R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

She hesitated, shooting a little sideways glance at Webster, who could only shake his head helplessly.

“If not, how would you like to be raped?” continued the inspector.

This was one of the inspector’s little jokes, of course. She giggled as she waited for the punchline. Then she saw he was deadly serious.

“I need you as a decoy, Sue. For this bloody rapist. I want to nail the bastard tonight.”

For just a second she hesitated, then she said, “What’s the plan?”

“It’s Mr. Allen’s plan, actually. I found it in the file. We fit you up with a two-way radio and we stake out the area. You prowl around, oozing sexual attraction, then, when he rises to the bait, we pounce, and then we all go home and have a cup of tea. How does it sound?”

She smiled. “I’ll do it. After seeing what he did to that kid last night, I’ll do anything to get the swine.”

Frost patted her hand. “Good girl. Now, we know he likes them young, dewy-eyed, and innocent, so no make-up, no bra, sensible knickers, and simple clothes and take the. Karma Sutra out of your pocket.” He consulted his watch. “It’s coming up to half past seven. Get off home. Try and grab some kip because, if we’re lucky, it’s going to be a busy night. I’ll send Webster round at ten to pick you up and bring you back here for a final briefing.”

Webster yawned pointedly. If he could get off now he would be able to drive Sue back to her flat, and to her bed, and they could relax and make up for the disappointment of the night before. “Perhaps we’d all better snatch a few hours’ sleep,” he suggested.

“Sure,” said Frost vaguely. “But there’s a couple of quick jobs we must do first.”

They’d better be quick, thought Webster, whispering to Susan that he’d be round at nine, earlier if he could, which would give them at least an hour before she had to get dressed in her decoy outfit.

“So what are these jobs?” urged Webster when Susan had left.

“Aim?” said Frost, not listening. He had taken out the packet of action photographs from Dave Shelby’s collection and was finding one of consuming interest. It showed Shelby and a woman, both naked. Shelby was lying on the bed, grinning. The woman, her back to the camera, showing off gorgeous buttocks, was astride him. The punchline to his old joke came into Frost’s head. “I knew it was the foreman,” he muttered to himself,

‘because I had to do all the bloody work.” He caught Webster’s eye. “Something nagging me, son. Why do I feel I should know where this was taken, and why do I feel it’s important?”

Can’t the old fool keep his mind on one case at a time, thought Webster as he bent to take a look. Wow! Lucky Shelby! The unknown woman looked a right little raver, and the action shot made him even more anxious to get the hell out of the office and into Sue’s bed posthaste so he could grin up at Sue as Shelby was grinning up at the woman.

“I’m not sure who the woman is,” said Frost. “I think it’s Mullett’s secretary. But I’m sure I know that bedroom. We’ve been there and recently.”

Webster tore his eyes away from the woman’s bottom and studied the rest of the photograph. Behind the lovers was an out-of-focus yellow background. To one side, also out of focus, a brown fuzzy blur that might possibly be a bedside cabinet and which was topped by something that seemed to glow red. He shook his head. It meant nothing to him.

Then Frost let out a yelp of triumph. “Got it!” He jabbed a finger.

“That is Mrs. Dawson’s bedroom.”

Webster picked up the photograph and looked again, trying to compare what he saw with what he remembered. Of course. The out-of-focus yellowish background, the colour distorted by the flash, would be the cream leather headboard. Once that was established the other blurred objects clicked into sharp focus, down to the LED digital clock with its oversized red numerals. There was no doubt about it, Dave Shelby had been having it off with Mrs. Dawson of the buttocks beautiful.

“What if her old man had found out?” said Frost quietly.

Webster whistled softly. Then there would have been hell to pay. Max Dawson had a violent temper, and an armoury of firearms. Then it hit him what Frost was implying. “Surely you’re not suggesting…?”

“Why not?” asked Frost. “It’s much more likely Dawson would kill Shelby than Useless Eustace, and it’s always bugged me that there was no blood in the getaway car.”

“But we found Shelby’s notebook.”

Frost clicked his Biro on and off. “There must be some other answer as to how it got there.” He pushed the pen back into his top pocket.

“You’ll have to tell Mr. Allen.”

Frost tightened his lips stubbornly. “He wouldn’t listen, son. He’s already made up his mind that Stan is his murderer. Besides, I don’t want anyone to see these photos until I’m sure. We’ll have to interview Max Dawson ourselves.”

“But it isn’t our case,” insisted Webster.

Frost stuffed the photograph back with the rest and put them in his pocket. “I promised Stan’s wife I’d help if I could.”

“You don’t owe her a bloody thing. We’ve got enough on our plates with this rape case. Besides, Mullett will crucify you if he finds out you’ve been meddling again.”

But it was hopeless. When Frost was in his stubborn mood, neither logic, common sense, nor appeals to reason would shake him. “It won’t take us long, son,” he said.

Clare, wearing a see-through blouse and white slacks, opened the door to them, but the smile died on her face and she looked startled, as if she was expecting someone else. “Max is out,” she said. “He’s gone to London for a meeting. He won’t be back until the morning.”

“Then perhaps you can help,” said Frost, smiling. It suited him to be able to question the woman first.

They followed the famous photogenic wiggling bottom into the oak-panelled lounge with its walls covered in weapons, one of which could have been used to kill Dave Shelby. She waited nervously, rubbing the back of one hand, watching Frost as he slowly and deliberately unwound his scarf. It was stifling in the lounge with the pseudo log fire eating up the therms.

“What is it about?” she asked anxiously.

“How’s Karen?” said Frost, balling the scarf and ramming it into his mac pocket. He sat down on the settee and unbuttoned his coat.

“She’s fine,” Clare told them. “My husband has agreed she can go to ballet school at the end of this term.”

Frost smiled at her. “So all secrets are safe?”

“Yes.” She waited for him to come to the point.

Frost opened his wallet and took out the press release black-and-white photograph of Dave Shelby, smiling and alive. He held it up to her. “Recognize him?”

She gave it barely a glance before shaking her head.

Still holding it up to her, Frost said, “I think you do, Mrs. Dawson. His name is David Shelby, he’s a policeman, married with two young kids. He was shot dead yesterday.”

“Oh!” She took the glossy, then pretended to recognize it for the first time. “Of course. Yes, I read about it in the paper.” She offered Frost the photograph back, but he didn’t take it.

“Then you know why we are here, Mrs. Dawson?”

Her hands fluttered vaguely. “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Webster wandered over to the rack of guns with their polished stocks and mat black barrels. If weapons of death could look beautiful, then these looked beautiful. From a casual glance there was no way of telling if any of the shotguns had been fired recently, and, in any case, none of these guns would be returned to the rack without being thoroughly cleaned.

Frost took the black-and-white photograph from the woman’s hand and replaced it with the Polaroid. The colour drained from her face. “Why are you doing this to me?”