Free Night Frost by R. D. Wingfield

Frost, anxious to get back in the car and the dry, "I'll leave you to handle it." He jerked his head to Gilmore. "Come on, son."
       But Gilmore was rattling the heavy iron gates. They were held firm by the lock. "So how did he get in?"
       "There's a couple of broken railings round the back," said Jordan.
       "Show me," demanded Gilmore. They followed Jordan to the rear of the crypt. Next to a stand-pipe supporting a dripping tap, two of the cast-iron railings had been broken away leaving a gap wide enough to squeeze through. They squeezed through, Frost reluctantly bringing up the rear, and marched round to the entrance to the crypt.
       The door, solid oak some 3 inches thick, bore a crudely sprayed skull and crossbones in still-wet purple paint. It should have been secured by a heavy duty padlock and hasp, but the screws fixing it had been prised out of the door jamb and the door yawned open.
       "Vandals!" bawled Turner. "I'd horsewhip them till they screamed for mercy."
       "Ah well," said Frost, flumbling for a cigarette, "not much harm done."
       "What I want to know," continued Turner, "is where were the police who were supposed to be on watch? Something should be done about them. They should be taught a lesson."
       Frost nodded his agreement. "They should be flogged until they screamed for mercy, then castrated without an anaesthetic."
       "Aren't you going to look inside?" asked Turner. "They might have done some damage."
       "Right," grunted Frost, without enthusiasm. The old man leading, and guided by Jordan's torch, they went in, down two steps to the stone-floored chamber.
       Jordan's torch prodded the darkness. It was a very small chamber with some six ornate, black-painted Victorian coffins stacked on stone ledges along the walls on each side. From the roof the bell rope was still quivering.
       "I've never been inside a crypt," observed Gilmore. "I thought it would be bigger."
       "What for?" asked Frost. "They aren't going to get up and bleedin' walk around, are they?" His nose twitched. "What's that smell?"
       "I can't smell anything," said Turner, "but then I've got a cold." To prove it he foghorned into a large handkerchief.
       "It smells like a corrugated iron urinal in a heat-wave," Frost said. "When did you bung the last corpse in?"
       "The crypt hasn't been used since 1899," he was told. 
       "It's coming from over here," said Jordan, his torch sweeping the floor.
       "There!" called Frost, grabbing the torch and directing it towards the far corner. The light bounced off a large, bulging bundle wrapped in black polythene sheeting, criss-crossed with 2-inch wide brown plastic adhesive tape and tied with cord.
       "That didn't ought to be here!" said Turner.
       As they dragged it to the centre of the floor it trailed foul-smelling liquid. Frost bent down and prodded it gently with his finger. The bundle felt cold and squelchy and the stench of putrefaction belched out. Frost's pen-knife slashed open the plastic sheeting. So strong and sickening was the smell that they all had to retreat back to the door to inhale the clean, rain-washed night air.
       They steeled themselves to go back in. Holding his breath, Frost cut the slit bigger and peeled back some of the, plastic. A gas-bloated putrefying face looked up at him.
       PC Jordan gagged, his hand shaking so much that he nearly dropped the torch. Frost snatched it from him and handed it to Gilmore. "If you're going to throw up, Jordan, do it outside. It stinks enough in here as it is." Gladly, the constable charged up the steps. "Are you all right, Sergeant?"
       Fighting hard to control his stomach, Gilmore nodded. If the inspector could stand it, so could he.
       Jordan returned, white and sweating, wiping his mouth. "I hope you haven't desecrated someone's grave?" said Frost sternly. Jordan didn't answer. He hadn't looked and he just didn't care.
       "Nip upstairs," Frost told Gilmore, "and