‘It would be an agreeable surprise if you were on time for once, Inspector.’ ‘I hate giving people surprises, Doc,’ said Frost, pulling on the obligatory green gown. He rubbed his forehead. The cold of the room was making his scar ache. Debbie, lying open-eyed and naked on the autopsy table, looked so small and vulnerable. Frost turned his head away as Drysdale selected a scalpel and made the first incision in the bluish-white flesh of the neck, muttering his standard running commentary to his green-gowned secretary, whose pen skimmed over her notebook, recording the words almost before Drysdale spoke them. This was just routine to them. It should have been routine for Frost, but he could never get used to it, especially when young kids were involved. His ears were still ringing from the mother’s heart-wrenching screams of despair. He let his eyes travel round the room: harsh neon lights burning down on the autopsy tables; green-tiled walls; the blue flicker of the electric insect-killers, of more use in hot weather than now.
