“And there’s Inspector Allen,” began Webster.
“Inspector Allen is a bastard,” Frost cut in. “Lots of inspectors are bastards. I bet you were one yourself.” He peered through the dirty wind-screen. “Turn right here.”
Webster spun the wheel, braking suddenly as the car headlights picked out a brick wall charging towards them. They had driven down a cul-de-sac.
“Sorry,” said Frost. “I meant left.”
Stupid bastard, thought Webster, backing out with great difficulty. “And another thing. Why was I deliberately excluded from that dead junkie investigation tonight?”
“Because I’m a stupid old sod who never does the right thing,” replied Frost disarmingly. “I’m sorry about that, son, honest I am.”
The reminder about Ben Cornish made him feel guilty. He knew he hadn’t been very thorough. All he had wanted to do was get out of that stinking hole and off to the party. And there was no mystery about it. Accidental death, like the doctor said. But something nagged, itched away at the back of his mind. He shut his eyes, trying to picture the scene… the filth, the body… the sodden clothes. Wait a minute, the clothes! He had the feeling that the pocket linings of the overcoat were pulled out slightly as if someone had gone through the pockets. Yet Shelby had said he hadn’t searched the body. It wouldn’t be the first time a copper had been through a dead man’s pockets and kept what he found. Immediately he discounted this possibility. Shelby might be a lousy copper in many ways, but he wasn’t a thief. Besides, what would Ben have had that was worth plunging your hands in vomit-sodden pockets to find?
He shook his head and erased the picture from his mind. Then he realized he still hadn’t broken the news to Ben’s mother. He sighed.
There were so many things he had left undone. Which reminded him
“Did you manage to finish the crime statistics?” he asked hopefully. cNo,” said Webster, ‘your figures didn’t make any sense.”
Frost nodded gloomily. They didn’t make any sense to him either, which was why he had passed them on to the detective constable. The returns were a monthly headache. This month Mullett had received a rocket from County Headquarters because, yet again, in spite of firm assurances, the Denton figures hadn’t been received on time. Fuming at his division’s failure, Mullett, in turn, had castigated Frost, and County had reluctantly agreed to extend the deadline by thirty-six hours. This deadline expired tomorrow.
“First thing tomorrow, son… as soon as we get back from the post-mortem… we’ll make a determined 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 secreta ire 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-fi equipment in flawlessly handcrafted 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 score-board. One wall was lined with what appeared to be banks of gilt-edged, leathes-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 co-operate 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 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,
