Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  ‘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 sex 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.’

  ‘Was it a man or a woman?’ asked the inspector.

  She stared hard at the floor. ‘I can’t be sure but I think it was a man. He was closing the curtains. I only saw him for a second.’

  ‘Closing the curtains? You mean the bedroom curtains were open. The man you saw was pulling them together?’

  ‘Yes. I thought nothing of it at the time. I didn’t know it was supposed to be important.’

  Frost rubbed his chin. ‘Did you see Karen go into the house?’

  ‘No, but I saw her walking up the path toward the house.’

  ‘And she had arranged to meet you outside the Odeon at what time?’

  ‘Half past five.’

  ‘You arrived on time?’

  ‘I was there five minutes early. I waited until six . . .that’s when the programme started. She didn’t turn up, so I went in on my own.’

  ‘Were you surprised she didn’t turn up?’

  Her eyes blinked rapidly behind her glasses. ‘Yes. She’d been excited about it for weeks - we both were - and she, was looking forward to spending the night at my house.’

  ‘Any idea where she might have gone?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. No idea at all.’

  ‘We’ve phoned all her other friends,’ said Dawson. ‘It’s bloody obvious. She’s been kidnapped. The man was inside the house, waiting for her.’

  ‘Thank you, Debbie,’ said Frost, ‘you’ve been a great help. Now, you go off home and back to bed. If you think of anything else, get your dad to phone me.’ He dug around in his pocket until he found a dog-eared card, which he handed to Taylor. While Clare was showing father and daughter out, Frost asked for a photograph of Karen.

  Max Dawson took a coloured photograph from a mosaic-topped coffee table and handed it to the inspector, who studied it, then passed it over to Webster. A photograph of a schoolgirl, dark, shiny, well-brushed hair, a scrubbed, glowing face with a hint of freckles, a snub nose, and a broad grin. If she was fifteen, then, like Debbie, she looked very young for her age.

  ‘A pretty kid,’ smiled Frost. ‘When was this taken?’

  Dawson snapped a finger for Clare to reply. ‘About six or seven months ago,’ she said obediently.

  ‘And how old is she?’ inquired Webster, writing the details on the reverse of the photograph.

  ‘She was fifteen last Thursday,’ Dawson answered.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Frost. ‘And now a couple of questions for you, Mrs Dawson.’

  She started as he addressed her, catching her glass just in time to stop it from falling over. Then she tried to light a cigarette from a statuette of a visored knight in armour that doubled as a table lighter, but she had difficulty in steering the flame to the end of her cigarette. At last the cigarette was alight, but still she kept the statuette in her hand, fidgeting with it, clicking the flame on and off, on and off. ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  She was understandably nervous, and of course worried . . . but there was something else . . . something almost furtive about her. The same furtiveness Frost had seen in the face of Dave Shelby. Later, he would remember how he had linked her with Shelby - and all for the wrong reasons.

  ‘What time did you leave the house to go out, Mrs Dawson?’

  ‘This evening you mean?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t bloody-well mean this evening,’ snarled her husband, snatching the lighter from her hand and putting it on the oak mantelpiece above the fireplace, well out of her reach. ‘He means when you went out to get your bloody hair shampooed and set.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. The appointment was at two. I left the house shortly after one.’

  With a quick glance to make sure Webster was recording these details, Frost then asked, ‘And what time did you get back home?’

  ‘Five o’clock, perhaps a little later.’

  ‘Three hours for a shampoo and set?’ queried the inspector. ‘I didn’t think it took that long.’

  ‘It only took an hour, but afterward I walked around the town, looking at the shops, then I went in Aster’s Department Store and had afternoon tea.’

  ‘When you returned home, was there anything that didn’t seem quite right . . . any feeling that someone had been in the house while you were out?’

  She considered this for a moment, then firmly shook her head. ‘No, nothing.’

  Frost smiled his thanks, then switched his attention to the husband. ‘You suggest your daughter has been kidnapped, sir. I take it there’s been no contact from anyone claiming to be holding her, no phone calls or ransom demands?’

  ‘There’s been no approach . . . yet. But it will follow, I have no doubt about that. I’m a rich man, a bloody rich man. My daughter is missing, a man was hiding in here, waiting for her. You don’t have to be a genius to see she’s been kidnapped.’

  Frost leaned bac
k in the chair and stared up at the high ceiling with its indistinguishable-from-real oak beams and its crystal chandelier. He worried at his scar and chewed the facts over. He wasn’t sold on Dawson’s kidnap theory. If the kid had been kidnapped, surely her abductors would have immediately warned her parents not to contact the police. And here it was, some ten hours or more after the event, and they still hadn’t made their approach. No, ‘he couldn’t buy the kidnap scenario.

  Webster watched the old fool drifting off into his reverie, trying to find inspiration from the ceiling. Look at him, he thought. He hasn’t a clue about what to do next. Well, if the inspector didn’t know what to do, Webster certainly did. Abruptly he snapped his notebook shut and stood up.

  ‘Right, Mr Dawson. Debbie saw a man in your daughter’s room, so we’ll start by taking a look up there.’

  The inspector’s face went tight, but after a couple of seconds he relaxed and forced a smile. Pushing himself from the armchair’s cream-and-brown embrace, he said mildly, ‘Upstairs is it, Mrs Dawson?’

  Clare drained her glass and rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I’ll show you.’

  They followed her up a wide, deeply carpeted staircase to the first floor. Her tight-fitting evening dress did more than hug her figure. It intimately explored it, and they were treated to a glorious display of wriggling buttock cleft which Webster might have missed had not Frost nudged him and pointed.

  A short wade through the knee-deep carpet of the landing to a dove-grey padded door, which she opened. She clicked on the light, then moved back slightly for them to squeeze past. It was a tight squeeze and she didn’t seem to want to make it any easier. ‘This is Karen’s room.’

  ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Dawson,’ said Frost, taking her arm and steering her out, of the room. ‘We’ll give you a shout if we want anything.’ The door had barely closed behind her before he added coarsely, ‘Though it’s pretty obvious what you want, darling.’

  Webster scowled but didn’t respond. He was becoming inured to the inspector’s tasteless comments on the people with whom they came into contact. But he would have thought even Frost would draw the line at a mother whose kid was missing.

  Frost sprawled out on Karen’s bed and bounced up and down to test the springs. He found a half-smoked cigarette hiding in his pocket and lit it gratefully. ‘Well, you wanted to search the room, son, so search it. If you find any important clues, such as a severed hand, or a warm bra with the contents intact, let me know. Wake me up if I’m asleep.’ He closed his eyes and relaxed.

  ‘I was hoping for your co-operation.’

  ‘Oh, it’s me who’s supposed to co-operate with you, is it?’ he asked, as if understanding for the first time. ‘I thought it was the other way around. I’ll co-operate by keeping out of your way.’ And he wriggled comfortably.

  Who needs your bloody help? thought Webster.

  It was a teenager’s dream bedroom, straight out of the pages of an up-market pop magazine. The ceiling was finished in sky blue and dotted with a firmament of silver stars. Along one wall a custom-built unit held a music centre, a video recorder, and a small fourteen-inch colour TV to which was connected a computer keyboard.

  Opposite, behind light-oak sliding doors, a built-in ward robe travelled the entire length of the wall. Webster slid back the door to reveal rows of dresses and coats rippling on hangers. In a separate section a white ballet dress shimmered and rustled next to a cat suit and three pairs of leotards. Neat lines of tap and ballet shoes occupied the wardrobe floor.

  Webster moved to the corner, where a small desk faced a double row of bookshelves. On the desk were two blue-covered school exercise books with Karen Dawson, Form VB neatly written along the top. He opened one of them to read, in Karen’s neat handwriting, If I were Prime Minister, the first thing I would do on taking office would be to abolish poverty throughout the land . . . He dropped the exercise book back on the desk.

  Frost was still stretched out on the bed, eyes half closed, watching puffs of cigarette smoke drift like clouds across the star-spangled ceiling. ‘OK, son, if you’ve got any theories, let’s have them.’

  ‘Well,’ Webster began, ‘if she has been kidnapped . . .’

  ‘Kidnapped!’ snorted Frost, reaching out for the exercise books. ‘I wish she had been, son. A nice kidnapping case might make Mullett forget I hadn’t done his lousy crime statistics.’

  ‘The man Debbie Taylor saw . . .’ said Webster.

  Frost sighed deeply. ‘Yes. I wish she hadn’t seen him, son. That bloody man messes up all my theories. My theory is that Karen comes home, finds the house empty, and decides it would be a good opportunity to do a bunk’

  ‘Run away, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right. Teenagers run away from home all the time, especially when their parents are always rowing like those two charmers downstairs.’

  ‘The father’s a swine,’ retorted Webster, ‘but the mother’s all right.’

  ‘All right?’ cried Frost. ‘Her daughter’s missing and she still finds the inclination to polish our buttons with her knockers as we have to squeeze past her into the bedroom? We could have had a quickie behind the door if we played our cards right. The pair of them aren’t worth a toss, my son. Karen’s run away, but give her a couple of cold nights and no clean knickers and she’ll soon come crawling back to finish her essay about saving the world from poverty.’

  ‘But the man . . .’

  Frost ran his teeth along his lower lip. ‘Yes, son, what about the man?’ He crossed to the window, noticing that the curtains were open. Debbie had said she saw the man closing them. He opened the window and hurled out his cigarette, then leaned forward and peered along the drive, which sloped down to the main road, trying to locate the spot where Debbie would have been standing when Karen left her. Reluctantly, he was forced to agree that if there was a man, young Debbie would have been able to see him from the road. He withdrew back into the room and closed the window.

  ‘If it was a kidnap,’ said Webster, thoughtfully, ‘then how would the man know Karen would be home from school early?’ He thought for a second, then answered his own question. ‘Suppose he was one of her schoolteachers?’

  ‘The teachers are all women,’ said Frost, poking another cigarette in his mouth, ‘though a couple of them have got moustaches. The only man is the caretaker, but he’s pushing seventy.’ His fingers found a gap in his mac pocket. ‘Sod it!’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Webster.

  ‘There’s a hole in this pocket. My lighter must have dropped out. Now when did I use it last?’

  ‘About five minutes ago. It’ll be near the bed.’

  Frost went down on his knees and began patting the thick pile of the shag carpet. As his hand explored the area beneath the bed he touched something. He dragged out a small metal case covered in pale-blue leatherette. The legend on the lid read The Intimate Bikini Styler for That Sleek Bikini Line. Flicking open the lid, he looked inside. ‘Here’s a weird-looking electric razor, son.’ He passed it over to Webster, who nodded curtly.

  ‘They’re called Bikini Stylers.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Frost, still searching for his lighter. ‘It’s printed on the lid, but I’m none the wiser.’

  Webster looked embarrassed. ‘Some of these modern bathing suits that girls wear . . . the bottom half is cut very low . . . they expose parts of the lower stomach . . . the very low lower stomach.’

  Frost looked at him blankly, then his eyebrows rocketed up as the penny dropped. ‘You don’t mean . . . ? Are you trying to tell me that women actually shave themselves down there before they put their bathing drawers on?’ He stared hard at Webster. ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘It’s a fact,’ Webster insisted. ‘My wife uses one.’ His eyes glazed reflectively. ‘She looked a cracker in a bikini.’

  Frost regarded the dainty shaver, shaking his head in awe. ‘Now I’ve heard everything. I wish the hospital had one of these when I had my appendix out. Befo
re the operation they sent in a short-sighted nurse with a Sweeney Todd cutthroat. That was the first time in my life I really prayed.’

  He snapped the lid shut and poked the case back under the bed, wondering what a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl would be doing with a thing like this.

  ‘By your left foot,’ called Webster, pointing to the missing lighter.

  Frost retrieved it, lit up, and flopped back on the bed. He yawned. ‘I could stay here all night, son, especially if young Karen, all fresh, sweet, and clean-shaven, would slip under the sheets beside me.’ He turned his head and saw the photographs. Two of them on the bedside cabinet, propped up against a tiny Snoopy digital alarm clock.

  He sat up to examine them. One showed Karen in the white ballet dress from the wardrobe, standing en pointe, hands outstretched, looking demure and sweet. The other was a beach scene, brilliant sky, silver sand. Two girls - one, young Debbie minus her glasses, flat-chested in a one-piece dark-blue bathing costume, looking as embarrassed as if she were stark naked; next to her, smiling with the sensuous mouth she had inherited from her mother, Karen Dawson, long-legged, well-developed, posing in a white two-piece swimsuit that caressed and stroked every curve of her young body. An entirely different Karen from the scrubbed school girl in the other photograph.

  ‘No sign of five o’clock shadow,’ muttered Frost, looking closely before handing the prize over to Webster.

  The detective constable winced. Anything prurient and Frost flogged it to death. But the photograph certainly showed the girl in a different light. Unlike the inspector, Webster wasn’t convinced the girl had left home of her own accord. There was one way to check, of course. He asked Frost to get off the bed, then he rummaged under the pillow and pulled back the bedclothes.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find her in the bed,’ said Frost. He had pulled out the drawers of the bedside cabinet and was rummaging through the contents.

  ‘I was checking to see if her pyjamas were there,’ sniffed Webster. ‘If she’d done a bunk I would have expected her to take them with her. They’re not here.’