black plastic dustbin sacks, the standard Denton Council issue for refuse collection, of which more than two million had been issued to households over the past twelve months. Further tests were under way.
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Frost, gloomily. ‘That’s narrowed it down to the whole of bleeding Denton.’
‘Actually it doesn’t,’ said Forensic. ‘Nearly all the councils in this part of England use an identical sack.’
‘Just when I thought it was going to be easy,’ Frost said, hanging up. ‘I’ll be in the Murder Incident Room,’ he yelled to Gilmore who was doing a lot of listening on the phone and didn’t appear to be saying much.
Two people only in the Murder Incident Room. DC Burton, a phone pressed tightly to his ear, his pen scribbling furiously, and WPC Jean Knight, a redhead in her mid-twenties who was waiting for the computer to finish a print-out.
‘Couple of odds and ends from Forensic,’ called Burton, waving his sheet of paper.
Frost ambled over and poked a cigarette into Burton’s mouth, then offered the pack to the redhead who declined with a smile. ‘I know all about the dustbin sacks, son. I’m applying for two million search warrants.’
Burton grinned. ‘We can do a bit better than that, sir. Firstly, the padlock. Forensic reckon those screws were prised out at least twice before within the past couple of months and then hammered back.’
Frost’s cigarette drooped as his mouth fell open. ‘Twice before?’
‘Yes, sir. Someone could have got in on two or more different occasions, or it could even have been twice on the same day.’
‘Forensic always seem to think they’re being bloody helpful,’ said Frost. ‘Now I’m more mystified than ever.’ He looked up as Gilmore came in. ‘Did you hear that, son? The padlock to the crypt had been forced at least twice.’
‘Oh?’ said Gilmore, not really taking it in. His ear was still sore from the phone and his mind was full of Liz’s moans and complaints.
‘There’s more,’ announced Burton. ‘Forensic found a footprint.’
‘Ah,’ said Frost. ‘So we’re looking for a one-legged man.’
‘It wasn’t exactly a footprint,’ continued Burton patiently. ‘It was more a clump of mud that had fallen from the sole of a shoe.’
‘Where did they find it?’ asked Gilmore, stifling a yawn.
‘Top step, just inside the crypt door. Forensic reckon it was some eight weeks old which makes it round about the time the body was dumped.’
‘How the hell can they tell it’s eight weeks old?’ asked Gilmore.
‘Don’t ask!’ pleaded Frost. ‘Just accept it. You’ll be none the wiser if they explain. OK, Burton. We’ve got a bit of mud. How does that help?’
Burton pulled his notes towards him. ‘There were traces of copper filings and lead solder in the mud.’
Frost worried away at his scar with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘Copper filings and solder?’ If it had any significance, he couldn’t see it.
‘A plumber!’ called WPC Jean Knight from the computer. ‘They put central heating in my flat last week. They were forever sawing up lengths of copper tubing.’
‘A homicidal plumber!’ said Frost doubtfully. He ambled across to the shelf of telephone directories and pulled out the Yellow Pages for Denton and district. There were some fifteen pages of plumbers – nearly three hundred firms. ‘At least it’s less than two million,’ he observed.
‘There’ll be more names under “Central Heating”,’ Burton reminded him.
There were nearly two hundred entries under ‘Central Heating’, although some of these were also entered under ‘Plumbers’.
‘The gas company does central heating,’ added Jean Knight. ‘They’d employ plumbers as well.’
‘I’m losing interest already,’ said Frost.
‘It might not be a plumber at all,’ added Gilmore. ‘It could be someone, like Jean, who’s had central heating installed and that’s how the filings and solder got on their shoes.’
‘It might be a man with a length of copper tubing soldered on the end of his dick who’d popped into the crypt for a Jimmy Riddle,’ said Frost unhelpfully. Then he stopped dead and a smile crept over his face. ‘Or it might be a lot easier than we think.’ Excitedly he expounded his theory, the cigarette in his mouth waggling as he spoke. ‘We’re not looking for any old plumber. Our killer didn’t stagger into the cemetery with a gift-wrapped body just on the off-chance he’d find somewhere to hide it. He knew the crypt was there and he knew he could get into it. Now I’ve lived in Denton most of my life and I never knew we had a Victorian crypt in the churchyard . . . did