"Dead boy, aged about seven," said Burton, leading him to the body. "Believed to be Bobby Kirby, reported missing from home. Mother separated from husband. She and her boyfriend nipped out to the pub for a couple of hours leaving Bobby watching telly. When they got back around ten o'clock, Bobby wasn't there."

The body was still in the plastic sack and wouldn't be removed until the pathologist, a stickler for insisting on things being left exactly as found, had examined it. Frost knelt down and looked at the white face, the brown plastic masking tape round the eyes and mouth still in place. He shook his head sadly. "Poor little sod. Have the parents been told?"

"Not yet," Burton told him. "We're waiting for Mr. Allen."

"Rather him than me," said Frost. He peered more closely, his face tight with compassion. "What dirty bastard did this to you, sonny?" He examined the tape binding the mouth, and the dribble of vomit. He sniffed. That smell. What the hell was it? He knew it from somewhere

… Of course, the hospital. It was always lingering around the ward when he went to visit his wife, when he sat by the bed for hours on end to watch her slowly dying. He worried away, trying to identify it, but gave up. It wasn't his case, so it wasn't his problem. "Cause of death?"

"The police doctor thinks he might have choked to death on his own vomit."

"How long dead?"

"Wouldn't commit himself. He said ask the pathologist."

"Helpful bloody bastard." Frost straightened up and squinted at his watch. "Where the hell is Allen?"

"He and Mr. Mullett are on their way over now, sir," Burton told him.

"Mullett? Don't let him see your fag, son… he might recognize it as a long-lost friend." Frost took one last look at the body. "I'm only the token inspector, so just carry on until Smart-arse gets here." He found a dustbin to sit on while he waited.