Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  “Yes.” She nodded. “That’s just the sort of thing the rotten bastard would do.”

  “The rotten bastard got himself robbed last night, did you know that?” asked Frost.

  “Robbed? Harry Baskin robbed?” She threw back her head, her body shaking and her breasts jiggling as she laughed. “That’s made my day!”

  You’ve made my day as well, thought Webster, wishing she would laugh more often. But they weren’t here about the robbery or the rape, so why couldn’t Frost stick to the point? “We came about the hit-and-run,” he reminded the inspector.

  “So we did, son,” agreed Frost, looking about the room. “Where’s your television set, miss?”

  She blinked at the pointless question. “I haven’t got one.”

  “And you’re asking me to believe that you and Master Roger were stuck in this prison cell of a flat from half past six yesterday evening until eight o’clock this morning with no telly to keep you amused? I can’t even see any books to read. So what do you do to keep yourselves amused?”

  “We happen to love each other,” she said simply. “What do you think we did?”

  But Frost wasn’t having any of this. “Come now, miss, there are limits. If it were me, I could stare all night at your mole and want nothing more than a dripping sandwich and a cup of tea. But Master Roger isn’t the stay-at-home type. He couldn’t sit still for hours in a pokey little hole like this. He’d want to get out, go somewhere, knock some poor wally down with his expensive motor and then get some silly little tart to provide him with an alibi.”

  Her eyes spat fire. “I find you offensive.”

  “Then you’re in good company, Miss King. Mind you, I find it offensive that rich men’s sons can kill innocent people and get away with it.”

  The girl caught her breath and looked frightened. Very frightened. “Killed? You mean the man’s dead?”

  Frost looked up in surprise. “You didn’t know he was dead? Surely your boy friend didn’t keep that tidbit of news from you before asking you to fake his alibi?”

  She stared unbelievingly at him, then looked pleadingly at Webster for him to tell her it wasn’t true.

  “He died late last night, miss,” the constable confirmed.

  She dropped heavily on to the settee, hands twisting her handkerchief into a tight silken rope, her face as white as a hospital sheet.

  “So you see, miss,” said Webster quietly, ‘it’s a very serious matter.”

  “He’s not worth lying for,” added Frost. “He wouldn’t lie for you.”

  She tugged at the handkerchief as if she were trying to rip it in two, then jerked her head up defiantly. “I’m not lying. Roger arrived here yesterday evening. He stayed with me until eight this morning. We did not go out. We couldn’t have gone anywhere even if we wanted to. Roger didn’t have any money. He was broke.”

  “Broke? Come off it, love. He’s rolling in it.”

  “He had some debts to pay off - to Harry Baskin, as it happens. If you don’t believe me, you can ask him. Which is why we had to stay in . . . all bloody night. Are you satisfied?

  There’s only one way you could satisfy me, love, thought Frost, and that involves showing me your mole. His eyes held hers. She tried to meet his gaze, but her head dropped. I know you are lying, he thought, but I just can’t prove it. He expelled a sigh. “All right, miss. We’d like you drop in at the station sometime today to give us a written statement. It shouldn’t take long.”

  He straightened his aching back and buttoned up his mac. A loose button was hanging by a single thread. He would have to find someone to sew it on for him before he lost it. Julie King didn’t look the sort of girl who knew what a needle and thread were for.

  “If you want my opinion, she’s lying,” announced Webster when they were back in the car.

  “Probably,” said Frost, who had just found the note in his pocket that he had scribbled earlier, ‘but there’s something else that worries me, something that makes me wonder if the girl might, perhaps, be telling the truth. It’s that bloody licence plate. It was too damn convenient, our finding it. It’s like a crook leaving his name and address, or a rapist leaving a photograph of his dick.”

  “The plate fell off when the Jag crashed into the dustbins,” said Webster, who saw nothing illogical about that.

  “How many licence plates have you known to fall off?” asked Frost, reaching for the handset so he could call the station.

  Johnny Johnson was delighted to hear from him. “Mr. Frost! We’ve been trying to reach you. Mr. Mullett wants to see you. Something about the crime statistics.”

  “Sorry,” said Frost, ‘can’t hear you. This is a very bad line.”

  “I can hear you perfectly,” the sergeant told him.

  “Good. Then tell me something. I asked for someone to check the spot where we picked up that licence plate to see if they could find the plastic screws. Any joy?”

  “No, Jack. Charlie Bravo did a thorough search of the area. Couldn’t find anything. Now, about Mr. Mullett . . .”

  “Still can’t hear you,” said Frost quickly. “Over and out.” He switched off the radio in case the station tried to call back, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If the licence plate fell off, the screws holding it to the car would have had to come off just before it dropped. So where are they?”

  “No idea,” shrugged Webster.

  “Secondly,” Frost continued, ‘we’ve got to suppose that both screws came out simultaneously.”

  “Why?”

  “If only one screw fell out, the other would hold it, causing the plate to pivot down. It would have dragged along while the Jag was still going at top speed. But the plate was undamaged.”

  “It wouldn’t necessarily drop down,” said Webster. “The remaining screw could have been holding it so tightly it stayed in position.”

  “If it was holding it as tightly as that, son, there’s no way it could have unscrewed itself to let the licence plate drop off. No, that licence plate was deliberately removed, carried in the car, then chucked out near the accident so the dumb fuzz could find it.”

  Webster looked at Frost pityingly. “I imagine the last thing Roger Miller would have wanted to do was leave his licence plate behind.”

  “If he was driving, I agree. But supposing it was someone else who wanted to get him into trouble?”

  The detective constable could only shake his head in despair. This was getting beyond him.

  Frost settled back in his seat. “Try this out for size, as the bishop said to the actress. The girl told us that Miller bets with Harry Baskin and that he’s short of money. Let’s suppose he’s run up a dirty great gambling debt and he can’t pay like I’ve told you, Harry has his own roguish little ways of speeding up slow payers - he sets their car alight, or cuts their cat’s head off. Suppose Harry decides to put the screws on Roger by getting one of his minions to nick the Jag, drive it around at speed, knocking a few dustbins over in the process, and drop off the licence plate so there’s no doubt as to whose car it was . . . a warning to Miller that there’s worse to come if he doesn’t cough up. That’s the plan. But it went wrong. The minion knocks an old man down and kills him. He has to abandon the Jag and leg it back to The Coconut Grove - the car wasn’t found all that far away from the club if you recall.”

  Webster chewed this over. “There’s a lot of loose ends, but I suppose it’s possible,” he grudgingly admitted.

  “Yes,” said Frost. “The only trouble is, if I’m right, then Master Roger is innocent, and that would be contrary to natural justice.” He tugged at the seat belt and fastened it across his lap. “Ah well, we have other cases to occupy our fertile minds. Let’s go and see Old Mother Wiggle-Bum.”

  Webster turned the key in the ignition. “I presume you mean Mrs. Dawson?”

  The inspector nodded, chewing his lower lip as another nagging doubt rose to the surface. “She worries me, son. It was bloody windy in the town yesterday afternoon.”


  With a grimace, Webster said, “Was it?” He wondered what the old fool was drivelling on about now.

  Frost looked out on the trees of Denton Woods as the car cruised along the ring road. “Near gale force. It would have blown your beard all over the place. If you were a woman who wiggled her bum and you had just had your hair done for a very important do, would you risk walking in the wind for a couple of hours?”

  “No,” said Webster.

  “Old Mother Dawson did,” said Frost. “Before we see her we’ll nip into the town and call on a few hairdressers. We might even let them give your beard a blue rinse.”

  Wednesday day shift (5)

  Max Dawson gave the barrel of the rifle a final polish with a soft duster, then carefully rested the butt against his shoulder, and lined up the sights to the exact centre of his sleeping wife’s forehead. Then, very gently, he squeezed. A metallic click. She stirred a little and slept on.

  He lowered the rifle, almost wishing it were loaded. How could she sleep? Her own daughter missing, possibly even lying dead somewhere, and all she could do was sleep.

  The rifle was replaced in its leather case and zipped in. He carried it out to the metal cupboard which, in compliance with his firearms certificate, was fixed to the wall beneath the stairs by bolts set in concrete. He was turning the key in the security lock when the phone rang.

  It was Karen. It had to be Karen.

  He raced back to the lounge, scooped up the phone, and croaked, “Yes?”

  The ringing had woken up Clare. “Is it Karen?”

  An impatient flick of his hand ordered her to silence. He listened, his face red-hot with anger. He turned his head incredulously to his wife. “Would you believe it? It’s the bloody office with some piddling little query.” Enraged, he yelled into the phone, “Get off this bloody line, you bitch. Don’t you dare phone me at home again.” He slammed the receiver down with such force he feared he might have broken it. He checked, and heard the reassuring purr of the dial tone. His hand still shaking, he replaced it carefully this time.

  Clare pushed herself from the armchair, where she had been huddled in an uneasy sleep, and stretched to straighten out the kinks in her back. A quick glance in the mirror over the mantlepiece while she fluffed up her hair, then she padded across to her husband and gently squeezed his arm.

  “Shall I make some coffee?”

  He jerked his arm away. He didn’t want her touching him. He blamed her for Karen’s disappearance. If she had been here yesterday afternoon when Karen came home early from school, none of this would have happened. “I don’t want any coffee.”

  Shrugging off the rejection, she knelt on the padded window seat and looked out across the landscaped garden.Thin sunlight trickled down and an edgy wind ruffled the shrubs and the water of the ornamental fish pond.

  The bray of a horn as a car turned off the road and into the drive. She went cold. “Max, a car!”

  He almost leaped across the room to join her at the window. He recognized the Ford Cortina. “It’s the police,” he told her. “Those two idiots who were here last night.” She reached out for the comforting reassurance of his hand, but he drew away, watching the Ford pull up at the front door, watching the two policemen get out, both looking grim.

  The door bell chimed. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. If he didn’t open the door, he wouldn’t have to hear their awful news and Karen wouldn’t be dead.

  A second ring, longer this time.

  Clare again examined herself in the mirror, adjusted the hem of her sweater, then went to the front door. His eyes followed her. Look at her! Her only daughter dead and she’s preening herself.

  He heard the front door open, then voices. Quite loud voices, not hushed as if they were breaking bad news. A spark of hope flickered. And in they came, first the scrufl one, his voice booming. ‘Morning, Mr Dawson. No news yet, I’m afraid. I take it your daughter hasn’t been in touch?’

  ‘If she had, Inspector, I would have contacted you,’ snapped Dawson, his relief now making him resentful that they frightened him.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Frost, blandly. ‘Anyway, we’ve circulated Karen’s photograph and we’ve asked everyone to keep their eyes open, so we might strike lucky soon.’

  ‘Circulated her photograph?’ shrilled Dawson, his mouth agape in exaggerated astonishment. ‘Is that all you’ve done? Good God, man, if Karen were walking about where people could see her, don’t you think she would have phoned me? Face up to facts. She’s being held against her will somewhere, or she’s injured, or even worse . . . what about the woods where that woman was attacked? Karen could be lying there, helpless.’

  ‘We’ve got men searching every inch of the woods,’ Webster told him.

  ‘I’ve put one of my best men in charge,’ added Frost. ‘Detective Inspector Allen. Not very bright, but thorough.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Dawson,’ announced Webster, ‘we’d like to search the house and grounds. Purely routine, but children have been known to hide and accidentally get trapped. This is quite a rambling building.’

  Dawson thought it would be a complete and utter waste of time. He himself had already gone over every inch of the house and outbuildings.

  ‘No harm in being one hundred percent sure,’ said Frost, suggesting that Webster and Dawson work down from the attic while he and Mrs Dawson covered the ground floor.

  Waiting until he could hear the two men’s footsteps over head, Frost gave Clare a friendly smile. That should have put her on guard. But it didn’t. She smiled back. She was wearing an orange angora-wool sweater with flared lemon slacks. The sweater seemed to be moulded on, but she managed to pull it down and wriggle about until it fitted even tighter. ‘Where shall we start?’

  Frost lined up the ends of his scarf, then worried the living daylights out of his scar. It was time to dive in without knowing how deep the water was.

  ‘Mrs Dawson, if your daughter came back to an empty house yesterday, and if there was a man hiding inside, then I am extremely concerned for Karen’s safety. I would want to organize a full-scale police investigation, probably drafting in men from other divisions to help. That would take up a lot of people’s time and cost one hell of a lot of money, but if a girl’s life is at stake it would be worth it.’

  She reached up to the mantelpiece for the knight-in-armour table lighter and sank down in the armchair, hunched up small, clicking the lighter on and off, the flame flaring and dying.

  ‘Before I take such a step,’ continued Frost gravely, ‘I would like to satisfy myself that the unworthy thought that keeps springing to my mind isn’t correct.’

  ‘Unworthy thought?’ she stammered.

  ‘Let me be blunt, Mrs Dawson. It will save time. You’re a sexy bit of stuff. You’re a lot younger than your husband and you’re all alone in the house for most of the day. Women in such circumstances have been known to wile the time away with a bit of spare on the side.’

  She was up, facing him, her breasts quivering with indignation. “How dare you . . . !”

  He gently pushed her back down into the chair. “If it helps to find your daughter I’ll dare as much as I like. All I’m trying to do is see if we can’t eliminate this mystery man from our inquiries.” The lighter clicked on, off, on, off. He felt like doing what her husband had done the night before take it away from her. “I’m asking you, point-blank, can I eliminate him or not?”

  She found the lighter of consuming interest.

  “I promise you, Mrs. Dawson, if he was just here for a bit of spare, I’ll keep him out of it. Can I eliminate him?”

  “Yes, damn you, you can.”

  Frost heaved a sigh of relief. The first hurdle safely over. “I checked with your hairdresser. Your appointment was originally for two o’clock, but you phoned yesterday morning and put it back until five. Is that correct?”

  “If you’ve checked with the hairdresser, then it must be,” she answered defiantly.

  “OK
,” said Frost. “So we take it that you altered your appointment because your boy friend was popping in to see you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were both here when Karen came home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “We were in here, on the settee. We were kissing . . . my dress was unbuttoned. We didn’t hear Karen come in. We didn’t expect her. That bloody school should have phoned. Karen saw us. She ran out of the house.”

  “Any idea where she is?”

  “No. But I’m sure she’ll be back. My husband doesn’t know it, but she’s been off like this before. Karen’s not quite the innocent he thinks she is.” She put the lighter on the floor then walked to the bar where she slopped a shot of vodka into a glass. Staring defiantly, she raised the glass to her lips. Then she crumpled. “You won’t tell my husband? He’ll kill me if he finds out.”

  Frost shrugged. “If it’s not necessary for him to know, then I won’t tell him. But your daughter is bound to spill the beans when she comes back.”

  “I can take care of Karen,” she said significantly.

  “Right,” said Frost, rewinding his scarf. “We’ll keep an eye open for her, but we won’t worry too much for a day or so. If you get any news, let us know.”

  The lounge door opened for the return of Max Dawson and a dusty, cob webby Detective Constable Webster.

  “She’s not down here,” said Frost. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  When they got back to the car, Frost took a chance and switched the radio on. Control was calling him. Charlie Bravo had gone to Tommy Croll’s place to pick him up. No sign of Croll, but his rooms had been broken into and all the furniture systematically ripped and smashed. “We’re on our way,” said Frost.

  Detective Inspector Allen rapped at the door of the Divisional Commander’s office and went in. Mullett, sitting ramrod-stiff behind his satin mahogany desk, smiled and indicated the inspector should sit.