A Killing Frost Part 13

'Yes, female. She's been dead anything up to a month, could be more. Animals have had a good old go at her.'

'Any idea of age?' asked Frost.

The pathologist shook her head. 'She's in too poor a condition - you can just about tell the s.e.x. I'd guess she's in her late teens or early twenties, but it's only a guess at this stage. Don't ask cause of death, because again, I don't know yet.'

's.e.xually a.s.saulted?' asked Frost.

'The state the body's in, we will probably never know, but again, wait for the autopsy. Any ID?'

Frost shook his head. 'We retrieved a dustbin sack full of girl's clothes from the lake in the woods yesterday. I'm hoping they tie in with the corpse.'

'Get them over to the autopsy room. I'll try to match them up with the body.' She took a last look at the remains. 'Nothing more I can do here.' She straightened up, snapped her bag shut and squeezed through the tent flap to the fresh air outside. She tore off her mask and sucked in gulps of air. 'Some pathologists take it in their stride, but I can never get used to it.'

She dictated a few brief notes into a small ca.s.sette recorder, then dropped it in her pocket and zipped up her windcheater. 'Where do we do the post-mortems?'

'The mortuary at Denton General,' Frost told her. 'Meet me at Denton nick first and I'll take you there.'

'No need. I've got a map.' She consulted her wrist.w.a.tch. 'Too late to do it now. Tomorrow afternoon - say one o'clock.'

'I'll be there,' called Frost, admiring her plump little bottom which was wiggling provocatively as she walked away.

'Cor. I couldn't half give her one,' whispered Morgan.

'That's because you're a randy Welsh git,' snapped Frost. 'And in any case, I saw her first so it's droit de seigneur, my little leek-muncher.' He returned the wave she gave him as she clambered over the bridge wall, then called Harding over.

'The pathologist's doing the PM tomorrow afternoon. Get the body to the morgue as soon as you've done your stuff. We might have to get the Maggot Man in to tell us how long she's been lying there, so bring the creepy crawlies as well. Did you get any DNA from those clothes we found in the lake?'

'Yes,' Harding told him.

'Good. Let's hope we can match it up with the body. But get them over to the morgue. The pathologist might be able to tell us if they would fit.'

'Did she give any indication as to the cause of death?' asked Harding.

'No. Hopefully the autopsy will tell us.'

'So at this stage, for all we know, it could be natural causes?'

'The poor cow's naked. You don't take off all your clothes, lie down on a railway embankment and die of natural causes.'

'There's chunks of her missing, Inspector. Animals could have torn her clothes off.'

'If you find bits of clothes underneath her when we shift the body, then it's possible. But if animals had done it there'd be shreds of clothing in the vicinity and you didn't find any. It's her clothes we fished out of the lake. I just know it.'

His mobile trilled. 'I'm busy - what is it?' he snapped.

'Is that you, Frost?'

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! It was Mullett. 'Yes, Super, but I'm rather busy . . .' It was Mullett. 'Yes, Super, but I'm rather busy . . .'

'What on earth is going on? I've had Debbie Clark's father on the phone threatening to go to the Chief Constable. This is intolerable . . . absolutely unforgivable!'

'Sorry about that, Super,' breezed Frost, apologising on autopilot while trying to work out what the h.e.l.l he was supposed to have done now.

'Sorry? Being sorry isn't good enough,' spluttered Mullett.

Then I'm not flaming sorry, thought Frost, still wondering what it was all about.

'His daughter is dead and he has to find out from a third party. Even by your standards, this is disgraceful.'

Frost frowned. What was the prat on about? 'Dead? Debbie Clark dead? Flaming heck, Super, I didn't know that.'

'Didn't know? What are you talking about? You find her body, but you tell the press before you tell the family? The first they know of it is when a reporter from the Denton Echo Denton Echo hammers on their doorstep to ask for a photograph of their dead daughter - ' hammers on their doorstep to ask for a photograph of their dead daughter - '

'Hold on, Super,' cut in Frost. 'We haven't found his daughter's body. The poor cow we've found is maggot-ridden. She's been dead for at least a month.'

'Then why tell the press it was Debbie Clark?'

'I never told the press.'

'Don't try and get out of it, Frost. I've checked. Even for you this seemed unbelievable, so I phoned the Denton Echo Denton Echo myself. They a.s.sured me that their reporter was informed by the police that it was Debbie . . .' myself. They a.s.sured me that their reporter was informed by the police that it was Debbie . . .'

'Then he's a bleeding liar,' said Frost. 'I'll ring you back.' He cut Mullett off, dialled the Denton Echo Denton Echo and asked to be put through to the editor. and asked to be put through to the editor.

'What the h.e.l.l are you playing at, Sandy,' he demanded, 'sending one of your reporters round to the Clarks and telling them we'd found their daughter's body?'

'What's wrong with that?' Lane asked.

'We haven't found her bleeding body, that's what's wrong with that.'

'b.a.l.l.s, Jack. She checked with one of your men and was told categorically you had found Debbie Clark's body. I'm running the story under her byline now.'

'She? It's a b.l.o.o.d.y she?'

'Yes, Jack. A new girl, very keen. She'll go far.'

'Not bleeding far enough, if I get hold of her.If she says she's checked with one of my men, she's lying.'

'Jack,' insisted Lane, 'she may be new but she knows the ropes. She would never go ahead with a story like that if she hadn't been given the facts.'

'Sandy, I and another officer viewed the body, which definitely wasn't Debbie Clark, and we certainly didn't speak to a reporter.'

'I'm sorry Jack. She spoke to one of your men.'

'None of my men would be so stupid,' began Frost - then he remembered that Taffy Morgan had been chatting up a young woman as Frost was slithering down to view the body. He went cold. 'I'll call you back, Sandy.' He dropped the phone in his pocket and yelled for Morgan to come over.

'Press, Guv?' said Morgan. 'No, I haven't spoken to the press.'

'Well, some silly sod has and you're the only silly sod around here.'

'Not guilty this time, Guv.'

'Did you speak to anyone?'

'No, Guv. Definitely not.'

'Someone with big t.i.ts, perhaps?'

Morgan opened his mouth, then shut it again as his eyes widened 'Ah . . .'

'Ah bleeding what?' asked Frost.

'There was this girl, Guv . . . a right little cracker . . .'

'With big t.i.ts?'

'Now you come to mention it, Guv . . . and she had this tight sweater on.'

'I don't want to know how the cow was dressed. What happened after you dribbled all over her dugs?'

'She asked if the body was Debbie Clark.'

'And what was your negative reply?'

Morgan pursed his lips and shrugged. 'I just said something vague.'

'Something vague? Like "Yes it is, no b.l.o.o.d.y doubt about it"?'

'Of course not, Guv. I just said something like . . .' His voice dropped to a mumble. 'Something like, "Yes, we believe it is."

'We believe it is!' echoed Frost shrilly. 'You gave that reply to a reporter who thought she was talking to a bona fide member of the police instead of to a stupid Welsh prat?'

'Reporter? I didn't know she was a reporter, Guv.'

'Why not? Because she wasn't carrying a Speed Graphic camera and you thought the word "Press" on her sweater was an invitation?'

Morgan shuffled his feet and put on his whipped-puppy look.

Frost sighed in exasperation. 'In future, keep your b.l.o.o.d.y Welsh mouth shut, Taffy. Madam flaming Big t.i.ts went straight round to the Clarks' house and asked for a photograph of their dead daughter so she could splash it all over the front page.'

Morgan stared down at his feet. 'Sorry, Guv.'

'You don't know how bleeding sorry you're going to be,' snarled Frost. 'I've got to go round there now and squirm and apologise to Debbie'smum and dad for causing them this flaming grief and get a b.o.l.l.o.c.king from her loud-mouthed father. You stay here and give no more exclusive interviews to the press.'

'You can rely on me, Guv,' said Morgan.

'You're the last person I can bleeding well rely on,' retorted Frost.

The front door crashed open as soon as his car pulled up in the drive. Clark, his face crimson with rage, bellowed at Frost. 'You! I might have b.l.o.o.d.y guessed. Detective flaming Inefficiency. Thanks to you, my wife is in a state of collapse.'

'I'm sorry,' said Frost. 'The reporter had no business coming to you.'

'No b.l.o.o.d.y business,' shrieked Clark. 'She was told by the police that they had found my daughter's body.'

'She made a false a.s.sumption.'

'She said she was told by the police, and was surprised you lot hadn't been to us first.'

'She made a false a.s.sumption,' insisted Frost again.

Clark slammed the front door shut behind the inspector. 'Don't try to bluff your way out of this. She said she was categorically told this by the police.'

'She asked one of my colleagues, who had not yet seen the body, if it was Debbie. My colleague said, "We think so." She knew he hadn't seen the body so this was conjecture, not fact.'

'This is not b.l.o.o.d.y good enough, Detective Inspector whatever your b.l.o.o.d.y name is. If he didn't know, he should have told the reporter he didn't know. My wife is having hysterics. Nothing I do or say can convince her that it was a police b.a.l.l.s-up.'

'I can only express my regrets,' mumbled Frost, mentally disembowelling Taffy Morgan.

'Regrets? You're going to have cause to regret this. I'm making an issue of it. Now go and put things right with my wife.' You're going to have cause to regret this. I'm making an issue of it. Now go and put things right with my wife.'

He stamped up the stairs, followed by Frost, and opened the door to a darkened bedroom in which Frost could dimly make out the figure of Mrs Clark lying on the bed. She shot up as the two men entered the room and screamed at her husband, 'Get out! I don't want you near me.'

'The policeman in charge of the investigation is here.' He pushed Frost forward.

Her tear-stained face crumpled as she stared at Frost. 'You've come to tell me she's dead, haven't you? My lovely daughter . . . my baby . . . she's dead. That woman told me . . .'

'I'm not here to tell you that, Mrs Clark,' said Frost gently. 'We haven't found your daughter. We are still looking.'

'But that reporter said . . .'

'We have found a body, but it is definitely not Debbie.'

She shook her head. 'You're just saying that.'

'This body has been dead for at least a month, Mrs Clark. There is no way it can be Debbie. I'm afraid the reporter jumped to the wrong conclusion.'

She expelled a breath and started to cry again. 'Thank G.o.d . . . Thank G.o.d . . .'

Clark stepped forward. 'Now you've made your pathetic apology, Inspector, I will insist you are never allowed to have any dealings with this or any other serious case again. Now get out!' He flung the door open.

'Why are you so keen for him to go, Harold?' demanded his wife. 'Are you afraid he will discover the truth about your lies?'

Frost looked at Clark. 'What is this about, Mr Clark?'

'Nothing. My wife isn't well.'