‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ cooed Frost.
Skinner stared at him. Like Mullett, he was never sure when Frost was being sincere or was taking the pee. He turned his attention to Morgan. ‘What are you doing here?’
Morgan told him about the DNA sample.
Skinner grunted and turned his attention back to Frost. ‘Right. For the moment, this is your case, Frost, but if the DNA is positive and it looks like we’re going to get a result, then I take over… comprende?’
You bastard, thought Frost. We do the hard work, you take the credit. But he nodded. ‘Comprende, signora.’
Again Skinner glowered at Frost. Was the man being insolent or didn’t he know what signora meant? No way of knowing for sure, but the fool’s days in Denton were numbered, so there was no point making a scene now. He spun on his heel and barged out of the office, leaving the door wide open.
Morgan closed it carefully. ‘I’ve heard about Skinner from my old division, Guv. He makes everyone else do the hard graft, then he steps in and takes the credit.’
‘I know,’ nodded Frost. ‘It’s like sweating away on the foreplay, then some other sod gets his leg over.’ His internal phone rang. Lambert from Control.
‘PC Jordan wants you to get over to Denton Lake right away, Inspector. They’ve found something.’
Frost’s heart skipped a beat. ‘The girl?’ whispered. God, not the girl.
‘No, Inspector. Another piece of chopped-off leg.’
‘Shit!’ said Frost.
Chapter 3
Frost, DC Taffy Morgan at his side, gazed down gloomily at the muddy, evil-smelling piece of flesh, half-hidden in long, straggling, rain-beaten grass. Jordan and Simms looked on like two puppies wagging their tails at finding the ball for their master. Pity you didn’t chuck the flaming thing in the lake and say nothing, thought Frost. More flaming paperwork to no avail.
‘It’s a bit of leg,’ said Jordan.
‘I know,’ sniffed Frost. ‘I’m a leg man, but it doesn’t turn me on. There’s probably more choice bits lurking about for some silly sod to find, but we haven’t the time or the resources to look for them. Bag it up. See what Forensic make of it.’ He was still hoping this was some medical student’s idea of a joke, but had the growing suspicion that it was going to turn out to be something a lot more sinister.
He took a deep drag on his cigarette and looked around. They were on the outskirts of the lake which had been a magnet for dead bodies so many times in the past. He mooched over to the water’s edge and stared down into the green, slimy water which was being rippled by the cutting wind. At the far end a duck squawked and flapped its wings as it skimmed across the surface. He shivered. It was flaming cold standing here. No way Debbie would risk her brand-new bikini in this slimy muck.
Another possibility kick-started – something he hadn’t considered before. Supposing the boy had done away with Debbie, then roared off in panic. She could have told him she was pregnant and would name him as the father. Possible but the unsubstantiated thought wasn’t getting him anywhere. Where the hell was she and where the hell was the boy? She would have come back for her birthday if she could. He kept trying to kid himself she wouldn’t, but… He stared again over the lake and shivered, this time not from the cold. He had one of his doom-laden premonitions.
He nodded at the lake. ‘I think she’s in there,’ he said flatly. He knew he would never get Mullett’s permission to call the underwater search team out just on the strength of one of his nasty feelings, when their past record had such a low success rate. But he felt strongly this time.
He turned to Morgan and indicated a dilapidated rowing boat, half in, half out of the lake, its bottom awash with muddy water. ‘Feel like a row, Taff?’
Morgan stared at the boat in dismay. ‘Flaming heck, Guv, look at the holes in the bottom. It’s like a sieve. I can’t swim.’
‘I can’t play the violin,’ said Frost, ‘but I don’t moan about it.’ He signalled to Jordan. ‘Push the boat out. Have a prod around with Taffy. She might be in there.’
Jordan was equally unenthusiastic and surveyed the leaky rowing boat with apprehension. ‘Is that an order, Inspector?’
Frost shook his head. ‘Of course not, son. You’ve both volunteered.’
He sat in the car with the heater going full blast, sucking at a cigarette as he listened to the local news on the radio.
… Denton Police are appealing for help in tracing the whereabouts of two teenagers, Debbie Clark and Thomas Harris, who did not return home after a cycle ride yesterday evening. Anyone with information…
Bleeding Mullett, jumping the gun. Appeals to the public always brought an abundant crop of false sightings which some poor sod had to follow through. And I’ll be that poor sod, he thought ruefully.
His head jerked up. What was that? It sounded like Jordan calling. He groaned. God, they’d found her. They’d found the girl. He clicked the radio off and flung open the car door. The cry was repeated. But it wasn’t Jordan. It was the squawk of a flaming duck flying overhead. He sank back in his seat in relief. He didn’t want them to find her. He wanted Debbie to be safe and well. But she was dead… He just knew it.
He started to fidget. Sitting, doing nothing, wasn’t his way of working, so he mashed out the cigarette and climbed out of the car.
Another cry. But it wasn’t the duck this time. It was Jordan. ‘Inspector!’ It was the urgent cry of someone who had found something nasty.
The two men were near the far side of the lake, the boat tilting over at an alarming angle as they both leant over one side to try to pull something out of the water. They were in grave danger of capsizing the rowing boat. They were dragging something out of the lake. Not a body. It was a red cycle, which didn’t seem to have been in the water for very long.
Frost’s heart sank. Debbie’s bike was red. It had to be her bike.
For once, he didn’t want his gut feeling to be proved correct. Then he heaved a sigh of relief. It wasn’t Debbie’s. It was a man’s bike. And the boyfriend’s bike was blue, so it couldn’t be his.
‘Chuck it back,’ he called. ‘It’s a man’s bike… Women’s bikes don’t have bars in case it snags their bloomers.’
‘You’re behind the times, Inspector,’ yelled Jordan. ‘Bikes are unisex now.’
Frost went cold. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
With a final heave they hauled the dripping bike into the boat. Jordan bent and examined it. ‘Same make and same serial number, Inspector. It’s Debbie Clark’s bike.’
Frost turned his back against the wind and lit up another cigarette. Shit and double shit. He waited impatiently while they rowed across, stepping back as they humped the bike out of the boat and laid it on the grass. He double-checked the serial number, but Jordan was right. He took another look at the murky, icy water. If her bike was there, the girl’s body could be there, caught up in jettisoned debris somewhere – perhaps the boy’s body as well, Why had he been so bloody cocksure in assuring the parents they’d soon be back home again, safe and sound. He shook his head to dispel the morbid thought. They’d found the bike, that was all. Debbie could still be alive and well, shacked up with the boy somewhere, miles away. But that didn’t make sense. Why dump the bike? She’d need it to get home again. And why chuck it in the lake so it wouldn’t be found? No. She had to be in that lake. There was enough evidence now for him to ask Mullett to call the police frogmen in and do a thorough search.
‘Get it over to Forensic,’ he told them. ‘I doubt if any prints have survived submersion, but don’t confuse them by adding your own.’
He pulled the mobile from his pocket and rang Mullett.
‘I’m at Denton Woods, Super. We’ve just fished Debbie Clark’s bike out of the lake. I think her body’s in there. We’re going to have to call the underwater search team in.’