Authors: R. D. Wingfield
Webster turned the key in the ignition. “I presume you mean Mrs. Dawson?”
The inspector nodded, chewing his lower lip as another nagging doubt rose to the surface. “She worries me, son. It was bloody windy in the town yesterday afternoon.”
With a grimace, Webster said, “Was it?” He wondered what the old fool was drivelling on about now.
Frost looked out on the trees of Denton Woods as the car cruised along the ring road. “Near gale force. It would have blown your beard all over the place. If you were a woman who wiggled her bum and you had just had your hair done for a very important do, would you risk walking in the wind for a couple of hours?”
“No,” said Webster.
“Old Mother Dawson did,” said Frost. “Before we see her we’ll nip into the town and call on a few hairdressers. We might even let them give your beard a blue rinse.”
Max Dawson gave the barrel of the rifle a final polish with a soft duster, then carefully rested the butt against his shoulder, and lined up the sights to the exact centre of his sleeping wife’s forehead. Then, very gently, he squeezed. A metallic click. She stirred a little and slept on.
He lowered the rifle, almost wishing it were loaded. How could she sleep? Her own daughter missing, possibly even lying dead somewhere, and all she could do was sleep.
The rifle was replaced in its leather case and zipped in. He carried it out to the metal cupboard which, in compliance with his firearms certificate, was fixed to the wall beneath the stairs by bolts set in concrete. He was turning the key in the security lock when the phone rang.
It was Karen. It had to be Karen.
He raced back to the lounge, scooped up the phone, and croaked, “Yes?”
The ringing had woken up Clare. “Is it Karen?”
An impatient flick of his hand ordered her to silence. He listened, his face red-hot with anger. He turned his head incredulously to his wife. “Would you believe it? It’s the bloody office with some piddling little query.” Enraged, he yelled into the phone, “Get off this bloody line, you bitch. Don’t you dare phone me at home again.” He slammed the receiver down with such force he feared he might have broken it. He checked, and heard the reassuring purr of the dial tone. His hand still shaking, he replaced it carefully this time.
Clare pushed herself from the armchair, where she had been huddled in an uneasy sleep, and stretched to straighten out the kinks in her back. A quick glance in the mirror over the mantlepiece while she fluffed up her hair, then she padded across to her husband and gently squeezed his arm.
“Shall I make some coffee?”
He jerked his arm away. He didn’t want her touching him. He blamed her for Karen’s disappearance. If she had been here yesterday afternoon when Karen came home early from school, none of this would have happened. “I don’t want any coffee.”
Shrugging off the rejection, she knelt on the padded window seat and looked out across the landscaped garden. Thin sunlight trickled down and an edgy wind ruffled the shrubs and the water of the ornamental fish pond.
The bray of a horn as a car turned off the road and into the drive. She went cold. “Max, a car!”
He almost leaped across the room to join her at the window. He recognized the Ford Cortina. “It’s the police,” he told her. “Those two idiots who were here last night.” She reached out for the comforting reassurance of his hand, but he drew away, watching the Ford pull up at the front door, watching the two policemen get out, both looking grim.
The door bell chimed. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. If he didn’t open the door, he wouldn’t have to hear their awful news and Karen wouldn’t be dead.
A second ring, longer this time.
Clare again examined herself in the mirror, adjusted the hem of her sweater, then went to the front door. His eyes followed her. Look at her! Her only daughter dead and she’s preening herself.
He heard the front door open, then voices. Quite loud voices, not hushed as if they were breaking bad news. A spark of hope flickered. And in they came, first the scruffy one, his voice booming. “Morning, Mr Dawson. No news yet, I’m afraid. I take it your daughter hasn’t been in touch?”
“If she had, Inspector, I would have contacted you,” snapped Dawson, his relief now making him resentful that they frightened him.
“Of course, sir,” said Frost, blandly. “Anyway, we’ve circulated Karen’s photograph and we’ve asked everyone to keep their eyes open, so we might strike lucky soon.”
“Circulated her photograph?” shrilled Dawson, his mouth agape in exaggerated astonishment. “Is that all you’ve done? Good God, man, if Karen were walking about where people could see her, don’t you think she would have phoned me? Face up to facts. She’s being held against her will somewhere, or she’s injured, or even worse . . . what about the woods where that woman was attacked? Karen could be lying there, helpless.”
“We’ve got men searching every inch of the woods,” Webster told him.
“I’ve put one of my best men in charge,” added Frost. “Detective Inspector Allen. Not very bright, but thorough.”
“Actually, Mr Dawson,” announced Webster, “we’d like to search the house and grounds. Purely routine, but children have been known to hide and accidentally get trapped. This is quite a rambling building.”
Dawson thought it would be a complete and utter waste of time. He himself had already gone over every inch of the house and outbuildings.
“No harm in being one hundred percent sure,” said Frost, suggesting that Webster and Dawson work down from the attic while he and Mrs Dawson covered the ground floor.
Waiting until he could hear the two men’s footsteps over head, Frost gave Clare a friendly smile. That should have put her on guard. But it didn’t. She smiled back. She was wearing an orange angora-wool sweater with flared lemon slacks. The sweater seemed to be moulded on, but she managed to pull it down and wriggle about until it fitted even tighter. “Where shall we start?”
Frost lined up the ends of his scarf, then worried the living daylights out of his scar. It was time to dive in without knowing how deep the water was.
“Mrs Dawson, if your daughter came back to an empty house yesterday, and if there was a man hiding inside, then I am extremely concerned for Karen’s safety. I would want to organize a full-scale police investigation, probably drafting in men from other divisions to help. That would take up a lot of people’s time and cost one hell of a lot of money, but if a girl’s life is at stake it would be worth it.”
She reached up to the mantelpiece for the knight-in-armour table lighter and sank down in the armchair, hunched up small, clicking the lighter on and off, the flame flaring and dying.
“Before I take such a step,” continued Frost gravely, “I would like to satisfy myself that the unworthy thought that keeps springing to my mind isn’t correct.”
“Unworthy thought?” she stammered.
“Let me be blunt, Mrs Dawson. It will save time. You’re a sexy bit of stuff. You’re a lot younger than your husband and you’re all alone in the house for most of the day. Women in such circumstances have been known to wile the time away with a bit of spare on the side.”
She was up, facing him, her breasts quivering with indignation. “How dare you . . . !”
He gently pushed her back down into the chair. “If it helps to find your daughter I’ll dare as much as I like. All I’m trying to do is see if we can’t eliminate this mystery man from our inquiries.” The lighter clicked on, off, on, off. He felt like doing what her husband had done the night before take it away from her. “I’m asking you, point-blank, can I eliminate him or not?”
She found the lighter of consuming interest.
“I promise you, Mrs. Dawson, if he was just here for a bit of spare, I’ll keep him out of it. Can I eliminate him?”
“Yes, damn you, you can.”
Frost heaved a sigh of relief. The first hurdle safely over. “I checked with your hairdresser. Your appointment was originally for two o’clock, but you phoned yesterday morning and put it back until five. Is that correct?”
“If you’ve checked with the hairdresser, then it must be,” she answered defiantly.
“OK,” said Frost. “So we take it that you altered your appointment because your boy friend was popping in to see you.”
“Yes.”
“And you were both here when Karen came home?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“We were in here, on the settee. We were kissing . . . my dress was unbuttoned. We didn’t hear Karen come in. We didn’t expect her. That bloody school should have phoned. Karen saw us. She ran out of the house.”
“Any idea where she is?”
“No. But I’m sure she’ll be back. My husband doesn’t know it, but she’s been off like this before. Karen’s not quite the innocent he thinks she is.” She put the lighter on the floor then walked to the bar where she slopped a shot of vodka into a glass. Staring defiantly, she raised the glass to her lips. Then she crumpled. “You won’t tell my husband? He’ll kill me if he finds out.”
Frost shrugged. “If it’s not necessary for him to know, then I won’t tell him. But your daughter is bound to spill the beans when she comes back.”
“I can take care of Karen,” she said significantly.
“Right,” said Frost, rewinding his scarf. “We’ll keep an eye open for her, but we won’t worry too much for a day or so. If you get any news, let us know.”
The lounge door opened for the return of Max Dawson and a dusty, cob webby Detective Constable Webster.
“She’s not down here,” said Frost. “We’ve looked everywhere.”
When they got back to the car, Frost took a chance and switched the radio on. Control was calling him. Charlie Bravo had gone to Tommy Croll’s place to pick him up. No sign of Croll, but his rooms had been broken into and all the furniture systematically ripped and smashed. “We’re on our way,” said Frost.
Detective Inspector Allen rapped at the door of the Divisional Commander’s office and went in. Mullett, sitting ramrod-stiff behind his satin mahogany desk, smiled and indicated the inspector should sit.
“You look worn out, Allen.”
Allen sat down wearily and stretched tired muscles. “Thought I’d better put you in the picture with the rape investigation, sir. I’m sorry to say we’ve made no progress at all. A mature woman dressed in schoolgirl clothes walks from her home to the woods and we haven’t been able to turn up a single witness who saw her. We’ve knocked on doors, we’ve asked everywhere. I’ve been thorough—”
“I’m quite sure you have, Inspector. That goes without saying,” smarmed Mullett.
“I’ve put our usual circus of known sexual offenders through the hoop . . . still some more to question, but nothing positive up to now.”
“Any joy from your radio and television appeals to the public?”
“We’ve had a fair amount of response, which we’re following up, but most of it useless—old maids who reckon the man next door must be the rapist because he always looks over the fence when she hangs her knickers on the line, that sort of thing. I hate to have to say it, sir, but at the moment it looks as if we’ll just have to wait until the rapist strikes again and hope that this time he might leave the odd clue behind.”
Mullett pulled a face. “We can’t leave it like that, Inspector. He must be stopped before he claims another victim. Have you traced the anonymous phone caller?”
“No, sir. We’ve appealed for him to come forward, but he hasn’t obliged yet. I do have one suggestion, sir.” He looked hopefully at the Superintendent.
“Yes?” asked Mullett uneasily, feeling he was about to be forced into making a decision.
“We set a trap, send in a decoy—a policewoman tarted up to tempt the rapist into having a go at her.”
Mullett readjusted his moustache and smoothed the bristles down “I don’t like this, Allen. It could be dangerous.”
“Let me show you the plan, sir.” Allen left his chair and moved to the large-scale wall map behind the Superintendent’s desk. “We would have men hiding here, and here. Also a couple of radio cars on the surrounding roads. I’d have more men back here, and two more staked out here.” He jabbed at the map. “The woman decoy—”
“Only one?” Mullett queried.
Allen nodded. “It’s safer that way. We want to keep the operation confined to as tight an area as possible, so we can get to the decoy before he can harm her.”
Mullett studied the map over Allen’s shoulder. “You’re pinning all your hopes on him operating in the same area as last night. Those woods are vast. You could all be over the west side while he’s raping victims to the east.”
“To cover the entire area, sir, would require so many men there wouldn’t be room for the rapist to get in. If the bait’s attractive enough, I’m hoping he will come to us.”
“How many men are you talking about?” asked Mullett.
“About fifteen or twenty.”
“I don’t know,” said Mullett evasively as he returned to his chair. “There’s too much left to chance. And the overall cost would be terrific—fifteen or twenty men, all on overtime. I’m under severe pressure from County to cut down on our manpower costs. Let me show you the memo they sent me.” He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the memo with ‘Strictly Confidential’ typed in red capitals across the top.
Allen barely gave it a glance. He didn’t want to see these stupid pieces of paper. “Then you’re saying we do nothing at all, sir? We simply sit back, twiddle our thumbs, and wait for our man to pick his next victim. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”
Mullett could feel the wall pressing hard against his back. “What can I do?” he said weakly, waving the memo like a flag of truce. “We’ve got to cut down on expenditure. I mean I could authorize it, and you could waste night after night, fifteen men all on overtime, expenses soaring and nothing to show for it. County would crucify me.”
“Let’s restrict it to five nights only, then, sir.”
“Three,” countered Mullett, feeling he was scoring a victory.
“Fair enough, sir. Three,” agreed Allen. “And then we can decide whether to extend it or not.”
“But let me see a costing first,” called Mullett as Allen made for the door.