Winter Frost (39 page)

   
Frost chewed this over and shook his head. "No, Arthur. If you've got a body on board, you want to get rid of it quickly, you don't stop on the way for a hot dog and chips. Besides, he had to be sure the owner was well away. He didn't want him coming back when the body was still being shoved underneath. I reckon he just happened to be driving past and saw the owner leaving in a minicab, so he grabbed his chance. If I'm right, we can pin him down to a time within minutes. This might be the break we're looking for." He squinted down the street. Still a couple of houses with lights showing. "Start knocking on doors. Not much chance there's anyone still up, but find out if anyone spotted a van, a car, a horse and cart, anything, coming down this road just after half-past midnight." A long shot and he knew it. Cars and vans would be driving up here all the time to visit the stall and people tended to ignore the familiar.

   
He switched his attention back to the body. "How do we get to her without dragging her out?"

   
"If we pumped up the tires, we could move the van," suggested Hanlon.

   
"Do it," nodded Frost, looking up as headlights flooded the scene. He thought, at first, it was the doctor, but it was a minicab driver hoping for some fast food. PC Collier, guarding the cul-de-sac, was turning the driver away. "Hold it!"yelled Frost, running across. The driver might have called earlier when the van was closed. "Ask everyone if they were here earlier and if they saw anything suspicious."

   
"Like what, Inspector?"

   
"Anything, son—I don't care how trivial. Even if they only saw someone stuffing a dead body under the van and happened to take down the registration number, it's little things like that that could help." He turned away, spinning back as something else occurred to him. "And take names, addresses and registration numbers of everyone you stop. We might want to talk to them again."

   
Another car approached, but this time Collier waved it through. Frost grinned as Dr McKenzie, the police surgeon, climbed out. "Over here, doc. We can do you a hot meat pie or a cold dead body."

   
McKenzie waved his bag happily. He was always pleased to see Frost, even at three o'clock on a bitterly cold morning. "Where is she?"

   
Frost pointed to the van where a perspiring Arthur Hanlon was working away at the foot-pump. "Under there, doc. I keep calling, but she won't come out."

   
McKenzie bent and squinted underneath the vehicle, aided by the beam of Frost's torch. "How am I supposed to get under there?"

   
"Wait in your car, doc. We'll have the van moved soon." Leaving the doctor, Frost went over to the van and climbed inside where Turner, a picture of misery, was drawing on a hand-rolled cigarette, its acrid smoke mixing with a strong smell of rancid fat and cold, fried onions. Turner's arm was resting on a fryer in which a dirty, oily brown substance had congealed. "A dead body," he moaned, kicking away a piece of broken cup on the floor. "Just what I wanted, a bleeding dead body." He shuddered. "First some joker lets my tires down, then a dead bleeding body . . ."

   
"Not your night, is it?" sympathized Frost, flicking ash on the floor. "Tell me what happened."

   
"I opened up just before ten as usual. All going fine until the pubs turn out, then a crowd of flaming drunks, singing and shouting, start rocking the bloody van. Next thing I know the van lurches over, cups smash and the fat's spilling out of the fryers. They'd let my flaming tires down. Bastards! If I catch them . . ."

   
"Do you know who did it?"

   "Yes, and if he turns up again he'll have a hot dog stuffed up his fundamental orifice."

   
"Don't try and sell it to me afterwards," said Frost. "Right, your tires were let down, then what?"

   
"A minicab driver turned up for some grub, so I got him to drive me back home so I could fetch a foot-pump."

   
"You locked up, of course?"

   
"Too right I did. They'd pinch anything that isn't nailed down round here. If they'd sported that body they'd have pinched that as well." He shuddered again. "Bleeding body, just under my feet. It's not hygienic."

   
"She's dead, she won't notice," said Frost catching sight of something black floating in the fat. "That's not a beetle, is it?"

   
Turner gave a cursory glance, then stirred the oil with a nicotined finger, swirling the mess around. "Bit of burnt onion."

   "With bleeding legs?" asked Frost. "You sure she wasn't under the van when you left for the pump?"

   
"I'm down on my knees, staring at the tires—I'd have seen her, and the jokers who let down the tires would have seen her too."

   
"The bloke who shoved her under there might have been watching you leave. Did you see a car or anything as you left in the cab?"

   
Turner shook his head. "No."

   
Frost took details of the minicab driver in case he had seen something. "As soon as we get your van moved, do us mugs of tea and beefburgers all round."

   
"With onions?"

   
"Yes—and change that flaming oil."

Hanlon, wiping the sweat from his face, straightened up as the last of the tires was fully inflated. He disconnected the pump, stepping smartly back as the van was slowly driven forward, watched anxiously by Frost. It cleared the body by a good few inches and canvas screens were quickly erected.

   
Frost beckoned the doctor over. McKenzie made a brief examination. "Female aged around thirty-five to forty, dead some twenty-four to thirty-six hours, probably asphyxiated, definitely sexually assaulted—you can see the blood—badly beaten and burnt, but you can see that for yourself." He straightened up. "Drysdale will fill in the details." He scratched his chin and looked down at the body. "Are you sure she's a tom?"

   
"The rest were," said Frost. "I don't recognize her though." He stuck his hands in his pockets and took a good look at her. Short, dumpy, with straight black hair. The gag, which was cutting into her mouth, exposed near perfect teeth. He ignored the staring eyes and studied the face. No make-up of any kind. "If she's a tom," he decided, "she's a bloody weird one."

   
He stood back as SOCO took photographs, then watched one of the Forensic boys carefully move the sacking which covered most of the body, shuddering at the sight of the weals, burns and cuts. Frost pointed to the large refuse container fixed to the wall which was overflowing with used polystyrene food containers from the van. "Someone take a look in there. He might have dumped her handbag or clothes."

   
He jumped as the serving counter of the van suddenly thudded down with a bang and Turner pushed across a tray filled with mugs of tea. "Here's your teas, beefburgers coming up."

   
Glad of something hot, the team crowded round. Frost took a sip and nodded. "Not bad." He smiled at Turner. "On the house?"

   
"No, it bleeding well isn't. That will be twenty-six quid."

   
"I think I'll take a look at your tax disc," said Frost.

   
"On the house," said Turner quickly. He leant out to survey the canvas screen. "How did she die?"

   
"Food poisoning," said Frost. "You're our number one suspect."

   
"Bleeding funny." Turner sniffed at something burning. "The beefburgers are ready."

   
Hanlon joined Frost at the counter and gratefully accepted his tea. "Nothing you would want to know about in the rubbish bin, Inspector, and only two replies from the houses—neither saw anything."

   
Turner began passing out the beefburgers which were eagerly grabbed. "Don't know how you can eat with that dead body there."

   
"She's a damn sight more appetizing than your beefburgers," said Frost. He turned to Hanlon. "I know it's late, but there might still be a few toms plying their lustful trade. Get some copies of her photo from SOCO and see if any of the girls recognize her."

   
Another glare of headlights. Drysdale's black Rolls-Royce purred into the cul-de-sac. McKenzie pushed away his tea. "Can't stand that toffee-nosed bastard, Jack," he muttered. "I'm off."

   
As he hurried back to his car, Drysdale got out. The two men bared teeth at each other.

   
"Burger and tea if you want it, doc," called Frost.

   
Drysdale shook his head in curt refusal, then disappeared behind the canvas screens, followed by the inspector. He gave the body a cursory examination, flinching as Frost's teeth noisily sank into the beefburger. "Must you eat while I'm carrying out an examination?" he snarled.

   
"Sorry," said Frost, unabashed. He winked at the blonde secretary. "Fancy a hot sausage, love?" She blushed, shook her head violently and busied herself with her shorthand notebook ready for the pathologist's findings.

   
Drysdale was brief. "Died elsewhere and brought here, so not a lot of point in examining the body in situ." He pulled on his gloves. "Been dead at least thirty-six hours, suffocated, sexually assaulted, burnt and beaten." A thin smile, "A rather familiar pattern, Inspector."

   
"Too bleeding familiar," agreed Frost.

   
"I'll do the autopsy in the morning, nine o'clock sharp. I'm sure we will find a few things the good Dr McKenzie has missed."

   
Frost nodded. "That flaming place is becoming my second home. I'm thinking of moving my bed there."

   
"I wish you would," sniffed Drysdale, "then you might turn up on time." With a curt jerk of his head for the secretary to follow, he marched out to the warmth of his Rolls.

   
Frost urged him on his way with two fingers behind his back, then waved an arm at Jordan. "Call the meat wagon, Jordan. They can take her away now." Then he remembered something else he should have done and stuck his head inside the van. "Oi, Fanny Craddock," he called to Turner. "Here a minute."

   
Grabbing the man's arm, he steered him to the canvas shelter. "You must get lots of toms, coming here for meat pies." He pulled the sheeting from the face. "Recognize her?"

   
Turner's mouth sagged, the spittle-soaked roll-up adhering to his lower lip as he jerked his head away. "Never seen her before." He backed away. "You reckon she's a tom?"

   
Frost nodded.

   
"She'd have to fight bloody hard for my tuppence!"

   
Frost stared back at the body. Short and dumpy, she wasn't much of a looker. But she had to be a tom. All the other victims were toms and she had received the same treatment as them. He went back for one more look. Whatever she was, the poor bitch hadn't deserved this. He covered the face, bumping into the undertaker's men on the way out.

   
He took one last bite at the burger which was now greasy and cold and tasted of death then hurled it at the rubbish bin, but the wind kicked it to one side and it landed on the pavement. As he passed it, he gave it a savage kick. A quick glance at his watch: twenty past four. Another autopsy in less than six hours. He yawned. Nothing much he could do until then. "I'm off home for some kip," he told Hanlon. "Post-mortem tomorrow at nine. If you turn anything up, give me a ring."

   
But the ring that wakened him came from his alarm clock.

Quarter to eight and he felt like death. A twinge from his stomach told him that lousy beefburger was a mistake. He staggered to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water, decided a shave could wait, dressed, and made his way to the station.

   
As he paid for his bacon sandwich and mug of tea in the canteen, he spotted Arthur Hanlon at one of the tables and carried his tray over to join him. "Never like attending post-mortems on an empty stomach," he told him. "Always like something hot to bring up."

   
With a weak grin Hanlon pushed his unfinished plate away. He looked dead tired. "No joy last night, Jack. Found a couple of girls still working, but they didn't recognize the photograph."

   
"We'll have to try again tonight," said Frost. The bacon sandwich was stirring last night's beefburger into offensive action, so he dumped it on his plate and pulled out his cigarettes. "Are we knocking on doors in case anyone saw something?"

   
"All in hand, Jack," Hanlon yawned.

   
"Go and get some kip, Arthur. You're not much use when you're wide awake, but half-asleep you're useless."

   
Hanlon smiled, took a last sip at his tea and stood up. "See you tonight, Jack."

   
Frost was stubbing out his cigarette in the bacon sandwich when the tannoy summoned him to the phone. It was Bill Wells. "Someone in the lobby wants to talk to you about the skeleton, Jack."

   
"I've got the post-mortem at nine. Get Morgan to handle it."

   
"It's that young bird you fancied with the baby." 

   "They can't leave me alone," sighed Frost. "Put some bromide in her tea and I'll be right down."

   
She hadn't put any make-up on and her hair flowed down her shoulders, making her look about fourteen, and Frost fancied her something rotten. She flashed him a warm smile that made things worse. "Hope you don't think I'm becoming a nuisance, Inspector?"

   
"Of course not, love." He sat opposite her. "Where's the kiddy?"

   
"My sister's looking after him. I don't know if this would help." She opened a small red and green plastic handbag and pulled out a dog-eared black and white photograph. "I found this amongst my mother's things." She passed it over to Frost.