DI Jack Frost 01 - Frost At Christmas

Jack . . . years . . . ten, twenty, perhaps longer. You'll need a pathologist."
    Frost held the doctor by one arm and led him out of earshot of the others. "Do we really need a pathologist, Doc? Couldn't you just say he died of natural causes and let it go at that? Honestly, I've got enough work to keep me going for a month, even if I applied myself - which I rarely do. I don't want to be sodding about with this ancient relic." He offered the doctor a cigarette as a bribe.
    Grunts and clangs as pickaxes bit. The doctor accepted a light. "I couldn't say natural causes, Jack - for one thing, how do you explain the chain attached to the wrist? In any case to tell you anything definite I'd need a darn sight more than half an arm. It'll require all sorts of tests and soil analysis. Your forensic boys will take it in their stride. I'm only a G.P. If it's not broken bones or constipation I'm out of my depth. I give a letter for a specialist, and that's what you want - a specialist." He coughed with the cigarette still in his mouth, spraying the inspector with hot ash. "I'm off home. I'll let you have my report."
    "What report?" demanded Frost. "You haven't even examined it."
    But the doctor was already moving off. "You want the pathologist. Besides, its snowing and he's paid a lot more than I am."
    Frost swore silently at a man who would desert him after accepting one of his cigarettes. There was a cry from the mustached P.C. He'd found what looked like the rest of the skeleton. It was some eight feet away from the hand. Clive was sent running back to the radio car to ask for a pathologist. Half-way there he met the men bringing the marquee.
    By the time the pathologist and the forensic team turned up, the marquee had been erected and the canvas was flapping with sounds like rifle-shots, as the wind searched it out for weaknesses.
    The pathologist, tall and cadaverous in a long black overcoat, had brought his medical secretary along - a faded, puffy-eyed beauty, who recorded her master's comments in the loops and angles of Pitman's shorthand. The pathologist seemed to find the wristband and chain more interesting than the human remains.
    "I'd like to know what's on the other end of that chain, Inspector."
    A busy beaver from Forensic got to work and began scraping away with practiced, economical movements, until enough chain was uncovered to permit a firm grip to be taken. He pulled. The earth released another three feet of chain, then held the rest fast. More patient scratching with a trowel, then some work with a pickax.
    The end of the chain was fastened to a metal box, about 2'6" x 1'6" x 4" deep.
    Frost plucked the pathologist's sleeve. He thought he knew what it was.
    "Could he have been here since the war, Doc?"
    The great man winced at the "Doc". "Possibly, Inspector. But I've done no tests yet so anything is a possibility until proved otherwise. Why do you ask?"
    "I think I know what that thing is. It's a sort of metal attache case. They were used during the war for confidential dispatches, chained to the courier's wrist. We had some plane crashes here during the Blitz - British and German.
    Could he have been thrown - or fallen - from a plane blowing up in the air, perhaps?"
    The pathologist pushed his lower lip into his mouth and sucked hard. "Again - possible. There's no telling how long the remains have been here." He dropped on one knee and scraped some dirt away from a rib. "If he fell you'd expect to find broken bones, but until we can get some of this encrusted dirt off . . ."He stood, rubbing the tips of his fingers. "When it's completely uncovered and photographed I'll have it moved to the crime lab for a thorough examination. I'll be able to give you facts then instead of theories. Oh - and I'd like all the surrounding earth crated up and sent for tests."
    "All of it?" asked Frost.
    "Well - where the arm and the rest of the skeleton have been lying, down to a depth of about three feet."
    The inspector's cigarette dropped. "That's going to take some digging, Doc."
    "Yes," agreed the great man, drawing on his gloves, "but it's necessary. Oh, and you might let me have a complete list, with dates, of all the air crashes that occurred in this vicinity during the war years."
    "Certainly, Doc," said Frost, wondering where the hell he could obtain useless information like that. He gave orders for the earth to be crated, then quickly tiptoed out with Clive before the pathologist could think of any more stupid