DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

. . .”
    Webster stared at him blankly. “On the pill . . .”
    “Yes, son. I found the packet in her bedroom last night. They were prescribed for the mother, who must have passed them on to Karen.”
    Webster was stunned. “You never told me?”
    “I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case, son. The kid was missing. We were called in to find her. Anything else was between her and her mother. Ah, this must be her dressing room.”
    They had turned the corner and were in a short corridor with three doors leading off it. One door was marked Staff Toilets - Men, another Staff Toilets - Women and the door in between, Artists’ Dressing Room. The glamour of show business, thought Frost. “Right, son. She’s inside. Go and get her.” He stepped back.
    Webster rapped on the door.
    “Yes,” called a girl’s voice.
    “Karen, it’s the police.”
    Frost groaned. Webster shouldn’t have given the game away. He should have barged straight in and grabbed her. His fears were confirmed by a scuffling sound from inside the dressing room, then two loud clicks as the door bolts were rammed home.
    “It’s the police, Karen,” repeated Webster, banging on the door. “Open up.”
    “Piss off,” screamed the young schoolgirl.
    “Kick the door in,” ordered Frost. “Harry Baskin won’t mind.”
    Webster stepped back and kicked, his toe landing just below the door handle. One kick was enough. The door crashed back. He stepped inside a cheerless room with a long, greasy finger marked mirror above a Formica ledge that ran the length of one wall. He couldn’t see Karen. Then someone in the mirror moved. He spun around and there was the girl, stark naked, her clothes bundled in her hand, moving quickly to the door. He reached forward to grab at her. She hurled the clothes in his face, then her knee came up savagely. He doubled up, breathless, almost screaming with pain. Sweet, innocent Karen certainly knew how to hurt a man! He reached out blindly and touched naked flesh, then jerked his head back as long red fingernails clawed bloodied lines down his face. He clutched her wrists, pulling her hands away, finding enough breath to yelp in agony as her teeth sank into his arm.
    “I could do with some help, Inspector,” he roared, shaking his wrist free of teeth.
    Frost’s head poked around the door, saw the problem, and hastily retreated. “Stand guard outside, son. I’ll send for a woman officer.”
    Some fourteen minutes later Dave Shelby’s patrol car nosed its way to the club entrance, and Shelby, followed by detective constable Susan Harvey, climbed out. They sauntered across to the reception lobby where Frost was waiting.
    “Here we are, Inspector,” Shelby announced. “One lady police officer delivered safe and sound, as requested.”
    “Thank you, Constable,” said Frost coldly, not responding to Shelby’s jocular manner. He was going to have a few quiet words with him when he got him on his own, words that would knock the cockiness out of him.
    Unabashed, Shelby asked, “You’re not on this rape inquiry, are you, sir?”
    “No,” replied Frost. “If you want to confess you’ll have to see Mr. Allen.”
    Shelby flipped open his notebook. “Can I give you the details? I know who made that anonymous phone call last night. I’ve just interviewed him.”
    Frost waved the notebook away. “Give it to Mr. Allen. I’m up to my armpits in naked fifteen-year-old girls at the moment.”
    “Some people have all the luck,” called Shelby, quickly walking back to his car.
    Frost watched him go. “He’s in a hurry. I’d have thought naked fifteen-year-olds were right up his street.” He turned to the woman constable. “Did he manage to keep his hands off you, Sue?”
    She smiled. “He knows better than to try anything with me.”
    Frost raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I’ve summed you up all wrong then, Sue girl. I’d have thought one tickle of his Errol Flynn moustache on your cheek and you wouldn’t be able to get your knickers off fast enough.”
    Susan grinned. “What’s the problem, sir?”
    He filled her in on the details, then took her back to the dressing room where the wounded Webster, patiently mounting guard, managed a grin of delight when he saw Susan. “Karen’s wedged the chair against the door handle,” he told them.
    Susan tried the handle and banged on the door. “Karen, I’m a police officer. Open up.”
    “Piss off,” called the girl.
    “That’s