A Killing Frost by R. D. Wingfield

knows more than she is telling - and find out why she stopped coming for sleepovers. Oh - and check the swimming baths. See if anyone remembers Debbie there last night. I still reckon she’ll be back in time for her birthday party, but we might as well pretend we’re thorough for a change.’

    Superintendent Mullett, the Denton divisional commander, held the phone away from his ear. The shouting from the other end was overpowering.
       ‘. . . And I want a proper detective on the case, not that scruffy, rude, ignorant individual you saw fit to send to me this morning.’
       ‘Inspector Frost is a very capable officer,’ said Mullett, trying to sound as if he believed it.
       ‘Inspector Frost is an incompetent, ignorant oaf. A disgrace to the force. Are you going to organise a search party to look for my daughter, or do I have to go direct to my friend, the Chief Constable.’
       Mullett straightened up in his chair at the mention of the Chief Constable.
       ‘He’s Debbie’s godfather - did you know that?’
       Her godfather! Mullett’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Leave it to me, Mr Clark. I’ll get a search party organised right away.’
       ‘Is that a promise?’
       ‘You have my word,’ floundered Mullett, nodding furiously to emphasise the fact.
       ‘Good, because I have recorded this conversation.’
       A click and the dialling tone.
       Mullett carefully replaced the receiver, mopped his brow and picked up the internal phone to summon Frost.

    Frost’s radio gave an attention-snatching cough as he coasted into his place in the station car park. It was PC Jordan reporting.
       ‘Inspector, we checked the swimming baths. Yesterday was senior citizens’ night. A twelve- year-old girl in a bikini would have stuck out like a sore thumb.’
       ‘Lots of other things would have stuck out as well,’ said Frost.
       ‘Next, we went round to the boyfriend’s house. No reply. I checked with the neighbours. His parents are away for a couple of days and he is looking after himself. They saw him cycle off around seven yesterday evening, but didn’t see him come back and didn’t see any lights come on. There’s milk on the doorstep, the paper’s in the letter box, and no answer to our knocks.’
       ‘Have you spoken to that girl, Audrey?’
       ‘We’re on our way there now.’
       ‘Right. Let me know what she says.’ He clicked off and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Boy missing, girl missing, both on bikes. It was looking more and more obvious that they had done a bunk together. But a nagging doubt kept chewing away.
       As he opened the door to his office, the insistent ringing of his phone greeted him. Before he could pick it up, Sergeant Wells burst in.
       ‘Just had Beazley - the boss of the supermarket - on the blower, Jack. They’ve heard from the blackmailer - he wants fifty thousand pounds.’
       Frost re-buttoned his coat. ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’ As he left the office, he jerked a thumb at his phone. ‘Answer that, would you?’

    ‘It came this morning,’ grunted Beazley, a short, piggy-eyed man in his late fifties. ‘The bastard wants fifty thousand quid.’ He passed a sheet of paper with an envelope clipped to it over to Frost.
       Frost held it carefully by the edges and skimmed through it. Like the previous note, it was handwritten in block capitals:

       THAT WAS ONLY A TASTER. I’VE PLENTY MORE POISONS LEFT. PEOPLE WILL DIE. TO STOP ME PAY £50,000 INTO ACCOUNT NUMBER FDZ32432, FORTRESS BUILDING SOCIETY. DO IT TODAY OR THERE’S MORE POISON TOMORROW.

       As Frost was reading, Beazley stripped the wrapping off an enormous cigar and lit up. ‘I phoned the building society to get the bastard’s name. They wouldn’t give it to me. Said they had to respect their client’s confidentiality. The sod’s trying to screw me for 50K and they want to respect his bleeding confidentiality
       This is a copycat