‘Yes,’ said Frost. ‘I know.’
The lane curved. Ahead of them sodium lamps gleamed and flickering flames of something burning bloodied the haze. The tip was perimetered by 9-foot high chain link fencing, giving it the appearance of a wartime German prisoner of war camp.
Behind the wire fence, towering proud through streamers of mist, rose mountains of black plastic rubbish sacks and chugging between them, pushing, scooping and rearranging the landscape, a yellow-painted corporation bulldozer splashed through slime-coated pools of filthy water. As it demolished heaps of rubbish, rats scampered and scurried, their paws making loud scratching sounds on the plastic sacking. The smell was stale and sickly sweet like unwashed, rotting bodies.
Frost wound his scarf around his mouth and nose as he nodded towards the bulldozer. ‘I didn’t know they worked nights.’
‘It’s this flu virus,’ explained Jordan. ‘Half of the work-force are off sick and the rest have to do overtime to keep ahead. It was the bulldozer driver who spotted the body.’
‘Then sod him for a start,’ said Frost.
‘This way, sir.’ Jordan led them off the path, trampling a trail through the lush, sodden grass to where a pasty-faced PC Collier stood uneasily on guard over rusting tin cans and a tarpaulin-covered huddle.
Frost lit up a cigarette and passed around the packet. Everyone took one, even Collier who didn’t usually smoke. Frost looked down at the tarpaulin and prodded it with his foot. ‘I can’t delay the treat any more.’ He nodded to Collier. ‘Let’s have a look at him.’
Collier hesitated and didn’t seem to want to comply.
‘You heard the inspector,’ snapped Gilmore. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Keeping his head turned well away, Collier fumbled for the tarpaulin and pulled it back.
Even Frost had to gasp when he saw the face. The cigarette dropped from his lips on to the chest of the corpse. He bent hurriedly to retrieve it, trying not to look too closely at the face as he did so.
Jordan, who had seen it before, stared straight ahead. Gilmore’s stomach was churning and churning. He bit his lip until it hurt and tried to think of anything but that face. He wasn’t going to show himself up in front of the others.
The body was of an old man in his late seventies. There were no eyes and parts of the face were eaten away with bloodied chunks torn from the cheeks and the lips.
‘The rats have had a go at him,’ said Jordan.
‘I didn’t think they were love bites,’ said Frost. He straightened up. ‘Still, we’re lucky the weather’s cold. Did I ever tell you about that decomposing tramp in the heat-wave?
‘Yes,’ said Jordan hurriedly. Frost was fond of trotting out that ghastly anecdote.
‘Did I tell you, son?’ said Frost, turning to Gilmore. ‘The hottest bloody summer on record. I can still taste the smell of him.’
‘Yes, you told me,’ lied Gilmore.
The dead man, the exposed flesh yellow in the over-spill of the sodium lamps, lay on his back, lipless mouth agape, staring eyeless into the night sky. He wore an unbuttoned black overcoat, heavy with rain, which flapped open to reveal a blue-striped, flannelette pyjama jacket which bore the bloodied paw marks of the feeding rats. The pyjama jacket was tucked inside dark grey trousers which were fastened by a leather belt.
‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’ Collier came forward. ‘It’s that old boy whose daughter-in-law reported him missing from home last week. He was always walking out and sleeping rough.’
‘I bet the poor sod has never slept as rough as this,’ observed Frost. ‘Sergeant Wells said you think it’s foul play?’
‘His face looked battered, sir,’ said Collier, pointing, but not looking where he was pointing.
Frost haunched down, slipped a hand beneath the head of the corpse and lifted it slightly. He dribbled smoke as he stared long and hard at the mutilated face, then stood up, wiping his palm down the front of his mac. ‘That’s just where the rats have been tucking in, son. There’s no other marks… see for yourself.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, sir, if you don’t mind,’ said Collier.
Jordan’s personal radio squawked. He pulled it from his pocket. Sergeant Wells wanted to speak to Inspector Frost urgently.
Frost took the radio. ‘Everything’s bloody urgent,’ he moaned.
‘Fifteen Roman Road, Denton,’ said Wells tersely. ‘Mrs Betty Winters, an old lady living on her own. A neighbour’s phoned. He reckons he saw a man breaking in through the front door. The intruder is still in the house. Sorry about this, but I’ve got no-one else to send.’
‘On our way,’ said Frost, stuffing the radio back in Jordan’s pocket. ‘Jordan, come with us. Collier, stay here and wait for the police surgeon.’ At the young PC’s look of dismay at being left alone with the body, he added, ‘You can handle it, son. If death isn’t due to natural causes, let me know right away.’
With Jordan driving they made it to Roman Road in three minutes, coasting past number 15 and stopping outside the public telephone box where a middle-aged man emerged and hurried over to them. ‘It was me who phoned,’ he announced. ‘I knew he was up to no good the minute I saw him. I thought he was going to pee in the porch. They do that, you know — dirty sods. You put your empty milk bottles out…’
‘What did he look like?’ cut in Frost as the man drew a breath.
‘A big, ugly-looking sod. I couldn’t get to that phone quick enough. Stinks of urine in that phone box. When they’re not peeing in your porch or your milk bottles they’re peeing in the phone box…’
‘Are you sure he’s still inside?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Positive.’
‘Is there a back way out?’
‘Through the gardens and over the rear wall. But I don’t think he’s got out that way. You’d hear next-door’s bloody dog barking… bark, bark, bark, all bleeding night.’
‘Go with the gentleman, Jordan,’ said Frost, anxious to get rid of the verbose neighbour. ‘Get into the garden over his fence and block the escape route.’
As soon as Jordan radioed through that he was in position, Frost did his letter-box squinting act. Utter blackness. A quick examination of the front door. No sign of a forced entry, so if there was an intruder, how did he get in? Hope fully he looked under the porch mat for a spare key. Nothing.
‘Shall I smash the glass panel?’ offered Gilmore.
‘No,’ grunted Frost, poking his hand through the letter- box and scrabbling about until his fingers touched some thing. A length of string looped at the end. He gave the string a tug. There was a click as the door knob was pulled back. Cautiously he pushed open the door, grabbing it as a sudden gust of wind threatened to send it crashing against the wall of the hall.
They tiptoed inside and Frost flicked the beam of his torch to show Gilmore how the string ran through staples and was tied round the door catch. ‘The burglar’s friend, son.’ If the tenant forgot his key, he just had to pull the string. But so could anyone else who wanted to gain entry.
They held their breaths and listened. The house stretched and creaked and breathed and sighed. Then an alien sound from upstairs made Frost grab at Gilmore’s sleeve, willing him to silence. A small click like a door closing. Signalling for the sergeant to stay by the front door, blocking that escape route, Frost padded along the passage and began creeping up the stairs.
Every stair seemed to creak no matter how carefully he placed his feet. At the top his torch picked out a small landing and two doors side by side. He clicked off the torch and slowly turned the handle of the nearest door.
Pitch black and a feeling of cold and damp. A hollow plop. Water slowly dripping from a tap. And a smell of sweat. Of fear. His thumb was on the button of the torch when he caught the metallic glint of a knife just as something hit him, sending his head smashing against the wall.
The torch dropped from his grasp as arms locked round him and dragged him down to the ground. Someone was on top of him, punching. There was hardly any room to move. His arm was trapped between his body and the wall, but he strained and wriggled frantically until he managed to free it. He reached up. Cloth. Flesh. Then a clawing hand clutched his face. He grabbed it trying to tear it away while his other hand scrabbled in the blackness over cold, wet lino. ‘Where was the damned torch?