have your first sexual experience.
'Violent penetration, bruising, bleeding, but no trace of semen,' continued Drysdale.
Frost's gloom suddenly lifted. This was the odd one out, the victim that could lead them to the serial killer. The important thing now was to find out who she: was. A dig in the back made him turn and there was Morgan, grinning all over his face.
'I've come straight from the town hall, guv… I've I found that address.' He tailed off as he spotted the; blonde secretary and flicked her a wink. She reddened once more and pretended not to notice. 'I couldn't' half give her one, guv.'
'What for? She's got thousands pickled in jars. What have you found out?'
'Not a lot. She used to live at 44 Beresford Street.That almost backs on to the house where we found' the skeleton.'
'So where does she live now?'
'Can't tell, guv, vanished without a trace. She could be dead.'
'Then check with the Registrar of Births and Deaths, and you can check if she ever registered the death of her son.'
'Do you mind not holding private conversations while I'm performing an autopsy?' said Drysdale peevishly.
'Sorry, doc.' Back to Morgan. 'On your way, son.'
But Morgan was staring at the body on the slab. 'Is that your unknown victim, guv?'
'Yes '
Morgan stared again. 'I know her, guv. I'm sure I know her.'
'You can't know her,' said Frost impatiently. 'She's a virgin.'
'I've seen her, guv, and recently.' Morgan scratched his head in thought.
'I've asked you for silence,' snapped Drysdale.
'Sorry, doc,' said Frost. 'My colleague here thinks he can identify the body.'
Morgan moved forward for a closer look. He peered at the face. 'She's the spitting image of the receptionist from the dentist's when I went for the abscess injection.'
Frost frowned. This didn't seem likely. 'Are you sure?'
'It could be her, but she was wearing glasses.' 'Glasses?' Drysdale bent closer to look at the nose.
'She did wear glasses — there's an indentation across the bridge.'
'All right,' said Frost, still not impressed. 'Phone the dentist and ask if their receptionist is alive or dead on an autopsy table, and let me know either way.'
'Will do, guv,' said Morgan, giving the blonde another broad wink before trotting away.
'A dental receptionist?' mused Drysdale, picking up a scalpel.
'Don't get too excited, doc,' Frost told him. 'He's not as reliable as I am.'
'I wouldn't have thought that possible,' said Drysdale as he drew a red line with the scalpel across the stomach.
They both looked up as the swing doors crashed open and Morgan bounded back in, clasping his hands over his head sounding the 'Ta-ra' of a fanfare.
'No luck?' asked Frost.
Morgan smirked. 'She hasn't been in to work since Friday. They've phoned her flat but got no reply.'
'And no-one's been round to see what's up, or has reported her missing?'
'She had a row with her boss, so they assumed she'd walked out on the job.'
'All right,' said Frost. 'Then let's pay her a visit. If she opens the door, you can think of an excuse.'
15
The name on the neatly typed card pinned to the front door of the flat read 'Helen Stokes'. On the step were three bottles of semi-skimmed milk. 'You could be right, Taffy,' said Frost grimly as he hammered on the door with the flat of his hand, knowing that no-one was going to answer.
The door to the flat opposite opened and a bird-like old dear stuck her head out. 'I think she must be away. I haven't seen her for the past few days. Can I help?'
'Gas Board,' said Frost. 'Report of a smell of gas.' He sniffed. 'Cor, it's strong! Better keep your door shut, love.' The door slammed shut.
None of Frost's skeleton keys worked, so he stood back as Morgan kicked the door in. They stepped inside, Frost stooping to pick up the two letters on the door mat: a credit card statement and an envelope without a stamp. The flap wasn't stuck down so he thumbed it open and peeped inside. A scribbled note from the Ashby Dental Practice saying: 'Concerned you did not come to work today. Please phone.' He couldn't read the signature.
A tiny flat. The curtains were tightly drawn, pulled them open, letting in the morning sun. same cold, chilling atmosphere that Frost had felt so many times before, almost as if the place knew that its occupant was dead. A quick nose around kitchen, bathroom, tiny lounge and bedroom. The place had a clinical feel as if its owner had left no mark behind. Frost flopped down on the settee and lit up, treating the dark grey carpeting to the first shower of ash in its life.
'Look around, son. See if you can find a photograph.' He should have brought a Polaroid of the woman in the mortuary to show the old dear in the flat opposite, but hadn't thought of it. He soon got fed up watching Morgan grubbing through drawers and cupboards, so pushed himself up and wandered around aimlessly, not really knowing what he was looking for.
A thick winter coat was hanging in the hall. He went through the pockets. A petrol receipt, but nothing: else. The front door had been fitted with a strong security chain and there were smoke alarms on walls of every room. A cautious woman.
He wandered back into the lounge where Morgon on his knees, was going through the contents of drawer he had tipped out on to the carpet. 'It doesn't look as if she ever had her photo taken, guv.'
'It's the pretty ones who have lots of photos,' said Frost as he walked into the cell-like bedroom, it's single bed made with almost military precision, a thick sensible winceyette nightdress neatly folded on the pillow. He sat on the bed, probably the first man ever to do so, and pulled open the drawer of the dark oak bedside cabinet. Handkerchiefs, spare glasses, and right at the bottom a photograph, the smiling face of a dark moustached man in his mid-thirties. There was something reddish across the surface. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Lipstick.
'Guv!' Morgan charged into the bedroom waving passport. 'I've found it. The only photograph in the place.'
Frost flipped it open. The unsmiling face of the dead woman stared back at him to confirm what they already knew. 'Not the only photograph, son,' said Frost, showing Morgan the portrait from the drawer. 'She must have had the hots for him. It's smothered in lipstick.'
Morgan took the photo from Frost. 'I know who this is, guv.'
'Flaming heck,' said Frost. 'Don't start being useful for a change. So who is he?'
'He's the bloke she works for… Ashby the dentist. He pulled my tooth out.'
'Are you sure?'
'Positive, guv.'
'Then let's go and talk to him.'
He radioed through to the station asking them to send someone over to make the flat secure. 'Some silly sod's kicked the door in,' he told them.
The old dear opposite was hovering as they left. 'We've fixed the gas leak,' Frost assured her.
'I've just remembered,' she said. 'We're all electric.'
He pretended not to hear.
The dentist had a new receptionist, a cheery little redhead with bouncing breasts and perfect white teeth. She giggled nervously at the sight of Frost's warrant card. 'Mr Ashby's with a patient right now.' She nodded towards the surgery door from which the whine of a dental drill set everyone's teeth on edge. Frost winced in
