He watched impassively. It was just a matter of time before they dragged the kid’s body up. Her thirteenth bleeding birthday. All her cards waiting to be opened. He dreaded going back to the house and breaking the news. Not many bloody laughs in this job.
The underwater team waded out and plunged under the surface. His heart juddered skipped a beat each time they hauled something up and dumped it in their rowing boat. As the boat filled it was rowed to the shore and its contents dumped. Soon the shore round the lake was littered with retrieved debris, including supermarket trolleys, a DVD player and a video recorder whose serial numbers tallied with goods stolen during an ancient burglary; and a long-dead fox.
Morgan and Jordan, in the small rowing boat, were keeping well out of the way of the frogmen, and were prodding the bottom with a large pole. ‘Over here,’ called Morgan, waving frantically at the frogmen. ‘I think it’s a body…’
‘Don’t let it be,’ pleaded Frost to himself ‘Please, don’t let it be.’
He had to force himself to look as two of the frogmen broke the surface, hauling up a bulging dustbin liner, water streaming from holes in the bottom. With difficulty, Morgan and Jordan got it into the boat and rowed over to where Frost was waiting.
‘Not heavy enough to be a body, Guv,’ reported Morgan.
‘Don’t sound too bleeding disappointed,’ snapped Frost. The sack was tied with string, secured by tight knots. He slashed the string with his penknife, stepping back quickly as evil-smelling lake water belched out. ‘You found it, Taff. To you the honour of looking inside.’
Very gingerly, Morgan slipped his hand inside and pulled out a sodden item of clothing. ‘Men’s trousers, Guv,’ he announced.
‘They’re girls’ slacks, you Welsh git. You’re so busy pulling them down from the scrubbers you go out with, you don’t notice they haven’t got a fly opening.’ But Debbie hadn’t been wearing slacks when she left the previous night, so unless she’d changed somewhere…
Morgan delved inside, again and pulled out more women’s clothes: a sodden yellow sweater, a bra, black tights, and a pair of trainers with half a brick wedged inside to make the plastic sack sink. Frost shook his head. ‘These aren’t Debbie’s clothes.’ He prodded the sodden sweater with his foot, then picked it up to examine it more closely. It was turned inside out as if it had been dragged off over the head. He then held up the bra. The fasteners were hanging by a thread as if the bra had been ripped off. This wasn’t looking too happy. It looked as if the clothes had been forcibly removed.
‘Any other girls reported missing recently, Guv?’ asked Morgan.
‘Girls are always being reported missing,’ grunted Frost. ‘And as far as “recently” goes, these clothes could have been dumped here months ago.’ He dropped the sweater on top of the rest of the clothes. ‘Stuff them back in the sack and let Forensic have a sniff. And when we get back to the station you can go through the records to see if the clothes match the description of any girl reported missing.’
‘Inspector Frost!’
He turned round. One of the underwater team on the far side of the lake was splashing to the shore, holding something aloft in his hand. At first Frost couldn’t make out what it was, then he cursed vehemently. ‘Shit!’
It was another chunk of chopped-off foot.
An hour and four cigarettes later, the frogmen called off their search. ‘Nothing else there, Inspector.’
‘Good,’ beamed Frost, nodding towards the debris that littered the ground. ‘Put all this stuff back where you found it, then you can go home.’
The senior frogman grinned. ‘Wouldn’t want to do your chaps out of a job.’ He made his way back to the van.
Frost kicked at a rusting petrol can. ‘So where’s the boy’s flaming bike?’ he muttered ‘He’ll be our prime suspect if we find the girl body.’ He looked out again over the lake. Jordan and Morgan had retrieved the bike from somewhere in the middle. So how did it get there? It couldn’t have been thrown that far. Of course! The flaming leaking rowing boat. There could be prints on the oars. But damn! Everyone had been using the boat. It would be smothered in prints by now, covering up the originals. A waste of time sending it to Forensic. Still, it would give the lazy sods something to do. ‘And get the boat and oars over to Forensic,’ he called.
His mobile chirped. Bill Wells from the station again. ‘The girl’s father has phoned, Jack. Wants to know the latest.’
‘Knickers,’ cursed Frost. ‘He’s bound to want to take me out and buy me a drink and I haven’t got time. I’ll go round and see him on my way back and tell him we’ve found his daughter’s bike. Get the main Incident Room ready, Bill, I’ve got one of my nasty feelings about this.’
‘You’d better tell Superintendent Mullett first. He hates to find these things out by accident.’
‘I know, I know,’ sighed Frost. ‘As soon as I get the flaming time – bits of legs, blackmail at the supermarket, missing teenagers and that bloody rape. Where’s Skinner? It’s about time that fat sod did a bit of work.’
‘He’s in with Mullett. The red light’s on we mustn’t disturb them.’
‘Red light? They’re having a love-in.’
Wells chuckled. ‘Oh – something else, Jack. The boy’s parents have returned from holiday. They’ve found your note and want to know what it’s all about.’
Frost groaned again. ‘Right, leave it to me.’ He hung off and turned to DS Arthur Hanlon, who had just arrived. ‘Job for you, Arthur. Go and see the boy’s parents. Just tell them we think he’s run away with the girl and we’ve got everyone out looking for them. Don’t tell them we’ve found Debbie’s bike. I’ll be round with that news after I’ve seen the girl’s father.’
‘Right, Jack?
‘One other thing. Do a wee for me when you get the chance – I’m busting – and do one for yourself.’
Hanlon grinned and hurried off to his car. As Frost slid into the driving seat of his own car, the flaming mobile rang yet again. It felt hot as he pressed it to his ear. It was an angry sounding DCI Skinner.
‘What’s this about the Incident Room being prepared?’ he barked.
Frost told him about the discovery of the bike. ‘Then who gave you permission to turn it into a murder inquiry?’ hissed Skinner. ‘In future you make no decisions without checking with me first and obtaining my express permission. From now on, I do the murder cases. You’re off this one. I’m taking over. Comprende?
‘Jawohl, mein herr,’ said Frost, giving a Nazi salute as he clicked off the phone. One less case for him to sod up. He was thinking about the luxury of doing a wee and having something to eat when the flaming mobile rang again.
‘Billy King!’ said Wells as soon as Frost answered.
‘Billy King?’ echoed Frost, frowning. The name rang a distant bell. His brain riffled through its data bank and came up with scraps information. ‘Tubby little sod. Didn’t I nick him years ago? House-breaking, petty larceny…’
‘That’s him,’ said Wells.
‘Then what about him?’
‘You asked me to check with the building society about that account number. It belongs to Billy King.’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Frost happily. ‘We don’t often get luck like this. He’s used his own flaming card. The man’s a prat. I’ll put my wee on hold and pay him a visit right now.’
‘Before you do, Jack, DCI Skinner wants you to go round to the Clarks’ and break the news that we’ve found Debbie’s bike. He hasn’t got time to do it now.’
‘As long as he said “please”,’ said Frost sweetly, before ending the call and hurling obscenities into the air.
Clark glowered at him. ‘What the hell do you want, Frost? I was told you were off this case.’
‘I’m no longer in charge,’ explained Frost, ‘but Detective Chief Inspector Skinner asked me to call with the latest developments.’
‘And they are?’
‘I think I’d better come in,’ said Frost.
He followed Clark into the lounge, where Mrs Clark sat huddled in an armchair. She looked up in alarm as Frost entered. ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’