Fatal Frost by Henry James Read Free Book Online

really wasn’t well? It was nothing, he was sure – she just couldn’t face up to the fact their marriage was over.
    ‘Here.’ Drysdale’s voice brought him thankfully back to the lab. He pointed to a blue-tinged hand. ‘Take a look at the fingers.’
    ‘What? Black nail polish? Kids today will do anything to be different.’
    ‘No, under the fingernails. Skin.’
    ‘Sorry.’ Frost squinted closer. ‘Blasted eyes. Everything starts to pack in when you’re pushing forty … oh yeah.’
    ‘Apart from that she’s not marked.’
    ‘Nothing? No bruising? Nothing at all?’
    ‘Nothing,’ Drysdale repeated.
    ‘If someone were forcibly ejected from a moving train one would expect some bruising; finger marks maybe, or signs of a struggle.’ Frost was thinking aloud. ‘So there’s nothing of that sort. But what we do have is a suggestion of self-defence, lashing out, scratching an attacker perhaps? It’s a conundrum.’
    ‘A conundrum indeed, for you, anyway,’ said Drysdale.
    ‘Yes, quite.’ From a tagged tray Frost picked up the polythene bag containing the girl’s personal effects.
    ‘No ID,’ commented Drysdale.
    Frost emptied the contents – a purse and hair clips – into the tray regardless. ‘What age would you put her at?’
    ‘Fifteen, sixteen.’
    Frost nodded. Not old enough for a driving licence, that would explain the lack of ID. He rummaged through a small black purse embellished with a silver star, found near the body by the SOCOs. He made a mental note to check with British Rail; although he had a ticket stub already, he felt sure there must be a bag. All girls had bags.
    After some further reflection, he asked, ‘Is she, you know …?’
    ‘I’m not there yet,’ Drysdale muttered.
    A few moments passed. Thoughts intruded again, and this time it was the spectre of Sue Clarke that drifted across his mind. He should have gone to the hospital. The depressing aura of the clinical room and his troubled thoughts combined to make him crave a cigarette. In fact he was desperate. Drysdale loathed smoking, so rather than weasel out for a fag break he decided to make his excuses. ‘Right, I’d better go, they have kittens at Eagle Lane if I’m off the radar for more than five minutes.’
    ‘But I’ve barely begun.’
    ‘Needs must, Doc. Let me know if the autopsy shows up anything interesting.’
    ‘Very well. Toxicology with you by the end of tomorrow.’
    ‘Too kind.’
    ‘My pleasure – oh, before you go. I have something for you.’ Drysdale went to the rear of the room and returned with a package.
    ‘What’s this?’ Frost asked as he took the large Jiffy bag.
    ‘A cat for Detective Simms.’
    Frost slung the package in the passenger footwell of the Cortina and lit a cigarette. He was angry with himself. Having sacrificed seeing out the full autopsy he still felt positively unwilling to go and see Clarke. He knew he was avoiding talking to her properly. And it wasn’t because she was injured; no, it was the realization that he no longer felt comfortable at work, a place that had always been more home to him than home. It was because of her. Things had got out of hand. He hadn’t thought it through.
    He was getting a headache, and commanded himself to focus on the job. Maybe it was the heat; the day had already slipped into a scorching afternoon. At least he had the dead girl’s train ticket, which could turn out to be useful. Somebody must have seen her leave Denton yesterday morning on a train bound for London.
    Having picked up the armed-robbery alert minutes after Wells had first radioed Frost, DC Simms gunned the Cortina through hot, busy streets. Simms desperately wanted this case: armed robbery, that was more his scene, not burgled houses and dead cats. Waters sat in silence next to him.
    ‘Well, Sarge, it’s only your first day and already you’re experiencing both sides of Denton – from Forest View to this.’ They sat at the lights at the bottom of Foundling