Cassidy stiffened. He wouldn't turn round. He had no intention of letting the sod know how deeply that shaft had hit home. 'Did you, sergeant? How was she?'
'She looked great. Her new husband was with her. They both looked very happy.'
The swing doors closed shut behind him and Wells chortled with wicked delight. 'Game, set and match,' he beamed, retrieving his mug of tea.
'What was that all about, sarge?'
Wells turned his head. PC Collier on his way up to his meal break had seen the little drama enacted.
Normally Wells would have told him to mind his own business, but basking in the warm glow of his little victory he was only too pleased to explain. 'That big-headed git you just saw go through is Jim Cassidy. He was a detective constable here some four years ago — before your time. Career mad… nothing was going to stop him getting on and he didn't give a toss who he stepped on to get there. Grabbed all the credit, even when it wasn't his, and worked all the hours going without claiming overtime, which made him Mullett's blue-eyed boy. Anyway, one night he'd promised to take his teenage daughter out to see a film she'd been dying to see, but a job came up so he cried off. She went out on her own and got knocked down and killed by a hit and run driver. He went to pieces and his marriage broke up. He started criticizing everyone here because we couldn't trace the hit and run driver and
