R Wingfield - A Killing Frost

The Clarks lived in a large four-bedroomed house situated on the outskirts of Denton, overlooking Denton Woods. As the area car scrunched down a long driveway flanked by miniature conifers, Frost admired the extensive lawn. Studded with flower beds, it encircled a large fish pond with a statue of a naked woman pouring water from a jug.

‘Very tasteful,’ he nodded. ‘I’m glad she’s not doing a pee like that boy in Brussels.’

A gleaming black E-class Mercedes-Benz estate was parked outside a double garage. ‘They’re not short of a few bob, are they?’ muttered Frost, climbing out of the car.

They had hardly reached the front door when it was flung open by the missing girl’s father, Harold Clark, an angry man in his mid-forties, with slicked-down dark hair and a neatly clipped moustache like Mullett’s, which turned Frost off him right away.

‘About bloody time,’ snapped Clark, jerking a thumb towards the hall. ‘In here.’

They followed him into a large, thickly carpeted lounge. One wall was dominated by a huge fire, with gas flames licking at artificial logs, the other by an enormous plasma television screen. Clark’s wife, some ten years younger than him, sat huddled by the fire in one of the cream leather armchairs. Behind her, wall-to-wall patio doors gave a panoramic view of Denton Woods, which at this time of year, with black clouds hovering, seemed to have a sinister aura. Mrs Clark would have been pretty if her hair had been combed and she had put make-up on. She didn’t look well, staring blankly into space and twisting a damp handkerchief in her hands.

‘The police,’ announced her husband curtly. She looked up through tear-swollen eyes at the men. ‘Have you found her? She’s dead, isn’t she? I know she is.’ She dissolved into tears. Her husband put an arm round her. She abruptly twitched her shoulder to shake him off, then shrank back into the armchair.

Clark gave a ‘you can see she’s upset’ shrug and moved away.

‘We haven’t found her yet,’ said Jordan. He indicated the inspector. ‘This is Detective Inspector Frost.’

Clark scowled at the shabby figure of Frost, who tended to look even shabbier against luxurious backgrounds. He was clearly not impressed. ‘Have you got a search party out yet?’

Frost shook his head. ‘Not yet, Mr Clark.’

Clark’s face darkened. ‘What do you mean, “Not yet”? My daughter’s gone missing.’

‘It’s early days,’ explained Frost. ‘Young girls go missing all the time. They run away from home, they come back.’

Clark was spluttering with rage. ‘Run away from home?’ he shrieked. ‘You stupid, bloody fool. I told these two officers earlier, there is no way my daughter would run away from home. It’s her thirteenth birthday today.’ He flapped a hand towards the mantelpiece where a stack of unopened birthday cards were piled. ‘She’s having a party. She was looking forward to it. There is no bloody way she would run away.’

‘Do you know how many teenagers run away from home every year, Mr Clark, and how many of them come running back in a couple of days with their tails between their legs?’

Clark jabbed a finger at Frosts ‘My daughter is not a bloody statistic. I want search parties out now, do you hear? Now!’

Frost unwound his scarf. It was sweltering in the lounge with the gas fire going at full blast. ‘Let me have a few facts first, sir, please. She went out yesterday evening on her bike, I understand. What time would that be?’

‘How many more bloody times? She had her evening meal and left about half past seven. Said she was going to see her friend Audrey and might stay the night. She’s done it before, so we didn’t worry.’

‘She often went there for sleepovers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Audrey used to come here for sleepovers,’ said the mother flatly, staring into space, ‘but not any more.’

‘Oh?’ asked Frost. ‘Why not?’

Clark shot a warning glance at his wife, then answered for her. ‘We’ve no idea. You know what kids are.’

‘I see,’ nodded Frost, who didn’t see at all. He’d have a word with Audrey himself. ‘And you’ve checked with this girl?’

‘Of course we’ve bloody checked. Do you think we’re stupid? Debbie hadn’t been there. She hadn’t even arranged to go there.’

‘Has Debbie got a boyfriend?’

‘She’s only thirteen! Of course she hasn’t got a boyfriend. There was some lout sniffing around some months ago, but I soon got shot of him.’

‘He was a nice boy,’ said his wife tonelessly. ‘I liked him.’

‘Oh yes?’ snarled Clark. ‘A nice boy! So what was he doing in her bloody bedroom with his hand down her blouse? I slung him out of the house and said if I ever caught him with my daughter again…’ He let the threat hang.

‘Have you contacted the boy to see if Debbie is with him?’

‘I phoned his house, but got no reply. She’d better not be there – I’ll break the dirty bastard’s neck.’

‘His name and address, please.’ He waited as the mother scribbled it down. ‘Has Debbie got a mobile phone?’

‘Yes. I’ve been ringing, but it’s switched off.’

‘Did she take any clothes – money – her bank book?’

The Clarks looked questioningly at each other. ‘I’ll check,’ said the wife, rising unsteadily from her chair, again shrugging off her husband’s helping hand.

There was a silent, uneasy wait as she went upstairs and Clark exuded his dislike of the shabbily dressed inspector. Frost was dying for a smoke but couldn’t see any ashtrays.

Mrs Clark returned, shaking her head. ‘All her clothes seem to be there – and her bank book.’

Frost stood up. ‘Could I take a look round her room?’

She led him back up the stairs to a room decorated with pop posters. A single bed with a light-blue coverlet stood against one wall, a cream-coloured wardrobe against the other. Everything was neat and tidy. By the window a wire-mesh waste-paper bin nestled under a desk housing a flat-screen computer and an inkjet printer.

‘Is she on the internet?’ asked Frost.

Mrs Clark nodded. ‘Always messaging her friends, even though she sees them every day at school.’

Frost jabbed a finger at the keyboard, pulling it away quickly as the computer bleeped. He nodded knowingly as if the noise meant something to him, but he was completely computer illiterate. One of the technicians would need to have a look at the machine to see what secrets it held if it turned out that Debbie really was missing and not just having it away with the boy whose hand had been discovered exploring the contents of her blouse. He took a look at the waste-paper bin. This was more his sort of thing. He bent and pulled out some crumpled gift-wrap. A stuck-on label read ‘Happy birthday, darling from Mum.’ He frowned. ‘I thought her birthday was today?’

Mrs Clark took the wrapping paper from him and stared at it in puzzlement. ‘She’s opened it. Before her birthday… she’s opened it!’

Her husband came in the room. ‘What’s the matter?’ he barked.

‘It seems that Debbie opened one of her presents from your wife before her birthday and took it with her,’ Frost told him.

Clark turned to his wife. ‘What present?’

She paused before replying. ‘That bikini she wanted.’

Her husband exploded. ‘You bought her that bloody bikini? A twelve-year-old school kid? Didn’t I specifically tell you – ’

‘All her friends had one,’ cut in his wife.

‘Most of her friends are sluts – jailbait. My daughter isn’t!’

Perhaps you could discuss this some other time,’ said Frost wearily. ‘She was obviously going somewhere on her bike last night. Could it have been the swimming baths, to show the new costume off to her friends?’