DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

so there’s no doubt as to whose car it was . . . a warning to Miller that there’s worse to come if he doesn’t cough up. That’s the plan. But it went wrong. The minion knocks an old man down and kills him. He has to abandon the Jag and leg it back to The Coconut Grove - the car wasn’t found all that far away from the club if you recall.”
    Webster chewed this over. “There’s a lot of loose ends, but I suppose it’s possible,” he grudgingly admitted.
    “Yes,” said Frost. “The only trouble is, if I’m right, then Master Roger is innocent, and that would be contrary to natural justice.” He tugged at the seat belt and fastened it across his lap. “Ah well, we have other cases to occupy our fertile minds. Let’s go and see Old Mother Wiggle-Bum.”
    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.”

Wednesday day shift (5)

    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