Read Online Frost at Christmas by R. D. Wingfield - Free Book Online
Authors: R. D. Wingfield
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"You've already got two and you haven't returned them, sir," he said, pointing to the signed receipts in his issues book.
"Important job for Inspector Allen," said Frost, breezily signing for a third. "You'll have them all back this afternoon, without fail." He snatched a radio from the shelf and hustled Clive out before the constable could protest further.
His car, a gray, mud-splattered Morris 1100, was hidden in a side street. It was a cold day and as soon as Frost had cleared the passenger seat of a pair of dirt-caked gumboots and some yellowing Daily Mirrors, he slid in and rammed the heater switched to "High". Then he chucked the keys across to Clive and allowed himself to be chauffeured.
Inspector Frost was the sort of navigator who screamed "Turn right!" just as the car was.passing the appropriate turning. He didn't bother with advance warnings; Clive was forever slamming on the brakes and executing tight U-turns and the gumboots on the back seat kept falling to the floor.
They had left the town and were winding their way eastward down a rutted road running alongside forlorn miserable fields, unfarmed and overgrown, sites compulsorily purchased for the future expansion of Denton New Town.
To the right was one of the search parties, a thin straggle, moving slowly and methodically, poking the undergrowth with sticks, a cumulus cloud of smoky breath hovering over their heads in the cold air. Frost leaned over and honked the horn. One of the searchers turned and waved, then resumed the slow, patient prodding. Even at that distance the mud-splattered Morris was plainly identifiable.
Frost settled back in his seat, then drew Clive's attention to a large clearing where a smoke-belching bulldozer was rooting up the stumps of trees.
"Used to be woods there when I was young, son. Thick woods - with birds, squirrels, the lot. Many's the time in the hot fiery days of my youth when I've taken the shy trembling lady of my choice for an advanced anatomy lesson under the green bough." He sighed deeply. "That was weeks ago, of course. Oh, we should have turned left back there, son. All right, back a bit. More . . . more . . . you've bags of room."
She was waiting for them on the doorstep, skin scrubbed clean of makeup, ash-blonde hair pulled off her face and tied with a black boot-lace ribbon. She could have been a child, until you got close and saw the lines of worry, the eyes puffy from crying and lack of sleep. When she heard the car pull up outside she was sure they were bringing Tracey back, but when she opened the door she could see there was only two men. Please, please, she thought, don't let it be bad news.
The untidy man with the scarf gave her a reassuring smile. "No news, I'm afraid, Mrs. Uphill. Couple of questions you might help us on though."
She led them through to the lounge, buttocks wriggling in tight slacks, even in grief arousing strong sexual responses from the two men.
Frost settled down in an armchair and worried away at his scar for a minute before starting his questions. He was going to have to upset her and he hated upsetting anyone. The question he should ask was, "Have you killed your daughter, Mrs. Uphill, and hidden her body somewhere?
If so, you might tell us so we can call in those poor sods searching in the cold." Instead he said, "Any further thoughts as to where Tracey might have gone, Mrs. Uphill? We've covered all the obvious places."
She brushed back a straying wisp of hair. "If I had I'd have phoned the police."
"You had no quarrel with the child? Any reason why she might have left home?"
"No. We went through all this last night!"
Frost pushed himself up from the chair. "We'd like to search the house, if you don't mind."
She looked startled. "It was searched last night."
"Children can be devils, Mrs. Uphill. She could have sneaked back in and hidden somewhere."
"She's not in
"You've already got two and you haven't returned them, sir," he said, pointing to the signed receipts in his issues book.
"Important job for Inspector Allen," said Frost, breezily signing for a third. "You'll have them all back this afternoon, without fail." He snatched a radio from the shelf and hustled Clive out before the constable could protest further.
His car, a gray, mud-splattered Morris 1100, was hidden in a side street. It was a cold day and as soon as Frost had cleared the passenger seat of a pair of dirt-caked gumboots and some yellowing Daily Mirrors, he slid in and rammed the heater switched to "High". Then he chucked the keys across to Clive and allowed himself to be chauffeured.
Inspector Frost was the sort of navigator who screamed "Turn right!" just as the car was.passing the appropriate turning. He didn't bother with advance warnings; Clive was forever slamming on the brakes and executing tight U-turns and the gumboots on the back seat kept falling to the floor.
They had left the town and were winding their way eastward down a rutted road running alongside forlorn miserable fields, unfarmed and overgrown, sites compulsorily purchased for the future expansion of Denton New Town.
To the right was one of the search parties, a thin straggle, moving slowly and methodically, poking the undergrowth with sticks, a cumulus cloud of smoky breath hovering over their heads in the cold air. Frost leaned over and honked the horn. One of the searchers turned and waved, then resumed the slow, patient prodding. Even at that distance the mud-splattered Morris was plainly identifiable.
Frost settled back in his seat, then drew Clive's attention to a large clearing where a smoke-belching bulldozer was rooting up the stumps of trees.
"Used to be woods there when I was young, son. Thick woods - with birds, squirrels, the lot. Many's the time in the hot fiery days of my youth when I've taken the shy trembling lady of my choice for an advanced anatomy lesson under the green bough." He sighed deeply. "That was weeks ago, of course. Oh, we should have turned left back there, son. All right, back a bit. More . . . more . . . you've bags of room."
She was waiting for them on the doorstep, skin scrubbed clean of makeup, ash-blonde hair pulled off her face and tied with a black boot-lace ribbon. She could have been a child, until you got close and saw the lines of worry, the eyes puffy from crying and lack of sleep. When she heard the car pull up outside she was sure they were bringing Tracey back, but when she opened the door she could see there was only two men. Please, please, she thought, don't let it be bad news.
The untidy man with the scarf gave her a reassuring smile. "No news, I'm afraid, Mrs. Uphill. Couple of questions you might help us on though."
She led them through to the lounge, buttocks wriggling in tight slacks, even in grief arousing strong sexual responses from the two men.
Frost settled down in an armchair and worried away at his scar for a minute before starting his questions. He was going to have to upset her and he hated upsetting anyone. The question he should ask was, "Have you killed your daughter, Mrs. Uphill, and hidden her body somewhere?
If so, you might tell us so we can call in those poor sods searching in the cold." Instead he said, "Any further thoughts as to where Tracey might have gone, Mrs. Uphill? We've covered all the obvious places."
She brushed back a straying wisp of hair. "If I had I'd have phoned the police."
"You had no quarrel with the child? Any reason why she might have left home?"
"No. We went through all this last night!"
Frost pushed himself up from the chair. "We'd like to search the house, if you don't mind."
She looked startled. "It was searched last night."
"Children can be devils, Mrs. Uphill. She could have sneaked back in and hidden somewhere."
"She's not in
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