be here,’ said Frost. ‘We’re supposed to be tomb-watching.’
‘But she’s dead. He’s probably still drawing her pension.’
‘Big bloody deal,’ grunted Frost. ‘I’ll try and live with it.’ And then the car radio which had been pleading urgently for attention to an empty car, tried again.
‘Control to Mr Frost. For Pete’s sake come in, please . . . over.’
Frost snatched up the handset. ‘Frost.’
‘At flaming last, Jack!’ It was Bill Wells, the station sergeant. ‘Where are you?’
Frost looked out of the window on to Jubilee Street. ‘On watch at the cemetery, as ordered,’ he replied, trying to sound puzzled at such an obvious question.
‘No, you’re not, Inspector. If you were, you’d see the place was crawling with bloody police cars.’
‘Ah yes . . . there does seem to be some commotion at the far end,’ said Frost, signalling for Gilmore to put his foot down and get the damn car back to the cemetery at top speed. ‘What exactly has happened?’
‘Vandals breaking into a crypt.’
Right. ‘I’ll check it out and call you back.’ He switched off hurriedly and urged Gilmore not to heed the approaching red traffic light.
There was only one police car at the graveyard, its blue flashing beacon reflecting eerily off the rain-soaked marble markers. Gilmore parked tight behind it.
‘There!’ pointed Frost.
Ahead of them, right off the main path, was the Victorian crypt they had spotted earlier, an ugly little building, looking like a small, ivy-covered boiler house and guarded by tall, sharply spiked, cast-iron railings. Two marble angels with naked swords stood sentry on each side of the entrance gate where a uniformed officer, PC Ken Jordan, was talking to an old man in a flat cap who was supporting a push bike. Jordan left the man to meet the two detectives.
‘Who’s the old git with the running nose?’ asked Frost.
‘He’s George Turner, the churchwarden. He phoned us.’ Jordan filled them in on what had happened. ‘I’ve had a quick look around. No sign of anyone.’
‘Ah well,’ said 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, fumbling 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