A Killing Frost by R. D. Wingfield Read Free Book Online

between jelly and ice cream or a bit of the other, jelly wouldn’t stand a chance,’ said Frost.
       ‘We’ve a feeling about this one, Inspector,’ said Simms. ‘I really think you should see the parents.’
       Frost dribbled smoke through his nose. He, too, often had feelings that weren’t borne out by the evidence, feelings that sometimes proved correct. ‘All right, lads. Book her in as a missing person and when I get the chance I’ll see them, but I’m tied up right now.’ He reached out for his internal phone as it rang.
       ‘Frost!’ It was Bill Wells. ‘Superintendent Mullett says he wants the crime-statistics report right now, Jack.’
       Frost looked down at the untidy mess of scribbled figures and crossings-out in front of him. He got up and snatched his scarf from the hook on the wall. ‘Tell him I’m out interviewing the parents of a missing thirteen-year-old girl.’

    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.’