Read Online Frost at Christmas by R. D. Wingfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. D. Wingfield
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he'd finished.
Frost sauntered over, his mac unbuttoned and flapping. He surveyed the bathroom. "No bidet? She must chuck her fag-ends down the loo." He dropped his own cigarette end to a sizzling death, lowered the toilet seat, plonked himself down on it, and lit up a fresh one, his eyes flitting about the room.
"That was quick, son. Congratulations."
There was something in the way he said it that put Clive on his guard. Had he missed anything? Of course he hadn't, how could he? But he still felt uneasy.
Frost pumped out a mouthful of smoke.
"Did you have much trouble getting the bath panel off?"
Clive groaned inwardly. He could have kicked himself. The bath was boxed-in with plastic panels screwed to internal battens. A screamingly obvious hiding place, so obvious he'd missed it. But the scruffy old fool had spotted it.
Frost gave an understanding smile and handed Clive a screwdriver produced from the depths of the mac pocket.
After a token display of reluctance, the screws turned easily and he dropped them, one by one, into Frost's palm for safe-keeping, then off came the panel to be rested up against the other wall. The space revealed was large enough for two or three bodies but contained only dust, a heap of wood shavings, and a wet patch where the waste-pipe had been leaking.
"Nothing, sir."
Frost beamed. "I found the loot from six break-ins once, hidden behind bath panels. We knew it was in the bathroom. One brave lad even stuck his hand down the S-bend of the lav. I won't tell you what he found, but it wasn't the loot. Then I had one of my rare bright thoughts. We took out the bath panels and there it was, £12,000 worth. A good hiding place. I wish a few more crooks were clever enough to use it. It's the first place I look now and I haven't found a bloody thing since."
A light tread on the stair and a rattle of cups.
"In here, Mrs. Uphill," called Clive.
She stopped dead when she saw the removed panel and Clive on his knees by the bath.
She knew.
She knew they weren't looking for a live child. They were looking for a body.
Her hands shook. The cups rattled.
Frost gently took the tray from her and passed it to Clive.
"You think she's dead?" she whispered. Frost didn't answer. "And am I supposed to have killed her - my own daughter?"
Frost leveled up the ends of his scarf. His voice was soft. "We see lots of rotten things in the Force, Mrs. Uphill. You'd be surprised what people do. They kill their kids. Nice people. Loving parents with beautiful children, and they kill them. We had a mother, saw her husband off to work, kissed him goodbye, then drowned her three kids in the bath. Mentally ill, of course. Afterwards she went out shopping and bought them all sweets. Couldn't understand where they were when she got back. I doubt if that's what's happened in your case, but we have to check, even at the risk of hurting your feelings."
There was silence. Even Clive was moved. Then she turned and clattered downstairs. She was sobbing.
"I wonder if she's hidden the body in the airing cupboard," said Frost.
You callous bastard, thought Clive. Aloud he said, "I've looked, sir."
Frost accepted this and sipped his tea reflectively. "Hmm. Not bad. If she makes you a cup of tea like this afterward it's well worth the thirty quid she charges for her services. Grab a chair and come with me, son. I've found something else you must be dying to investigate."
Something else Clive had missed. A trapdoor in the ceiling just outside the bathroom. It led to the loft. Clive's torch beam crawled over the rafters. A suitcase. Big enough, but too light. He dragged it down. Inside were some infant clothes and a ball of white angora baby wool. They had been there a long time. Nearly nine years.
"We always wanted kids," said Frost, "the wife and me. She couldn't have them." He held the chair steady as
Frost sauntered over, his mac unbuttoned and flapping. He surveyed the bathroom. "No bidet? She must chuck her fag-ends down the loo." He dropped his own cigarette end to a sizzling death, lowered the toilet seat, plonked himself down on it, and lit up a fresh one, his eyes flitting about the room.
"That was quick, son. Congratulations."
There was something in the way he said it that put Clive on his guard. Had he missed anything? Of course he hadn't, how could he? But he still felt uneasy.
Frost pumped out a mouthful of smoke.
"Did you have much trouble getting the bath panel off?"
Clive groaned inwardly. He could have kicked himself. The bath was boxed-in with plastic panels screwed to internal battens. A screamingly obvious hiding place, so obvious he'd missed it. But the scruffy old fool had spotted it.
Frost gave an understanding smile and handed Clive a screwdriver produced from the depths of the mac pocket.
After a token display of reluctance, the screws turned easily and he dropped them, one by one, into Frost's palm for safe-keeping, then off came the panel to be rested up against the other wall. The space revealed was large enough for two or three bodies but contained only dust, a heap of wood shavings, and a wet patch where the waste-pipe had been leaking.
"Nothing, sir."
Frost beamed. "I found the loot from six break-ins once, hidden behind bath panels. We knew it was in the bathroom. One brave lad even stuck his hand down the S-bend of the lav. I won't tell you what he found, but it wasn't the loot. Then I had one of my rare bright thoughts. We took out the bath panels and there it was, £12,000 worth. A good hiding place. I wish a few more crooks were clever enough to use it. It's the first place I look now and I haven't found a bloody thing since."
A light tread on the stair and a rattle of cups.
"In here, Mrs. Uphill," called Clive.
She stopped dead when she saw the removed panel and Clive on his knees by the bath.
She knew.
She knew they weren't looking for a live child. They were looking for a body.
Her hands shook. The cups rattled.
Frost gently took the tray from her and passed it to Clive.
"You think she's dead?" she whispered. Frost didn't answer. "And am I supposed to have killed her - my own daughter?"
Frost leveled up the ends of his scarf. His voice was soft. "We see lots of rotten things in the Force, Mrs. Uphill. You'd be surprised what people do. They kill their kids. Nice people. Loving parents with beautiful children, and they kill them. We had a mother, saw her husband off to work, kissed him goodbye, then drowned her three kids in the bath. Mentally ill, of course. Afterwards she went out shopping and bought them all sweets. Couldn't understand where they were when she got back. I doubt if that's what's happened in your case, but we have to check, even at the risk of hurting your feelings."
There was silence. Even Clive was moved. Then she turned and clattered downstairs. She was sobbing.
"I wonder if she's hidden the body in the airing cupboard," said Frost.
You callous bastard, thought Clive. Aloud he said, "I've looked, sir."
Frost accepted this and sipped his tea reflectively. "Hmm. Not bad. If she makes you a cup of tea like this afterward it's well worth the thirty quid she charges for her services. Grab a chair and come with me, son. I've found something else you must be dying to investigate."
Something else Clive had missed. A trapdoor in the ceiling just outside the bathroom. It led to the loft. Clive's torch beam crawled over the rafters. A suitcase. Big enough, but too light. He dragged it down. Inside were some infant clothes and a ball of white angora baby wool. They had been there a long time. Nearly nine years.
"We always wanted kids," said Frost, "the wife and me. She couldn't have them." He held the chair steady as
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