his cigarette. ‘Of course it does Mr Frost. That’s top-class stuff, that is – minced steak.’
‘Good,’ said Frost. ‘Only this dodgy outfit is importing so-called meat from the Continent . . . all sorts of rubbish – dead horses, cats, dogs, some of it even worse.’
‘Worse?’ asked Harry.
Frost leant forward confidentially and lowered his voice. ‘Don’t spread this around, Harry, it would cause a public outcry, but we’ve got evidence they’re even buying unclaimed bodies from undertakers and putting them in the mincing machine.’
Harry pulled the cigarette from his mouth and flicked off the spit from the end. ‘You’re having me on, Mr Frost!’
‘I wish I was,’ answered Frost gravely. He took a bite at his hamburger, then pulled it from his mouth. ‘Bloody hell!’ He snatched the top from his bun and gaped in disbelief. Lying across the onion, drenched in a bloody pool of tomato ketchup, was a severed human finger.
Gilmore shuddered and dropped his on the counter. Harry’s face went a greasy white and his head jerked back in horror, rattling the tins on the shelf behind him. ‘Christ, Mr Frost! They told me it was good meat. They said it was prime beef steak . . .’ His voice suddenly changed to outrage. ‘You bastard!’
The severed finger was wiggling at him and Frost was convulsed with laughter as he pulled it free and wiped off the ketchup.
‘It’s not funny,’ bellowed Harry. ‘You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack.’
Frost wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘I was going to put my dick in, Harry, but the buns were too small.’
‘Bleeding funny!’ snarled the man as they walked back to the car, Frost still convulsed at his joke. ‘Pity you don’t put your bloody energy into finding that poor kid’s killer.’
Frost stopped laughing.
The cemetery was crawling past the car window. Frost asked Gilmore to stop. He lit a cigarette and stared moodily across white marble and granite. ‘Harry was right, son. That bloody girl. I haven’t the faintest idea what to do next.’
Gilmore said nothing. At the far end of the empty road he had spotted a man, dressed in black, crouching by the cemetery railings. Gilmore clicked off the headlights, then nudged Frost, who nodded. ‘I see him, son.’
The man seemed to be doing something to the railings.
‘What’s he up to?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Whatever it is, let him get on with it,’ muttered Frost, huddling down into his seat. ‘I can’t solve the cases I’ve got. I don’t want any more.’
But Gilmore wanted more. Another arrest on top of the successful outcome of the Compton case would do his promotion chances a world of good. He wound down the window and stuck his head out, trying to make out what the man was doing. Frost shivered as the cold air rushed in. ‘He’s either got his dick stuck between the railings, or he’s having a pee, son. Let’s get back to the station.’
Suddenly the man seemed to push against the railings and was through to the cemetery where his black shape flitted briefly across the white of the headstones before being gulped up by darkness.
Gilmore was out of the car while Frost was still fumbling for his seat belt.
One of the cast iron railings had rusted away and could be lifted from its concrete base. Gilmore pulled it up and wriggled though, then held it so Frost could follow.
The cemetery was vast. Their man could have gone anywhere. ‘We’ve lost the bugger, son.’
‘Shh!’ hissed Gilmore, squinting to focus his eyes. ‘There!’
Frost’s eyes followed Gilmore’s finger. The moon pushed its way through a cloud and illuminated the cemetery in a cold blue light. Uncut grass twitched and shivered in the wind. Trees creaked and groaned. And then Frost saw him. About sixty yards away, zigzagging between the graves.
‘Follow me!’ ordered Gilmore, haring off in pursuit. Reluctantly, Frost stumbled after him. He couldn’t see what Gilmore was getting all excited about. The man could simply be taking a short cut.
They jogged on, past angels and cherubs. The path veered to the right and there ahead of them was the Victorian crypt. ‘Stop, son,’ pleaded Frost, ‘I’ve got to rest.’ They paused alongside some new, raw graves, panting, sucking in air, looking left and right where the path split. Nothing but white headstones as far as the eye could see.
‘We’ve lost him,’ said Frost happily. ‘Let’s get back to the car.’
An irritated flap of Gilmore’s hand hushed him to silence and pointed to the crypt. The man, his back to