DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

Shelby reached up and plunged his hand inside the tank. He jiggled the ball cock up and down a couple of times, and suddenly the cistern gulped, emptied itself, then filled up and cut off. Satisfied, Shelby splashed back to Frost.
    ‘That’s done it, sir. If we can shift the body it should unblock the drain and let the water flow away.’
    ‘Better not move him, son. You know what a fussy little creep this police surgeon is. And see if you can’t find a light switch. Slomon’s bound to moan about the dark.’ He sneaked a look at his watch. How much longer before he could get to the party? Where was bloody Slomon?
    His question was answered by a clatter of footsteps from the top of the stairs and a peevish voice that inquired, ‘Any one down there?’
    Shelby’s torch guided the newcomer down. Dr Slomon, a short, self-important individual wearing an expensive- looking camel-haired overcoat, peered distastefully into the murk as Frost waded over. ‘Inspector Frost! I might have guessed. Somehow one associates you with places like this.’ His overcoat was unbuttoned, and beneath it Frost could see a bow tie, and a smart black evening dress suit.
    ‘You needn’t have got tarted up just to come down here Doc. Any old suit would have done.’
    Slomon smiled sourly. ‘If you must know, I was on my way to Inspector Harrison’s retirement party when I got this call. I hope it’s not going to take long.’
    ‘So do I,’ said Frost. ‘Hold on a tick, we’re trying to find the light switches.’
    At first there didn’t seem to be any way of turning on the lights, but eventually the beam of the torch followed the wiring down until it disappeared inside a small wooden cup board on which was stencilled Switches - Keep Locked. In obedience to this request, the cupboard door had been secured with an enormous brass padlock that wouldn’t have been out of place in the vaults of the Bank of England.
    ‘It’s locked,’ announced Shelby.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said Frost, splashing over to take a look. There was a wrenching sound, a tearing of wood, and the padlock crashed to the floor. ‘You see,’ said Frost, ‘it wasn’t locked.’
    The splintered door swung open to reveal its treasures . . . rolls of toilet paper stamped Property of Denton Borough Council, a huge bottle of disinfectant, and a pair of brass-domed light switches screwed to the wall. Two dicks and the fly-specked bulbs high in the ceiling fought a half hearted battle against the darkness.
    Frost surveyed his surroundings, the filthy, stained urinal stalls with their cracked beige glazing turning an unpleasant shade of brown, the copper piping thickly crusted with verdigris, the brown composition floor awash with discoloured water and floating matter. Behind him a row of dark-green painted doors with brass coin locks guarded the lavatories. One of the doors was newly splintered, the coin lock hanging from loose screws; it yawned open to reveal a toilet with a broken seat stuffed with torn sheets of newspaper; over it dangled a length of discoloured string as replacement for the missing chain.
    ‘Only my opinion,’ commented Frost, ‘but I think it was more romantic with the lights off.’ He paddled over to the body. ‘Here’s your patient, Doc. I’d be obliged if you’d hurry it up. I want to get to that party, too.’
    The police surgeon made no attempt to leave the bottom step. He looked first at the swirl of dirty water he would have to wade through, then at his highly polished patent-leather shoes. ‘Do we know who he is?’
    ‘His name is Ben Cornish,’ replied the police constable. ‘A dropout. Sleeps rough. He’s on drugs and booze.’
    Slomon nodded. ‘I see. And what leads you to suspect that death is other than from natural causes?’
    ‘I wasn’t sure if he was dead, so I brought Dr Cadman in. He said he died from a blow to the back of the skull.’
    Slomon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh? And how did Dr Cadman reach that extraordinary diagnosis?’
    ‘I think he did it by actually walking over and examining the body,’ chimed in Frost, losing patience. ‘He didn’t do it by remote control from the bottom step.’
    Slomon’s cheeks ballooned with anger. ‘I don’t need lessons from you on how to conduct an examination, Frost. These tin-pot general practitioners don’t know what the hell they are talking about. Even from here I can see that the most likely cause of death is the obvious one: he choked on his own