Read Online Frost at Christmas by R. D. Wingfield - Free Book Online Page A

the house." The woman hugged herself as though for warmth. The room was hot, but the cold was inside her. Her teeshirt had ridden up showing naked cream beneath. She looked like a frightened, lonely child and Clive wanted to put his arms around her - and not just because he wanted to reassure her.
       "We haven't got all sodding day, son," snapped Frost. "We'll start at the top and work our way down."
       The upper floor contained two bedrooms and a bathroom. They looked in the main bedroom first. Thick drawn curtains shut out the daylight. Clive found the switch and a tinted bulb slashed the bed with rose-colored light. The large double bed was unmade, a crumpled, flimsy lemon nightdress lying on a pillow. A pyramid of half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray testified to a sleepless night.
       They searched the room thoroughly, moving the bed and the large dressing table. Then Clive slid open the door of the built-in wardrobe and his startled gasp of horror sent Frost running over. But it was a doll; an expensive, life-sized, blonde-haired doll, the hidden-away Christmas present Tracey had asked Father Christmas for. Clive braced himself for some biting comment, but Frost mildly remarked, "Blimey, son, it looks bloody real, doesn't it?"
       It was a large wardrobe, but apart from the doll, it held only clothes swaying on hangers; lots and lots of expensive clothes.
       Frost pulled back the curtains and looked out on Vicarage Terrace. You could just see the vicarage and the Sunday school at the end of the street. What had happened to the child after she left that Sunday school? He shifted his gaze back to the room and the ceiling . . .
       "Blimey!"
       Clive followed his gaze. A mirror was fixed to the ceiling, positioned to reflect the occupants of the bed. The detective constable's mouth went dry as he pictured a naked, writhing Joan Uphill, her body splashed with red light, her hair spread over the pillow . . .
       "Must be a sod to clean that," said the down-to-earth Jack Frost, adding, as an afterthought, "Perhaps the man has a feather duster stuck up his arse."
       The other bedroom was the child's, the walls papered in a Tom and Jerry pattern, with nursery characters decorating the lampshade and the door of the white-painted cupboard. A row of dolls sat solemnly on a windowseat staring at the small bed which was neatly made. A small radiator heated the room, but it seemed cold . . . and empty.
       Frost casually opened the cupboard door and an avalanche of toys cascaded to the floor at his feet. He found a Yo-Yo and demonstrated some tricky variations to his detective constable who tried not to show his contempt for Frost's childish behavior.
       Frost unhooked the string from his finger and dropped the Yo-Yo back on the heap. "Tell you what, son, you do one of your thorough London searches in the bathroom while I poke this lot back in the cupboard."
       The large bathroom, with its paneled tangerine bath, toilet, and washbasin, didn't take much searching, but Clive wasn't going to let the inspector show him what he'd missed. It was really too small, but he checked the bathroom cabinet. Just the usual toiletries, body cologne, talcum powder, bath foam, and an electric razor. He unscrewed the cap of the talc and sniffed the loin-stirring Joan Uphill perfume. He put the talc back and closed the cabinet. The only real possibility was the airing cupboard. He opened it up and looked inside. Most of its space was taken up by the hot-water tank and the wooden racks each side holding ironed linen. But they'd taught him to be thorough in London. Sliding out a couple of the wooden racks, he slid his hand around the back of the tank until it was wedged between hot, bare metal and the rough surface of the wall. Nothing hidden there. He could guarantee that. The space above the cylinder? More racks and more clothes. Brushing his new suit free of brickdust and cobwebs, he called across to the inspector that