Part 23 (1/2)

'Thanks,' grunted Frost, the sarcasm just bouncing off him. 'You wanted to see me?'

Skinner pulled open a drawer and took out a blue form which he slid across the desk. 'Your request for a transfer. Just sign it at the bottom, would you?' Seeing Frost hesitate, he added, 'I got another batch of your expense claims from County last night. From a quick look through them it seems there are quite a few other items we could query if we really wanted to be sods.'

Frost withstood the urge to smash the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in the face and tried to look as if it was of no importance to him. You've already got me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Why turn the screw? You've already got me, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Why turn the screw? He scratched his signature at the bottom without bothering to read the form and slid it back to Skinner, who gave it a cursory glance and smiled with smug satisfaction as he replaced it in the desk drawer. Frost dragged down more smoke and mused over painful ways of slowly killing the sod. He scratched his signature at the bottom without bothering to read the form and slid it back to Skinner, who gave it a cursory glance and smiled with smug satisfaction as he replaced it in the desk drawer. Frost dragged down more smoke and mused over painful ways of slowly killing the sod.

'Good,' said Skinner, taking a key from his pocket and locking the drawer. 'Have you put your house on the market yet?'

Frost looked blank. 'Eh?'

'You should be starting in Lexton by the beginning of the month. You won't be able to flaming commute, will you? You'll have to move - buy yourself a place in Lexton.'

Frost tried to hide his dismay. Lexton was even more of a s.h.i.+t-house than Denton.

'To speed things up, I'm getting details of properties for sale sent to you. Nothing pricey - I've seen your place and you won't get much for it. And I've asked a couple of estate agents to contact you about selling.'

'That's very kind of you,' muttered Frost with all the insincerity he could muster. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had him on the ropes, but his time would come.

'By the way, I got that case tied up last night.'

'Oh?'

'It was murder. Knox had run off with Gregson's wife and Gregson faked the burglary'

'I wish I had your brilliance,' said Frost. 'That never occurred to me for one second.'

Skinner paused for a moment, but decided to accept this as a genuine compliment. 'Mind you, he wasn't very clever. When I went round to Knox's house to break the sad news, who do you think opened the door?'

'Camelia Parker-Bowles what was?' asked Frost.

'Gregson's wife. He didn't stand a chance of getting away with it.'

'You were too smart for him,' said Frost.

Again Skinner stared hard. Like Mullett, he was never sure when Frost was taking the p.i.s.s. He again decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. 'Thanks.' He looked up as his office door opened, ready to snarl because no one had knocked first, but it was Mullett, who gave Frost his customary scowl, then beckoned Skinner to join him outside.

Jerking his head significantly at Frost, Skinner gave Mullett a quick thumbs-up sign to show that the dirty deed with the transfer form had been done. As the door closed behind them, Frostdebated whether to press his ear against the door to find out what they were talking about, or take the opportunity to have a rummage through Skinner's in-tray. He settled for the rummage, but had hardly started when the detective chief inspector returned. Frost pretended he was blowing cigarette ash from the in-tray's papers.

'Superintendent Mullett has kindly invited me to join him at his club later for a celebratory lunch,' he told Frost, pulling the in-tray out of reach. 'And I'm steering clear of oysters.'

'What are you celebrating?' Frost asked, knowing d.a.m.n well it was his signing of the transfer request.

Skinner hesitated, his mind whirling in search of an alternative reason. 'The . . . er . . . the way I tied up that stabbing case last night.'

'And without any help,' added Frost.

Skinner pretended not to hear. 'Keep an eye on things when I'm out. We still haven't found those missing teenagers and I'm getting b.l.o.o.d.y worried. Go and see how the search is going.'

'They're dead,' said Frost flatly.

'For once I agree with you,' said Skinner. 'As if we didn't have enough on our plates . . .'

Back in his office, Frost was getting ready to check up on the search parties when PC Lambert from Control came in waving two sheets of paper. 'The body on the railway embankment, Inspector. Manchester reckon it might be one of their missing teenagers.'

'Good. They can have her,' said Frost. 'Wrap her up and stick her in the post. Anyway, you want Skinner, not me.'

'Skinner's gone out. He said you'd attend to anything that might crop up while he was away.'

Frost took the papers. The first was a fax from Manchester Police.

. . . The body of a girl - Unknown Corpse All Stations Request D107 - could be missing teenager Emily Roberts, 19, reported missing by her parents six weeks ago (Sept 22). Can you confirm time of death please? Photograph etc. following.

The other sheet was a colour printout of a young girl. Frost stared at it. There was no way he could a.s.sociate the bloated, slimy, rotting body with this bubbling young girl, dark-haired and smiling, showing a perfect set of teeth. 'The teeth look as if they match,' he said, 'but there was nothing left of the rest of her to compare. We're waiting for the Maggot Man to give us an accurate time of death.'

He was halfway up the stairs to the canteen when Bill Wells called him back. He pretended not to hear, but the sergeant was persistent. 'Gentleman to see you, Jack.'

Frost sighed. 'I was going to get something to eat. Who is it?'

'The Forensic Entomologist.'

Frost blinked. 'Who?'

'The Maggot Man.

's.h.i.+t,' said Frost.

Frost wasn't enjoying his meal, but the Maggot Man, bubbling over with his sole topic of conversation - detailed t.i.t-bits about his profession - polished off his plateful with relish. 'When a body decomposes it releases volatile compounds and that's what attracts the flies.'

'Fascinating,' said Frost flatly, eyeing the piece of meat on his fork with distaste.

'Blowflies and maggots thrive on putrefying flesh.'

'Whatever turns them on,' muttered Frost, pus.h.i.+ng his unfinished meal away.

'But,' continued the Maggot Man, 'when the odours of decomposition disappear, the flies leave the corpse, so by calculating the age of the maggots and the larvae and working back we can accurately pinpoint the precise date of death.'