A Touch Of Frost by R. D. Wingfield Read Free Book Online Page A

effort.”
    Webster said nothing. Frost’s intentions were always of the best, but when the morning came, and the question of doing the returns was raised, Frost would suddenly remember some pressing reason why he and Webster had to go out. Webster badly needed to make good, but his chances of clawing his way back to his old rank of inspector were being sabotaged by his involvement with this hopeless, incompetent idiot.
    “Left here,” directed Frost. Webster spun the wheel and the Wellington boots on the back seat crashed to the floor.
    Frost leaned back and picked them up. “Must get the car cleaned up soon. We’ll do it as soon as we finish the crime statistics.”
    High up, ahead of them, a large house, its grounds floodlit. “That’s the Dawson place, son. Dead ahead.”
     
    Max Dawson was waiting for them at the open front door. He barely glanced at the warrant cards they waved at him, almost pushing them into the house and through the double doors which led to the lounge.
    The split-level lounge, which ran almost the full length of the ground floor, was roomy enough to hangar a Zeppelin. It smelled strongly of expensive leather, rich cigar smoke, and money . . . lots of money. A welcome contrast to the gents’ urinal back of the High Street, which smelled of none of these things, thought Frost.
    The lower level, panelled in rich oak, gleamingly polished, boasted a bar as big as a pub counter but much better stocked, and an enormous natural-stone fireplace with an unnatural but realistic log fire roaring gas-powered flames up a wide-throated brick chimney. The room’s trappings included a giant-screen projection TV posing as a Chippendale secrétaire, a concealed screen that emerged from the wall at the touch of a button, and at least five thousand pounds’ worth of custom-built hi-fl equipment in flawlessly hand crafted reproduction Regency cabinets. The carpeting was milk-chocolate Wilton over thick rubber underlay. It set off the deep-buttoned, soft-leather couches in cream and natural brown.
    The second level, up a slight step, housed a full-sized snooker table with overhead lights, cue racks, and scoreboard. One wall was lined with what appeared to be banks of gilt-edged, leather-bound books that probably concealed a wall safe, the other with open-fronted cabinets displaying sporting guns, revolvers, and rifles.
    Dawson came straight to the point. “My daughter’s been kidnapped,” he said, flicking his hand for them to sit. “I’ll cooperate with the police, but if there’s a ransom demand, I intend to pay it. My only concern is my daughter’s safety,” Then, as an afterthought, he indicated the woman seated by the fire, cradling a glass, “My wife.”
    Dawson, in evening clothes, the two ends of his bow tie hanging loose, was a short stocky man of about fifty with thinning hair, hard eyes, and tight, ruthless lips. Clare, his wife, was much younger and quite a looker, with dark hair, rich, creamy flesh, and the most sensuous mouth Frost had ever seen.
    “Right,” said Frost, unbuttoning his mac. “We’d better have the details.”
    The door bell chimed. Dawson jerked his head to his wife. “That’ll be the Taylors. Let them in.” Obediently, she tottered out of the room. “I want you to hear what this girl has to say,” he told the two policemen.
    While they waited, Webster rose from his chair and wandered over to the second level, where he took a closer look at the guns. He removed a Lee Enfield Mark III from a rack and squinted down its sights. “Are these genuine, sir?” he asked.
    “Of course they’re not bloody genuine,” snapped Dawson. “They’re replicas. I’ve got the genuine guns locked away.”
    “I take it you have a gun licence, sir,” persisted the detective constable, forgetting he wasn’t in charge of the case.
    Annoyed at this digression from the main business, Dawson jerked open the drawer of a long sideboard and pulled out some papers. “Yes, I bloody