Read Online A Touch Of Frost by R. D. Wingfield - Free Book Online
Authors: R. D. Wingfield
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kidnapped . . .”
“Kidnapped!” snorted Frost, reaching out for the exercise books. “I wish she had been, son. A nice kidnapping case might make Mullett forget I hadn’t done his lousy crime statistics.”
“The man Debbie Taylor saw . . .” said Webster.
Frost sighed deeply. “Yes. I wish she hadn’t seen him, son. That bloody man messes up all my theories. My theory is that Karen comes home, finds the house empty, and decides it would be a good opportunity to do a bunk.”
“Run away, you mean?”
“That’s right. Teenagers run away from home all the time, especially when their parents are always rowing like those two charmers downstairs.”
“The father’s a swine,” retorted Webster, “but the mother’s all right.”
“All right?” cried Frost. “Her daughter’s missing and she still finds the inclination to polish our buttons with her knockers as we have to squeeze past her into the bedroom? We could have had a quickie behind the door if we played our cards right. The pair of them aren’t worth a toss, my son. Karen’s run away, but give her a couple of cold nights and no clean knickers and she’ll soon come crawling back to finish her essay about saving the world from poverty.”
“But the man . . .”
Frost ran his teeth along his lower lip. “Yes, son, what about the man?” He crossed to the window, noticing that the curtains were open. Debbie had said she saw the man closing them. He opened the window and hurled out his cigarette, then leaned forward and peered along the drive, which sloped down to the main road, trying to locate the spot where Debbie would have been standing when Karen left her. Reluctantly, he was forced to agree that if there was a man, young Debbie would have been able to see him from the road. He withdrew back into the room and closed the window.
“If it was a kidnap,” said Webster, thoughtfully, “then how would the man know Karen would be home from school early?” He thought for a second, then answered his own question. “Suppose he was one of her schoolteachers?”
“The teachers are all women,” said Frost, poking another cigarette in his mouth, “though a couple of them have got moustaches. The only man is the caretaker, but he’s pushing seventy.” His fingers found a gap in his mac pocket. “Sod it!”
“What’s up?” asked Webster.
“There’s a hole in this pocket. My lighter must have dropped out. Now when did I use it last?”
“About five minutes ago. It’ll be near the bed.”
Frost went down on his knees and began patting the thick pile of the shag carpet. As his hand explored the area beneath the bed he touched something. He dragged out a small metal case covered in pale-blue leatherette. The legend on the lid read The Intimate Bikini Styler for That Sleek Bikini Line . Flicking open the lid, he looked inside. “Here’s a weird-looking electric razor, son.” He passed it over to Webster, who nodded curtly.
“They’re called Bikini Stylers.”
“I know that,” said Frost, still searching for his lighter. “It’s printed on the lid, but I’m none the wiser.”
Webster looked embarrassed. “Some of these modern bathing suits that girls wear . . . the bottom half is cut very low . . . they expose parts of the lower stomach . . . the very low lower stomach.”
Frost looked at him blankly, then his eyebrows rocketed up as the penny dropped. “You don’t mean . . . ? Are you trying to tell me that women actually shave themselves down there before they put their bathing drawers on?” He stared hard at Webster. “You’re having me on.”
“It’s a fact,” Webster insisted. “My wife uses one.” His eyes glazed reflectively. “She looked a cracker in a bikini.”
Frost regarded the dainty shaver, shaking his head in awe. “Now I’ve heard everything. I wish the hospital had one of these when I had my appendix out. Before the operation they sent in a short-sighted nurse with
“Kidnapped!” snorted Frost, reaching out for the exercise books. “I wish she had been, son. A nice kidnapping case might make Mullett forget I hadn’t done his lousy crime statistics.”
“The man Debbie Taylor saw . . .” said Webster.
Frost sighed deeply. “Yes. I wish she hadn’t seen him, son. That bloody man messes up all my theories. My theory is that Karen comes home, finds the house empty, and decides it would be a good opportunity to do a bunk.”
“Run away, you mean?”
“That’s right. Teenagers run away from home all the time, especially when their parents are always rowing like those two charmers downstairs.”
“The father’s a swine,” retorted Webster, “but the mother’s all right.”
“All right?” cried Frost. “Her daughter’s missing and she still finds the inclination to polish our buttons with her knockers as we have to squeeze past her into the bedroom? We could have had a quickie behind the door if we played our cards right. The pair of them aren’t worth a toss, my son. Karen’s run away, but give her a couple of cold nights and no clean knickers and she’ll soon come crawling back to finish her essay about saving the world from poverty.”
“But the man . . .”
Frost ran his teeth along his lower lip. “Yes, son, what about the man?” He crossed to the window, noticing that the curtains were open. Debbie had said she saw the man closing them. He opened the window and hurled out his cigarette, then leaned forward and peered along the drive, which sloped down to the main road, trying to locate the spot where Debbie would have been standing when Karen left her. Reluctantly, he was forced to agree that if there was a man, young Debbie would have been able to see him from the road. He withdrew back into the room and closed the window.
“If it was a kidnap,” said Webster, thoughtfully, “then how would the man know Karen would be home from school early?” He thought for a second, then answered his own question. “Suppose he was one of her schoolteachers?”
“The teachers are all women,” said Frost, poking another cigarette in his mouth, “though a couple of them have got moustaches. The only man is the caretaker, but he’s pushing seventy.” His fingers found a gap in his mac pocket. “Sod it!”
“What’s up?” asked Webster.
“There’s a hole in this pocket. My lighter must have dropped out. Now when did I use it last?”
“About five minutes ago. It’ll be near the bed.”
Frost went down on his knees and began patting the thick pile of the shag carpet. As his hand explored the area beneath the bed he touched something. He dragged out a small metal case covered in pale-blue leatherette. The legend on the lid read The Intimate Bikini Styler for That Sleek Bikini Line . Flicking open the lid, he looked inside. “Here’s a weird-looking electric razor, son.” He passed it over to Webster, who nodded curtly.
“They’re called Bikini Stylers.”
“I know that,” said Frost, still searching for his lighter. “It’s printed on the lid, but I’m none the wiser.”
Webster looked embarrassed. “Some of these modern bathing suits that girls wear . . . the bottom half is cut very low . . . they expose parts of the lower stomach . . . the very low lower stomach.”
Frost looked at him blankly, then his eyebrows rocketed up as the penny dropped. “You don’t mean . . . ? Are you trying to tell me that women actually shave themselves down there before they put their bathing drawers on?” He stared hard at Webster. “You’re having me on.”
“It’s a fact,” Webster insisted. “My wife uses one.” His eyes glazed reflectively. “She looked a cracker in a bikini.”
Frost regarded the dainty shaver, shaking his head in awe. “Now I’ve heard everything. I wish the hospital had one of these when I had my appendix out. Before the operation they sent in a short-sighted nurse with
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