Free A Killing Frost by R. D. Wingfield

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.’

    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