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

have. Do you want to waste time seeing it, or shall we talk about my daughter?”
    Stubbornly, Webster held out his hand for the licence. Frost jumped in quickly before the constable got too entrenched in his detective inspector act. “We can spare the gentleman that formality,” he said firmly.
    Reluctantly, Webster’s hand dropped. That’s right, you bastard, make me look small, he smouldered, his expression mirroring his thoughts.
    Clare Dawson returned with Mr Taylor, a nervous little man with a pencil moustache who entered the lounge hesitantly, as if not certain of his reception. He clasped the hand of his daughter, Debbie, whose face was hidden in the hood of a thick blue duffel coat.
    “So sorry about the misunderstanding, Max,” he began, offering his hand.
    “Misunderstanding?” snarled Dawson, knocking the hand away. “You little creep. If anything’s happened to my Karen, I’ll break you . . .”
    His wife tried to make peace. “I’m sure nothing’s happened to her, Max.”
    Dawson spun round, his face furious. “What are you, bloody clairvoyant all of a sudden? How do you know she’s all right? You don’t even bloody-well care!” He paused and waved his hand jerkily in what was intended as a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry. I’m overwrought.” He squeezed out a smile for Taylor and the girl. “Please sit down.”
    Debbie unbuttoned the duffel coat and slipped it off. Beneath it she wore a green long-sleeved pullover. A serious-faced little girl wearing glasses, her hair twisted in pigtails, she looked half asleep, frightened, and a lot younger than her fifteen years.
    “Right,” said Frost. “Let’s make a start so Debbie can get back to bed.” He checked to see what Webster was up to and was annoyed to locate him back with the guns. “Do you think you might spare the time to take a few notes, Constable?” he called.
    Webster’s frown crackled across the room like a lightning flash as he dragged out his notebook.
    “Karen’s been kidnapped,” said Dawson. “There was a man hiding in the house. You saw him, didn’t you, Debbie?”
    “Well, I think I did,” whispered the girl. She seemed too shy to look at anyone in the room and kept her head bowed down.
    “You think you did?” shouted Dawson angrily. “What do you mean ‘think’? You told me over the phone you definitely saw him.” He spun around to Mr Taylor. “Have you been getting her to change her story?”
    “Hold hard everyone,” pleaded Frost. “This is getting confusing. I’m a bit on the dim side, I’m afraid, so everything has to be explained very slowly to me. How about starting right from the beginning with not too many long words?” He nodded for Dawson to begin.
    “I’m managing director of Dawson Electronics. Tonight was the firm’s annual dinner and dance, which my wife and I attended. As we wouldn’t be back until late, our daughter, Karen, had arranged to go straight from school with Debbie to see a film at the Odeon— Breakdance or some such name—they’re both mad on dancing. After the film they were going back to Debbie’s house, where Karen was to stay the night. My wife and I got back home from the function a little after 11.30. I phoned Taylor to see if Karen was all right. He told me they hadn’t seen her. Debbie had turned up outside the Odeon at the appointed time, but no Karen. Debbie waited and waited, but, as Karen hadn’t arrived by the time the programme started, she went in and saw the film on her own.”
    “Hold on a minute,” said Frost. “You say Debbie waited for her outside the cinema? I thought the original idea was that they went straight there together—from school?”
    “Tell the inspector, Debbie,” said Dawson.
    “The school closed at lunch time,” said Debbie, her head bowed, talking to the floor. “We were all sent home. The teachers went on strike.”
    “Did you hear that?” demanded Dawson, quivering with barely suppressed anger. “The