Free A Touch Of Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page B

him. They hadn’t seen the bearded bloke before.
    “Are you the ex-inspector?” asked Simms. “The one who got kicked out of Braybridge?”
    Another sneering bastard, Webster thought, his hands balling into fists. “What if I am?”
    “Rotten luck,” commented Simms mildly.
    The oak offered shelter from the wind, and Frost was in no hurry to move on. He offered his cigarettes around. Only Webster, with an impatient jerk of his head, declined to accept one. Jordan’s lighter did the rounds.
    Webster looked out on to the dark mass of trees which seemed to stretch on and on for miles. “It’s hopeless with only the four of us. We should ask the station for reinforcements.”
    Frost forced out a stream of smoke which the wind snatched and tore into shreds. “A full-scale search would have to be properly organized, so it couldn’t even begin until the morning. Let’s give it a whirl ourselves first—unless anyone else wants to chip in with a suggestion?” He looked hopefully at the two uniformed men, who shook their heads, engrossed in studying the branches of the oak tree. They were paid to do what they were told, not to work out campaign plans.
    “Right,” said Frost, pulling himself up straight. “Lacking evidence to the contrary, we’ve got to assume that there is a body—a girl—alive or dead. While we’re assuming, let’s give ourselves a bit of incentive and make her alive . . . not only alive, but a rampant quivering nymphomaniac with enormous knockers, fully prepared to bestow her hot lusty favours on the man who finds her.”
    Jordan and Simms grinned. At least Frost was making it interesting.
    “Right,” he continued. “Now keep that dirty picture in mind while we transfer our attention to the herbert who tripped over her and phoned the station.”
    He dropped his cigarette end to the ground and crushed it under his heel. “It’s late at night. So what was he doing skulking behind bushes? Obvious answer: He wanted to do a pee and, either ashamed of or too modest to flaunt his equipment, decided to commune privately with nature behind a convenient bush, only to find this nympho’s supine body. So he bottled it up and legged it to the nearest blower to call the cops. How does that sound?”
    They paused to consider this. It sounded feasible.
    “Sergeant Wells said the man was phoning from a public call box,” Frost continued.
    “I noticed a phone box near where we parked the car,” offered Webster.
    “There are phone boxes all over the bloody place,” said Jordan gloomily.
    “We’ve got to start from somewhere,” said Frost, “and that’s as good a place as any. We’ll go up the main paths, searching behind the bushes on either side. If we can’t find anything, we’ll go to another phone box. And if we have no joy in a couple of hours, we’ll call in the heavy mob from the station.”
    It was Simms who found her. And by pure chance, because Frost’s reasoning was completely wrong. After getting himself entangled in a flesh-clawing clutch of blackberry thorns, he made a wide detour to take him clear of another thicket and bramble. He squeezed through a tight gap between two bushes.
    And there she was, white and still, lying on her back. She was naked, her cold, still flesh gleaming like silver in the harsh moonlight.
    “Here!” yelled Simms. “Over here.” He directed his torch beam into the sky like a beacon, then knelt beside her, shining his torch on her face. He shuddered. Her face was a swollen, bloody mess, the eyes puffy and blackened, the nose misshapen and broken. Blood from her nose had clotted, forming a sticky mask all over the lower part of her face and neck.
    The body was blood-streaked, scarcely an inch free of livid bruises. Scattered on the grass around her were items of ripped-off clothing. She looked dead. He touched her. Her body was icy. He bent his ear to the wreckage of her mouth, holding his breath as he tried to detect the slightest whisper of