Free Night Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page A

radio through to the station. Tell Sergeant Wells we've found a body in the churchyard. When he stops peeing himself laughing and saying, “But the churchyard is full of bodies,” tell him “ha-bloody-ha” from me and I want a doctor, Forensic, Scene of Crime Officer and a gross of air fresheners."
     
    The mobile generator grunted and coughed before chugging away contentedly, and the Victorian vault was bathed in electric light for the first time in its life. Duck boarding had been placed down the centre of the steps and over the floor and footsteps clacked as they crossed it. Frost stood outside, keeping well out of the experts' way as they measured and photographed, took samples and dusted for prints. The body remained tied up in the sheeting awaiting the arrival of the police surgeon.
       A cursing as someone stumbled unsteadily down the path. Frost grinned to himself happy to see that Dr Maltby was still on duty and not that jumped-up, toffee-nosed sod, Slomon.
       "Welcome to the boneyard, doc."
       Maltby waved his bag and lurched over. "What have you got for me this time?"
       "Body in a sack. It"s past its best."
       "Aren't we all," said Maltby, following the inspector down the stone steps. "Any progress with my poison pen writer?"
       "Give us a chance, doc," pleaded Frost. "I've been tripping over corpses all day."
       Maltby dropped to his knees and bent over the body "Well, he's dead," he announced.
       "I should hope he is," grunted Frost. "if I smelt like that, I wouldn't want to live."
       Gilmore snorted his disgust. Frost seemed to thrive on bad taste remarks.
       "By the way, Jack," said the doctor casually as he gently prodded the puffy flesh through the torn opening in the plastic, "you know that dead girl—the suicide . . ."
       "What about her?" asked Gilmore.
       Pointedly addressing Frost, the doctor continued. "Tear up the report I did on her. I'm writing a new one."
       "What was up with the old one?" asked Frost.
       "I missed something. The morgue attendant tipped me the wink. He spotted it when he undressed her." He stood up and wiped his hands on a towel from his bag. "This one's been dead at least eight weeks—possibly longer."
       "What did the morgue attendant find?" asked Gilmore. He knew there was something dodgy about that suicide.
       Maltby's head twisted to the detective sergeant. "There were marks on her buttocks—weals—about a week old, fading but still visible. She'd been quite severely beaten with a whip or a cane. And there were needle marks on her left arm."
       Gilmore's eyebrows shot up. "And you missed it?" He pulled the inspector to one side. "Surely you're not going to let him get away with this?"
       "When you've made as many balls-ups as I have, son you don't hesitate to help fellow sufferers," Frost told him.
       Maltby snapped his bag shut. "I can't tell you any more about this one unless you unwrap it."
       "Might be best to wait for the pathologist," suggested the man from Forensic who had been hovering, ears flapping. "You know how fussy he is about bodies being left untouched."
       "Sod the pathologist," snapped Frost. "It'll be hours before he gets here. Cut it open."
       "I'll do it," said Forensic, cutting through the cord to preserve the knots.
       "Must preserve the knots, doc," Frost explained. "The murderer might be a Boy Scout."
       "We don't yet know it's murder," commented Forensic pedantically, as he delicately sliced through the plastic sheeting.
       "Bleeding hard to commit suicide and then tie yourself up in a parcel," sniffed Frost.
       Forensic moved away. "All yours, doctor."
       As Maltby laboriously peeled aside the black plastic which tried to cling to the moist, rotting flesh, both Forensic and Gilmore found it necessary to move nearer the door and the sweet night air.
       "Bloody hell!" exclaimed Frost. "It's a woman."
       Gilmore forced himself to look. He saw the bloated body of