slithered round the corner. A Rolls-Royce. The pathologist had arrived.
'Shit!' muttered Frost. 'It's Dr. bleeding Death. I'd better take over. He's insulted if he has to deal with sergeants.' He looked longingly up the road, hoping to see the headlights of Allen's car roaring to the rescue, but no such luck. Lighting another of Mullett's specials, he mooched across to the tented area, Liz following hard on his heels.
A man in white overalls stopped them. This was PC Reg Evans, a Scene of Crime officer. 'There's about twenty rubbish sacks there, Mr. Frost. Do you want us to fingerprint them all?'
'Better than that, Reg. I want you to take them all back to the station and open them up as well. The killer might have dumped the kid's clothes in one of them.'
Dr. Samuel Drysdale, Pathologist for the Home Office, had wasted no time. He was out of the car and kneeling by the body before Frost returned. He studied the face very closely, watched by his female secretary who was directing a torch to augment the spluttering emergency lighting. 'Steady,' he snapped as the beam wavered. Above him, the canvas flapped angrily in the wind, almost drowning the constant radio chatter from the police car in the street.
The dribble of vomit from the nostrils and the corner of the mouth held his attention. He lowered his face until his nostrils were almost scraping the boy's cold flesh, then sniffed carefully. He nodded. He was able to place the smell which had baffled Frost. Next, he transferred his attention to the taped mouth. Behind it, the skin round the lips was an inflamed red and there were tiny filaments of white fibre.
'How's it going, doc?'
Drysdale stiffened. He didn't have to raise his head to identify the speaker and the shower of cigarette ash which floated down confirmed it. He flapped the ash away angrily and slowly looked up. There he was. Detective Inspector Jack Frost in the same battered mac, a button hanging loose, a maroon scarf trailing from his neck. Drysdale glowered. 'I thought this was Mr. Allen's case… and kindly put that cigarette out!'
'We're trying to find Allen,' said Frost, pinching out the cigarette and crouching down beside the pathologist. 'He's attending a piss-up somewhere.' He jabbed a finger at the boy's face. 'What are those bits of white?'
'Cotton wool,' said Drysdale. Before he could elaborate there was a scurry of activity outside with car doors slamming and the buzz of voices. Detective Inspector Allen, in evening dress, a white scarf round his neck, made a slightly unsteady entrance into the tent, bringing with him the strong reek of cigar smoke and whisky. He nodded curtly to Frost as he made his apologies to Drysdale. 'Sorry for the delay, sir. I was off duty.' He stared down at the body, shaking his head sadly. 'What can you tell us?'
The pathologist straightened up. 'The child was anaesthetised.' He pointed to the lips. 'Those white fibres are from the pad of cotton wool which was used to apply the anaesthetic. It was clamped over his mouth and nose. When he was unconscious, a gag of cloth was inserted into the mouth, then the plastic tape was applied to keep it in place. Unfortunately, this meant that when the boy was sick the stomach contents couldn't escape and he choked to death on his own vomit.'
He moved to one side so Allen could examine the mouth, which he did with difficulty, his eyes trying hard to focus. He nodded. 'I see.'
Must have been a bloody good booze-up, thought Frost.
'Any sign of sexual assault?' asked Allen.
'I haven't been able to examine him in detail. This isn't the place. Get him to the mortuary. Don't remove him from the sack and leave the plastic tape in place.'
'We'll need the sack for fingerprints,' said Frost.
'After I've removed it from the body.'
'Time of death?' asked Allen.
'It's a cold night, which tends to slow rigor down. I would suggest he has been dead somewhere between seven and eight hours. I can be more precise once I get him to the mortuary.'
Allen studied his wrist-watch very carefully, holding it much closer to his eyes than he usually did. 'Which makes the time of death …' Brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving, he did mental sums.
'About five or six o'clock this evening,' offered Liz Maud.
'I can do my own sums, thank you,' snapped Allen, who was a long way from calculating the answer. 'Did he die here, Mr. Drysdale?'
'No,' said Frost, buttoning his mac, ready to leave them to it. 'He wasn't dumped here until six at the earliest.'
Drysdale scowled. The question had been addressed to him. 'Share your medical expertise with us, inspector.'
'You don't need medical bleeding expertise,' said Frost. 'The shops don't shut until six and that's when they put their rubbish sacks out.'
A grudging nod from Drysdale. 'Yes. He died elsewhere and was dumped here probably four hours ago.'
A burst of wind rattled the canvas and creaked the metal stays. Frost wound his scarf round his neck and lifted the canvas flap. 'I'll leave you to get on with it. I'm off home.'
'Hold it, Jack.' Allen followed him to the street where the wind was like ice on his flushed, sweating face. 'You couldn't do me a favour, I suppose?'
No way, thought Frost. When have you ever done anything for me? 'A favour?' he asked warily.
'Flaming hell, Jack I've been drinking. Look at me. I'm in no state to take over tonight.'
Hard bloody luck, thought Frost. You knew you were on call. You sweat it out, mate, I'm on holiday and I'm off home.
'Just for tonight, Jack. I'll take over again first thing in the morning.'
No way, decided Frost. You wouldn't lift a finger if it was me asking you. But he said nothing. He stared at Allen, his face impassive.
'And look at me, Jack. Evening bloody dress… half cut… How can I break the news to the kid'-s parents looking like this?'
Frost dropped his gaze. Allen had him there. A man stinking of whisky and cigars, in evening dress, swaying, speech slurred, telling you that your seven-year-old son was dead… murdered and probably sexually assaulted. Bloody hell. The bastard had got him. 'All right,' he grunted.
Allen squeezed his arm. 'You're a good 'un, Jack. I owe you one.' He walked unsteadily towards the police car that had brought him from Felstead.
There was another passenger in the car, a man also in evening dress sitting bolt upright in the back seat. Frost managed to get there before Allen opened the driver's door. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose, winking at the driver. 'What a stink of cheap booze in here, driver. Get your prisoner to the drunk cell and then come straight back.' He paused and reacted as if he suddenly realized who the 'prisoner' was. 'Mr. Mullett! Sorry, super — didn't recognize you in the monkey suit.'
Mullett kept his face expressionless, not giving Frost the satisfaction of showing his annoyance. He stared straight ahead at the back of the neck of the police driver who was almost choking as he tried to suppress a snigger. A curt nod to Frost as Allen clambered in and dropped heavily on the seat beside him. A few muttered words to the driver and the car sped away.
Liz Maud, seeing Allen make his exit, had renewed hopes that this would mean she would be in charge, but was disappointed to see Frost, grinning all over his face, return to the tented area where Drysdale was pulling on his leather gloves. 'There's something you should see.' He took the torch from his secretary, crouched by the body and shone it inside the bag. 'Take a look.'
Frost squatted down beside him. There was something white, covering the boy's right hand, fastened around the wrist with yet more masking tape.
'What is it?' asked Frost.
'It looks like a small plastic bag,' replied Drysdale. 'I can't make anything of it at the moment, but once we get him on the table, I can take a better look.' He straightened up and clicked off the torch. 'You can remove the body now, inspector. I'll do a brief examination at the mortuary tonight, then a full post-mortem at ten tomorrow.'
'I'll let Mr. Allen know,' said Frost. This was getting too complicated for him and he would be glad to dump it back in Allen's lap. He beckoned to Burton. 'Whistle up the meat wagon.'
As the Rolls-Royce slid away, its place was taken by the undertaker's plain, unmarked van. Frost checked
