DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

you doing here, Sue? They don’t do pregnancy tests after midnight you know.’
    She smiled, showing teeth as perfect as her figure. ‘Inspector Allen sent me. I’ve got to stay with the rape victim and try and get a statement. He said you’d have the details.’
    Frost trotted out the details, adding that the girl hadn’t yet been identified but that a man who might be her father was on his way over. He caught sight of Webster staring at the girl in wide-eyed approval, his tongue almost hanging down to his stomach. It was the first time he had caught his assistant without a frown on his face. ‘Sorry, Sue, I should have introduced you. The bearded gent at my side is Detective Constable Webster.’
    ‘I’ve seen you about the station,’ she told him, warming him with a loin-tingling smile. ‘I’m Sue . . . Detective Constable Susan Harvey.’
    ‘Take Sue up to Casualty,’ Frost told Webster. ‘Ward C3.’
    And for the first time, Webster obeyed an order without a display of resentment.
    Frost returned to his tea, sipping slowly as the porter puffed away at his evil-smelling homemade cigarette.
    ‘We used to see a lot of you when your wife was here, Mr Frost.’
    ‘That’s right, Fred.’
    ‘How is she? Did she get better?’
    ‘No,’ said Frost, ‘she didn’t get better.’
    The main doors opened and footsteps rang out on the tiled passage. Frost went out to meet Max Dawson, who was shaking with rage. Beside him stood his wife, wearing a silver- fox fur. She was crying.
    ‘Is it true?’ hissed Dawson. ‘Is it true?’
    ‘That’s what we want you to confirm,’ Frost told him. He drew Dawson to one side and said quietly, ‘It might be better if your wife stayed down here, sir.’
    ‘No,’ said Clare firmly. ‘She’s my daughter. I want to be with her.’
    ‘How bad is she?’ asked Dawson as they walked towards the lift.
    ‘She’s taken a very nasty beating. I think her nose, jaw, and ribs are broken,’ Frost answered.
    Dawson sucked in air angrily. ‘When you find the swine who did it, let me have him,’ he pleaded.
    ‘I think there’d be quite a queue, sir,’ said Frost, pausing to look around as a clatter of footsteps chased after them.
    ‘Mr Frost!’ called the porter. ‘Telephone call for you. Ward C3 - they say it’s urgent.’
    An icy cold hand clutched at Frost’s heart and squeezed hard. Karen Dawson was in ward C3. Had she died? Please don’t let her be dead . The Dawsons had followed him and were watching him intently. He took the phone, then turned his back so the parents couldn’t see his face. ‘Frost,’ he said quietly.
    It was Susan Harvey’s voice on the other end. ‘Inspector, I’m with the rape victim. Did you say Karen Dawson was only fifteen?’
    ‘That’s right, Sue. Why?’
    ‘Then this can’t possibly be her. It’s not a girl, it’s a woman . . . she’s thirty at least.’
    Thirty! Flaming hell, thought Frost. ‘Are you sure, Sue? I’ve got the parents with me.’
    ‘There’s no doubt at all, Inspector.’
    He handed the phone back to Fred, took a few deep breaths to compose himself, then slowly turned to face the Dawsons.
    Max Dawson was pacing up and down, unable to keep still, anxious to be with his daughter. His wife, who had sat down on one of the wooden benches that lined the corridor, stood up anxiously as Frost approached, trying to read the message in his face.
    He gave them both what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Dawson, it’s all right. .
    Dawson pushed himself forward. ‘All right? How can it be all right? My daughter’s been beaten and raped, and you tell us it’s all right.’
    Frost took a deep breath and plunged up to his armpits into icy water. ‘I’m afraid we’ve worried you unduly. The girl who has been raped isn’t your daughter.’
    Clare caught her breath, then began to laugh hysterically. Her husband grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly. Still she laughed: He slapped her face . . . hard, the pistol-shot sound echoing on and on down the long corridor. She gasped, her hand touching the red mark on her face, then she shrivelled and burst into tears, dropping onto the bench.
    Dawson stared into space for a while, then said, ‘Not my daughter . . . ?’
    ‘No, sir. It turns out she’s a much older woman.’
    The look of concern returned to Clare’s face. ‘But it could be Karen. She’s very well developed for her age. We’ve got to check.’ She stood up and