A Touch of Frost djf-2

by R D Wingfield

  Wells accepted his tea without comment, but Collier, looking up from his remedial work, said, “Thanks very much, Inspector… sorry, I mean Constable,” which provoked a muffled snort of suppressed laughter from the sergeant.

  Webster’s face went tight. Laugh, you bastards. My time will come. He rapped on the panel, pushing the mug through as Ridley slid it open. The controller nodded his thanks, then called across to Wells: “That hit-and-run victim, Sergeant they’ve taken him to Denton General Hospital. He’s not expected to live. Oh, and they’ve found the licence plate from the car that hit him.”

  “A licence plate from the car that hit him!” exclaimed Frost in mock excitement. “Now that could be a clue!” He sipped his tea. “It’s never been my luck to have a bloody licence plate left behind. I’m lucky if I find two witnesses who can agree on the colour of the car.” Then he paused, the mug quivering an inch from his lips, and whispered, “Listen!”

  They listened to comparative silence. No music. No stamping.

  Putting his mug down, Frost hurried over to the door that led to the canteen and pushed it open. Various voices called “Goodbye, sir… Thanks for coming, sir…” The Chief Constable and Mullett were leaving. Frost smiled to himself. The minute they left, he’d be up those stairs like a sailor with a complimentary ticket to a brothel.

  Picking its moment, the phone rang. “Answer that, Collier,” Wells ordered. He wasn’t going to miss his chance with the Chief Constable again. But Collier was doing his doorman act, standing to attention, holding the main door open for the VIPs to pass through. Crawling little sod, thought Wells disgustedly.

  Webster had skulked off to the office and Jack Frost had ducked out of sight as he always did when Mullett loomed into view. That left only Wells to answer the phone.

  Mullett and the Chief Constable shimmered into the lobby in a haze of whisky fumes and expensive cigar smoke. The Chief was talking, Mullett was listening, nodding vigorously and murmuring, “Couldn’t agree with you more, sir,” whether he heard what the Chief was saying or not. At the door the Chief Constable paused, smiled approvingly at Collier, and said to Mullett, “You’ve got a smart man there, Superintendent.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Mullett, wondering why Sergeant Wells was looking daggers in his direction.

  Wells shifted the phone to his other hand and took down the details. “I see, sir. Well, try not to worry. I’ll have a detective inspector over to you right away.”

  He hung up.

  Upstairs, whoops of delight. The record player started up again. Jack Frost scuttled out of his hiding place in Control and hurried across to the door. The sound billowed and beckoned as he opened it.

  He never made it.

  “You can forget the party, Jack,” said Wells. “I’ve got a missing teenage girl for you.”

  Tuesday night shift (3)

  Out to the car park and the Cortina, Frost scuffling along behind Webster, the bright lights from the canteen windows looking down on them. Absent-mindedly, Webster slid into the passenger seat and stretched out as he used to in the days when a detective constable drove him around. Frost opened the passenger door and peered in. “I think you might be sitting in my seat, son.”

  With a grunt of irritation, Webster shifted over to his rightful, lowly place behind the wheel, listening sullenly to the muddled directions Frost gave him as they drove off.

  It was Frost who broke the uneasy silence.

  “This might come as a surprise to you, son, but you’re not exactly the flavour of the month around here.”

  Webster, in no mood to accept any form of criticism, especially from a twit like Frost, stiffened. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, son, that you’ve been behaving like a spoiled brat ever since you arrived. I know we’re not God’s gift to the demoted, but why don’t you try and meet us halfway? The odd little smile twinkling through your face fungus wouldn’t come amiss.”

  “I treat people the way they treat me,” snapped Webster, slowing down to wait for the lights to change. “I’m sick of having to put up with all this “Thank you, Inspector… sorry, I mean Constable” crap.”

  “Young Collier’s harmless,” said Frost.

  “It’s not only Collier,” said Webster, accelerating as the lights changed, ‘it’s everyone, especially Sergeant Wells. He delights in making me look small.”

  “There’s a reason,” Frost said. “Bill Wells wants to be an inspector so badly it hurts. He’s passed all the exams but the Promotion Board keeps turning him down. So when he comes across someone who was an inspector, something he’s never going to be, and who chucked it all away, well, he’s bound to feel resentful.”

  “And there’s Inspector Allen,” began Webster.

  “Inspector Allen is a bastard,” Frost cut in. “Lots of inspectors are bastards. I bet you were one yourself.” He peered through the dirty wind-screen. “Turn right here.”

  Webster spun the wheel, braking suddenly as the car headlights picked out a brick wall charging towards them. They had driven down a cul-de-sac.

  “Sorry,” said Frost. “I meant left.”

  Stupid bastard, thought Webster, backing out with great difficulty. “And another thing. Why was I deliberately excluded from that dead junkie investigation tonight?”

  “Because I’m a stupid old sod who never does the right thing,” replied Frost disarmingly. “I’m sorry about that, son, honest I am.”

  The reminder about Ben Cornish made him feel guilty. He knew he hadn’t been very thorough. All he had wanted to do was get out of that stinking hole and off to the party. And there was no mystery about it. Accidental death, like the doctor said. But something nagged, itched away at the back of his mind. He shut his eyes, trying to picture the scene… the filth, the body… the sodden clothes. Wait a minute, the clothes! He had the feeling that the pocket linings of the overcoat were pulled out slightly as if someone had gone through the pockets. Yet Shelby had said he hadn’t searched the body. It wouldn’t be the first time a copper had been through a dead man’s pockets and kept what he found. Immediately he discounted this possibility. Shelby might be a lousy copper in many ways, but he wasn’t a thief. Besides, what would Ben have had that was worth plunging your hands in vomit-sodden pockets to find?

  He shook his head and erased the picture from his mind. Then he realized he still hadn’t broken the news to Ben’s mother. He sighed.

  There were so many things he had left undone. Which reminded him

  “Did you manage to finish the crime statistics?” he asked hopefully. cNo,” said Webster, ‘your figures didn’t make any sense.”

  Frost nodded gloomily. They didn’t make any sense to him either, which was why he had passed them on to the detective constable. The returns were a monthly headache. This month Mullett had received a rocket from County Headquarters because, yet again, in spite of firm assurances, the Denton figures hadn’t been received on time. Fuming at his division’s failure, Mullett, in turn, had castigated Frost, and County had reluctantly agreed to extend the deadline by thirty-six hours. This deadline expired tomorrow.

  “First thing tomorrow, son… as soon as we get back from the post-mortem… we’ll make a determined effort.”

  Webster said nothing. Frost’s intentions were always of the best, but when the morning came, and the question of doing the returns was raised, Frost would suddenly remember some pressing reason why he and Webster had to go out. Webster badly needed to make good, but his chances of clawing his way back to his old rank of inspector were being sabotaged by his involvement with this hopeless, incompetent idiot.

  “Left here,” directed Frost. Webster spun the wheel and the Wellington boots on the back seat crashed to the floor.

  Frost leaned back and picked them up. “Must get the car cleaned up soon. We’ll do it as soon as we finish the crime statistics.”

  High up, ahead of them, a large house, its grounds floodlit. “That’s the D
awson place, son. Dead ahead.”

  Max Dawson was waiting for them at the open front door. He barely glanced at the warrant cards they waved at him, almost pushing them into the house and through the double doors which led to the lounge.

  The split-level lounge, which ran almost the full length of the ground floor, was roomy enough to hangar a Zeppelin. It smelled strongly of expensive leather, rich cigar smoke, and money… lots of money. A welcome contrast to the gents’ urinal back of the High Street, which smelled of none of these things, thought Frost.

  The lower level, panelled in rich oak, gleamingly polished, boasted a bar as big as a pub counter but much better stocked, and an enormous natural-stone fireplace with an unnatural but realistic log fire roaring gas-powered flames up a wide-throated brick chimney. The room’s trappings included a giant-screen projection TV posing as a Chippendale secreta ire a concealed screen that emerged from the wall at the touch of a button, and at least five thousand pounds’ worth of custom-built hi-fi equipment in flawlessly handcrafted reproduction Regency cabinets. The carpeting was milk-chocolate Wilton over thick rubber, underlay. It set off the deep-buttoned, soft leather couches in cream and natural brown.

  The second level, up a slight step, housed a full-sized snooker table with overhead lights, cue racks, and score-board. One wall was lined with what appeared to be banks of gilt-edged, leathes-bound books that probably concealed a wall safe, the other with open-fronted cabinets displaying sporting guns, revolvers, and rifles.

  Dawson came straight to the point. “My daughter’s been kidnapped,” he said, flicking his hand for them to sit. “I’ll co-operate with the police, but if there’s a ransom demand, I intend to pay it. My only concern is my daughter’s safety.” Then, as an afterthought, he indicated the woman seated by the fire, cradling a glass, “My wife.”

  Dawson, in evening clothes, the two ends of his bow tie hanging loose, was a short stocky man of about fifty with thinning hair, hard eyes, and tight, ruthless lips. Clare, his wife, was much younger and quite a looker, with dark hair, rich, creamy flesh, and the most sensuous mouth Frost had ever seen.

  “Right,” said Frost, unbuttoning his mac. “We’d better have the details.”

  The door bell chimed. Dawson jerked his head to his wife. “That’ll be the Taylors. Let them in.” Obediently, she tottered out of the room. “I want you to hear what this girl has to say,” he told the two policemen.

  While they waited, Webster rose from his chair and wandered over to the second level, where he took a closer look at the guns. He removed a Lee Enfield Mark III from a rack and squinted down its sights. “Are these genuine, sir?” he asked.

  “Of course they’re not bloody genuine,” snapped Dawson. “They’re replicas. I’ve got the genuine guns locked away.”

  “I take it you have a gun licence, sir,” persisted the detective constable, forgetting he wasn’t in charge of the case.

  Annoyed at this digression from the main business, Dawson jerked open the drawer of a long sideboard and pulled out some papers. “Yes, I bloody have. Do you want to waste time seeing it, or shall we talk about my daughter?”

  Stubbornly, Webster held out his hand for the licence. Frost jumped in quickly before the constable got too entrenched in his detective inspector act. “We can spare the gentleman that formality,” he said firmly.

  Reluctantly, Webster’s hand dropped. That’s right, you bastard, make me look small, he smouldered, his expression mirroring his thoughts.

  Clare Dawson returned with Mr. Taylor, a nervous little man with a pencil moustache who entered the lounge hesitantly, as if not certain of his reception. He clasped the hand of his daughter, Debbie, whose face was hidden in the hood of a thick blue duffel coat.

  “So sorry about the misunderstanding, Max,” he began, offering his hand.

  “Misunderstanding?” snarled Dawson, knocking the hand away. “You little creep. If anything’s happened to my Karen, I’ll break you.. ”

  His wife tried to make peace. “I’m sure nothing’s happened to her, Max.”

  Dawson spun round, his face furious. “What are you, bloody clairvoyant all of a sudden? How do you know she’s all right? You don’t even bloody-well care!” He paused and waved his hand jerkily in what was intended as a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry. I’m overwrought.” He squeezed out a smile for Taylor and the girl. “Please sit down.”

  Debbie unbuttoned the duffel coat and slipped it off. Beneath it she wore a green long-sleeved pullover. A serious-faced little girl wearing glasses, her hair twisted in pigtails, she looked half asleep, frightened, and a lot younger than her fifteen years.

  “Right,” said Frost. “Let’s make a start so Debbie can get back to bed.” He checked to see what Webster was up to and was annoyed to locate him back with the guns. “Do you think you might spare the time to take a few notes, Constable?” he called.

  Webster’s frown crackled across the room like a lightning flash as he dragged out his notebook.

  “Karen’s been kidnapped,” said Dawson. “There was a man hiding in the house. You saw him, didn’t you, Debbie?”

  “Well, I think I did,” whispered the girl. She seemed too shy to look at anyone in the room and kept her head bowed down.

  “You think you did?” shouted Dawson angrily. “What do you mean “think”? You told me over the phone you definitely saw him.” He spun around to Mr. Taylor. “Have you been getting her to change her story?”

  “Hold hard everyone,” pleaded Frost. “This is getting confusing. I’m a bit on the dim side, I’m afraid, so everything has to be explained very slowly to me. How about starting right from the beginning with not too many long words?” He nodded for Dawson to begin.

  “I’m managing director of Dawson Electronics. Tonight was the firm’s annual dinner and dance, which my wife and I attended. As we wouldn’t be back until late, our daughter, Karen, had arranged to go straight from school with Debbie to see a film at the Odeon — Breakdance or some such name they’re both mad on dancing. After the film they were going back to Debbie’s house, where Karen was to stay the night. My wife and I got back home from the function a little after 11.30. I phoned Taylor to see if Karen was all right. He told me they hadn’t seen her. Debbie had turned up outside the Odeon at the appointed time, but no Karen. Debbie waited and waited, but, as Karen hadn’t arrived by the time the programme started, she went in and saw the film on her own.”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Frost. “You say Debbie waited for her outside the cinema? I thought the original idea was that they went straight there together from school?”

  “Tell the inspector, Debbie,” said Dawson.

  “The school closed at lunch time,” said Debbie, her head bowed, talking to the floor. “We were all sent home. The teachers went on strike.”

  ‘ Did you hear that?” demanded Dawson, quivering with barely suppressed anger. “The teachers went on bloody strike! If they worked for me I’d sack the lot of them. And this isn’t the state-run comprehensive school we’re talking about. This is St. Mary’s.”

  Frost nodded. St. Mary’s College for Girls was a very exclusive, extremely expensive private school for the daughters of the filthy rich.

  “They kick the kids out, lock up the school, and don’t bother to tell the parents,” ranted Dawson. “If anything has happened to Karen as a result of this, I’ll sue that bloody school for every penny it has.”

  As the tirade continued, Frost’s eyes wandered to Mrs. Dawson, who was quietly topping up her glass. She certainly was a seductive piece of stuff. At a guess, she was at least fifteen years younger than her husband, but it was difficult to tell those rich birds knew how to slow down the ageing process. Her low-cut red-and-black evening gown revealed acres of warm, creamy flesh just crying out for exploration. She was, if one were being hypercritical, just a trifle on the plump side, but warm and inviting nevertheless, just like an over-inflated sex doll. She’s wasted on her husband, he thought. I bet he only has s
ex if it comes up on his agenda. 11.02–11.04, sex with wife, weather permitting. As Frost tore his gaze away, his eyes met Webster’s. He too was taking a sly surveillance. Frost leered and gave the constable a knowing wink. Webster looked away quickly, finding his notebook of consuming interest.

  “So the pupils were sent home at lunch time, sir?” Frost prompted.

  “Yes. Debbie walked back with Karen as far as the gates to the drive, and they arranged to meet outside the Odeon that evening.”

  “What time would this be, Debbie?”

  “About a quarter to two,” she told the carpet.

  “You would be at work at that time, sir?” Frost suggested to Dawson.

  “Of course I damn well was.”

  “And where were you, Mrs. Dawson?”

  Clare began to reply, but her husband had no intention of yielding the floor and answered for her. “My wife was out at the hairdresser’s. That’s the point. The house was empty, and yet Debbie saw…”

  “Debbie can tell us herself,” cut in Frost. He beamed at the young girl. “Tell us what happened, love, and the naughty man with the nasty beard will write it all down.” He had added this for Webster’s benefit as the constable’s notebook looked suspiciously devoid of shorthand.

  Debbie spoke so quietly they had to lean forward to take in what she was saying. “I left Karen at the gates at the bottom of the drive. My house is farther on. As I turned and waved to her, I saw

  … I thought I saw… someone at the window of Karen’s bedroom. I didn’t pay much attention. I didn’t know the house was supposed to be empty.”