Free Hard Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page B
Authors: R. D. Wingfield
before. He runs this second-hand car business. About four years ago the Customs and Excise were suspicious that he was working some VAT fiddle. The day before they were due to examine his books' there was a mysterious and very convenient arson attack on his office. All his receipts and records were destroyed."
"And you believe he started the fire himself?"
"I bloody know he did, son, but I couldn't prove it." He wound down the window and chucked the cigarette end out. "If you want my utterly biased opinion, last night's escapade was an insurance fiddle . . . hide the furs and jewels and claim the insurance."
"But if it was an insurance fiddle," protested Jordan, 'the girl would have to be in on it as well."
"Ten out of ten," said Frost.
Jordan spun the wheel and the track wriggled before turning into Hanger Lane. "This is where we found the girl . . . standing in the middle of the road, starkers."
"You're only saying that to make me jealous," said Frost. A thought hit him. "Stop the car!"
The car coasted to a halt and Jordan watched as Frost poked and prodded amongst the undergrowth of the grass verge, then disappeared from view as he squeezed through a gap in a hedge. Rustling sounds, then a whoop of delight and Frost emerged carrying something grey. He climbed back into the car. "What do you reckon to this, son?"
"A blanket," said Jordan. "From a single bed."
"Exactly."
Jordan stared at it blankly. He hadn't the faintest idea what the inspector was on about.
"Listen," explained Frost. "You're a fifteen-year-old girl, all throbbing thighs and tits. You've been dumped in the road by your father to flag down a car. You're starkers and it's freezing and Dawn's icy fingers are toying with your privates. So what do you do? You take a blanket with you to keep yourself warm. When you hear a car, you chuck the blanket behind a hedge, step in the middle of the road and waggle your dugs. If the car doesn't stop, you retrieve the blanket and wait for the next one."
"It's possible," said Jordan, begrudgingly.
"Sniff it," said Frost.
Jordan lifted the blanket delicately to his nose. "Perfume?"
"And what's the betting that if you sniffed Simms's greatcoat where it was wrapped round her naked, hot, rampant little body, you'd smell the same perfume?"
"But the gang could have taken the blanket from her bed and wrapped it round her."
"So why wasn't it still wrapped round her naked little figure when she was flagging cars down?" He sighed. "But that little mystery must wait, son. We're putting off the pleasure of telling a mother her son has been murdered." He tossed the blanket on to the back seat and smoked silently until they reached the address given to them by Control.
Kenton Street consisted of large, three-storeyed houses, converted into flats. Burton_was waiting outside number 3a. Frost steeled himself and reached for another cigarette. A few quick delaying drags before he would have to confront the mother. But like Bobby's mother the night before, the woman had seen the police car draw up and was already on the doorstep. Frost gave a deep groan and poked the cigarette back in the packet. "They can't wait for bloody bad news, can they?" He nodded at Burton. "Come on, son. Let me do the talking."
Joy Anderson, a plump, bouncy little brunette in her twenties, anxiously watched them approach, trying to read some sign of hope from their expressions. "Have you found him?"
"Give us a chance love," said Frost. "We've only just got your message."
They followed her up the stairs to a largish room which overlooked the street. It was basically furnished like a hotel room, with few signs of personal belongings. Two large suitcases stood beside the two-seater beige moquette settee.
Frost parked himself in a chair by the window. "How long has Dean been missing?"
She sat opposite him, staring out of the window as
"And you believe he started the fire himself?"
"I bloody know he did, son, but I couldn't prove it." He wound down the window and chucked the cigarette end out. "If you want my utterly biased opinion, last night's escapade was an insurance fiddle . . . hide the furs and jewels and claim the insurance."
"But if it was an insurance fiddle," protested Jordan, 'the girl would have to be in on it as well."
"Ten out of ten," said Frost.
Jordan spun the wheel and the track wriggled before turning into Hanger Lane. "This is where we found the girl . . . standing in the middle of the road, starkers."
"You're only saying that to make me jealous," said Frost. A thought hit him. "Stop the car!"
The car coasted to a halt and Jordan watched as Frost poked and prodded amongst the undergrowth of the grass verge, then disappeared from view as he squeezed through a gap in a hedge. Rustling sounds, then a whoop of delight and Frost emerged carrying something grey. He climbed back into the car. "What do you reckon to this, son?"
"A blanket," said Jordan. "From a single bed."
"Exactly."
Jordan stared at it blankly. He hadn't the faintest idea what the inspector was on about.
"Listen," explained Frost. "You're a fifteen-year-old girl, all throbbing thighs and tits. You've been dumped in the road by your father to flag down a car. You're starkers and it's freezing and Dawn's icy fingers are toying with your privates. So what do you do? You take a blanket with you to keep yourself warm. When you hear a car, you chuck the blanket behind a hedge, step in the middle of the road and waggle your dugs. If the car doesn't stop, you retrieve the blanket and wait for the next one."
"It's possible," said Jordan, begrudgingly.
"Sniff it," said Frost.
Jordan lifted the blanket delicately to his nose. "Perfume?"
"And what's the betting that if you sniffed Simms's greatcoat where it was wrapped round her naked, hot, rampant little body, you'd smell the same perfume?"
"But the gang could have taken the blanket from her bed and wrapped it round her."
"So why wasn't it still wrapped round her naked little figure when she was flagging cars down?" He sighed. "But that little mystery must wait, son. We're putting off the pleasure of telling a mother her son has been murdered." He tossed the blanket on to the back seat and smoked silently until they reached the address given to them by Control.
Kenton Street consisted of large, three-storeyed houses, converted into flats. Burton_was waiting outside number 3a. Frost steeled himself and reached for another cigarette. A few quick delaying drags before he would have to confront the mother. But like Bobby's mother the night before, the woman had seen the police car draw up and was already on the doorstep. Frost gave a deep groan and poked the cigarette back in the packet. "They can't wait for bloody bad news, can they?" He nodded at Burton. "Come on, son. Let me do the talking."
Joy Anderson, a plump, bouncy little brunette in her twenties, anxiously watched them approach, trying to read some sign of hope from their expressions. "Have you found him?"
"Give us a chance love," said Frost. "We've only just got your message."
They followed her up the stairs to a largish room which overlooked the street. It was basically furnished like a hotel room, with few signs of personal belongings. Two large suitcases stood beside the two-seater beige moquette settee.
Frost parked himself in a chair by the window. "How long has Dean been missing?"
She sat opposite him, staring out of the window as