Winter Frost

'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 tyres 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 tyres 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 tyres 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 tyres — I'd have seen her, and the jokers who let down the tyres 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 tyres 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.