Free DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page A

it was up to him to ask for them. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of the Dawson house. ‘Denton Police here, sir. Sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if I could have a word with Detective Inspector Frost?’

    The traffic lights glowed an angry red in the darkness as Webster ignored them, speeding the car straight across the road junction. ‘Slow down, son,’ Frost murmured. ‘There’s four hundred acres of forest to search. The odd second isn’t going to make much difference.’
    Frost’s request received the same sort of treatment as the traffic lights, and Webster’s foot pressed down on the accelerator. Watching the street lights zip past at seventy-five miles an hour, Frost checked that his seat belt was fastened, then fumbled in his pocket for the photograph of the missing girl and studied it gloomily. I hope this body isn’t Karen Dawson, he told himself I’d hate to be the one who had to break the news to her father. Break the news! He sat up straight and banged his fist on the dashboard. ‘Knickers! We were sup posed to be breaking the news to Ben Cornish’s old lady. ‘What time is it?’
    Webster twisted his hand on the steering wheel so he could see his wristwatch. ‘Ten past one.’
    Frost settled back in the seat, relieved it was too late to do it tonight. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow, first thing. It’ll be our number-one treat before the post-mortem.’ He paused for a second. ‘Are you any good at breaking bad news, son?’
    ‘No,’ said Webster hurriedly. The inspector wasn’t dumping that rotten job on him.
    ‘Pity,’ sighed Frost. ‘I’m bloody hopeless. How do you tell someone their son was found dead, choked in his own vomit, floating in a pool of piddle. There’s no way you can tart up that sort of news.’
    They were approaching the dense blackness of the woods. Frost scrubbed the wind-screen with his cuff and squinted through, trying to locate Charlie Alpha. ‘There it is, son,’ he yelled, pointing to the white-and-black Ford Sierra tucked neatly into a lay-by. Webster coasted the Cortina snugly in behind it.
    The wind slashed at them as they left the warmth of the car. Frost wound his scarf tighter and buried his hands deeply into his mac pocket as they trudged along a path in search of Jordan and Simms, the Charlie Alpha crew. Webster was the first to spot the dots of torch beams bobbing in the distance.
    The path they followed twisted and turned, so it was nearly five minutes before they heard low voices. A sharp turn, and just ahead of them were the two uniformed men, Jordan and Simms, greatcoat collars turned up, huddled against the trunk of an enormous oak tree, dragging at cigarettes. At the approach of the detectives they spun around guiltily, pinched out their cigarettes, and snapped to attention.
    ‘Hard at work, I see,’ said Frost.
    They grinned sheepishly. ‘Have you come to give us a hand, then, sir?’ asked Jordan, who sported a drooping, Mexican-bandit moustache.
    ‘You mean to say you haven’t found her yet?’
    ‘Found her, sir? Some nutter phones the station and says there’s a body behind a bush, and me and Simms are supposed to search four hundred acres in the dark. It’s bloody ludicrous.’
    Frost showed them Karen Dawson’s photograph. ‘There’s a chance it might be this kid. She’s fifteen years old, missing from home since one o’clock this afternoon.’
    They studied it under the light of Simms’s torch. ‘Why should it be her?’ asked the moon-faced Simms. ‘As many as twenty teenagers around here go missing every week.’
    ‘A man was reported lurking inside her house as she came home from school. She hasn’t been seen since,’ said Webster.
    Heads turned toward 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,’