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?”
“Because we are investigating a murder, Mrs. Dawson. Debbie saw the man drawing the bedroom curtains, but it wasn’t Karen’s bedroom it was the room next door… your bedroom. You were in bed with Dave Shelby when Karen came home unexpectedly, weren’t you? She burst in on you, saw you together. That’s why she ran out of the house?”
She gave the photograph back to the inspector, then slowly walked over to the bar and poured herself a stiff vodka. She offered the bottle to Frost, who refused. With one elbow on the bar counter she emptied half the glass, then set it down. “All right. So I was in bed with your policeman. But I didn’t know he was married, and I didn’t know he had children.”
“Would it have made any difference if you had known?” Webster asked her.
She frowned, considering this, then shook her head almost imperceptibly. “No. I don’t think it would. I can’t help it: I need men. I met Dave in a pub — I forget which one. I was feeling lonely.” She looked up, her head slowly travelling around the barn of a lounge. “This house is so big, so empty. Neither Karen nor Max needs me anymore. Dave used to come in the afternoon when he was on the middle shift. He was good-looking and a lot of fun. Kinky though. He liked taking these photographs. He promised to burn them. I wouldn’t have let him take them if he hadn’t promised that.”
“When did he take this photograph?” Frost asked.
“That afternoon. Just before Karen came bursting in on us. We had the shock of our lives when that happened.” She shuddered at the recollection. “Dave said he wouldn’t be coming again after that, but I would have talked him round. And when I read in the paper that he had been killed…” She finished her drink and poured another.
“When did your husband find out?” asked Frost casually.
She stared at him, eyes wide open in horror, shaking her head from side to side. “My husband? God, surely he doesn’t know. He’d kill me, Inspector. You can’t imagine how violent he is.”
“I think we can,” said Frost. “We think he is so violent that when Karen told him what she saw, he took one of his expensive shotguns, went out to find Shelby, and blasted his face off. Would you like me to show you a photograph of how your lover looked after that, Mrs. Dawson?”
The glass rattled on the bar top as she set it down. She backed away from him. “Max doesn’t know about me and Dave. If he did he would have killed me first and Dave second.”
Frost pulled the scarf from his pocket and buttoned up his mac. “Well, let’s hope he’s got an alibi for yesterday.”
She clutched his sleeve. “You’re not going to tell him? For God’s sake, you’re not going to tell him about me and Dave?” She paused. “Wait a minute. What time yesterday?”
“From five o’clock onward.”
She thought, then she smiled. “That’s easy. He was shooting for his club The Denton Small Arms Shooting Association. There was some challenge match with another club. Max was there until long gone nine.”
“What guns did he take with him?” asked Webster.
“An automatic pistol and a shotgun.”
“We’ll check with his club,” Frost told her. “If his alibi holds, we won’t bother you or him further. We’ll see ourselves out.”
As they opened the front door a young, very good-looking man was standing on the step. He carried what appeared to be an overnight case in his hand.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said. “I appear to have come to the wrong house.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Frost. “She’s waiting for you inside. Have you brought your camera?”
For reasons he didn’t explain, Frost wanted to check the alibi on his own, leaving Webster to wait impatiently outside the exclusive Demon Small Arms Club. After fifteen minutes, the inspector emerged, shoulders slumped as he slouched down the stone steps to the car.
“Well?” asked Webster, when Frost had slid into the passenger seat.
“Dawson arrived there before five and didn’t leave until well after ten,” said Frost gloomily, ‘so there’s no way he could have done it… more’s the bloody pity.”
Webster raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
“Because if it’s not him, then it’s got to be someone else, hasn’t it?” muttered Frost, slouching lower into his seat.
They drove in silence until they reached the station, where Frost was dropped off. He had suddenly realized that he hadn’t obtained the Divisional Commander’s authority for the night’s decoy operation.
He trotted into Mullett’s secretary’s office to find the grey-haired Miss Smith crouched over her electronic daisy-wheel typewriter, bashing out a report at high speed.
“Yes, Inspector?” she asked, her eyes not moving from her notebook.
“I’d like to see Hornrim Harry.”
“If you mean the Divisional Commander,” she sniffed, ‘he’s had to go over to County Headquarters. Perhaps I can do something for you?”
“That’s damn generous of you, Ida,” grinned Frost. “Your place or mine?” Still guffawing at his cheap wit, he wandered away, leaving Miss Smith hot-cheeked and fuming.
He ambled over to Sergeant Johnny Johnson at the front desk. “How many men can you spare me for tonight, Johnny?” he asked.
“None,” replied the sergeant, ruling a line to finish an entry. “What did you want them for?”
“Operation Mousetrap. A decoy operation to nab our rapist.”
Johnson nodded. Vaguely he recalled the details, but as far as he knew it hadn’t been officially approved. “Have you spoken to Mr. Mullett about it?”
Frost offered his cigarettes. “I’ve just come from his office,” he said truthfully.
