R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“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 wardrobe 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. Before the operation they sent in a short-sighted nurse with a Sweeny 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.