him, he thought. He hasn’t a clue about what to do next. Well, if the inspector didn’t know what to do, Webster certainly did. Abruptly he snapped his notebook shut and stood up.
‘Right, Mr Dawson. Debbie saw a man in your daughter’s room, so we’ll start by taking a look up there.’
The inspector’s face went tight, but after a couple of seconds he relaxed and forced a smile. Pushing himself from the armchair’s cream-and-brown embrace, he said mildly, ‘Upstairs is it, Mrs Dawson?’
Clare drained her glass and rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I’ll show you.’
They followed her up a wide, deeply carpeted staircase to the first floor. Her tight-fitting evening dress did more than hug her figure. It intimately explored it, and they were treated to a glorious display of wriggling buttock cleft which Webster might have missed had not Frost nudged him and pointed.
A short wade through the knee-deep carpet of the landing to a dove-grey padded door, which she opened. She clicked on the light, then moved back slightly for them to squeeze past. It was a tight squeeze and she didn’t seem to want to make it any easier. ‘This is Karen’s room.’
‘Thanks very much, Mrs Dawson,’ said Frost, taking her arm and steering her out, of the room. ‘We’ll give you a shout if we want anything.’ The door had barely closed behind her before he added coarsely, ‘Though it’s pretty obvious what you want, darling.’
Webster scowled but didn’t respond. He was becoming inured to the inspector’s tasteless comments on the people with whom they came into contact. But he would have thought even Frost would draw the line at a mother whose kid was missing.
Frost sprawled out on Karen’s bed and bounced up and down to test the springs. He found a half-smoked cigarette hiding in his pocket and lit it gratefully. ‘Well, you wanted to search the room, son, so search it. If you find any important clues, such as a severed hand, or a warm bra with the contents intact, let me know. Wake me up if I’m asleep.’ He closed his eyes and relaxed.
‘I was hoping for your co-operation.’
‘Oh, it’s me who’s supposed to co-operate with you, is it?’ he asked, as if understanding for the first time. ‘I thought it was the other way around. I’ll co-operate by keeping out of your way.’ And he wriggled comfortably.
Who needs your bloody help? thought Webster.
It was a teenager’s dream bedroom, straight out of the pages of an up-market pop magazine. The ceiling was finished in sky blue and dotted with a firmament of silver stars. Along one wall a custom-built unit held a music centre, a video recorder, and a small fourteen-inch colour TV to which was connected a computer keyboard.
Opposite, behind light-oak sliding doors, a built-in ward robe travelled the entire length of the wall. Webster slid back the door to reveal rows of dresses and coats rippling on hangers. In a separate section a white ballet dress shimmered and rustled next to a cat suit and three pairs of leotards. Neat lines of tap and ballet shoes occupied the wardrobe floor.
Webster moved to the corner, where a small desk faced a double row of bookshelves. On the desk were two blue-covered school exercise books with Karen Dawson, Form VB neatly written along the top. He opened one of them to read, in Karen’s neat handwriting, If I were Prime Minister, the first thing I would do on taking office would be to abolish poverty throughout the land . . . He dropped the exercise book back on the desk.
Frost was still stretched out on the bed, eyes half closed, watching puffs of cigarette smoke drift like clouds across the star-spangled ceiling. ‘OK, son, if you’ve got any theories, let’s have them.’
‘Well,’ Webster began, ‘if she has been kidnapped . . .’
‘Kidnapped!’ snorted Frost, reaching out for the exercise books. ‘I wish she had been, son. A nice kidnapping case might make Mullett forget I hadn’t done his lousy crime
‘Right, Mr Dawson. Debbie saw a man in your daughter’s room, so we’ll start by taking a look up there.’
The inspector’s face went tight, but after a couple of seconds he relaxed and forced a smile. Pushing himself from the armchair’s cream-and-brown embrace, he said mildly, ‘Upstairs is it, Mrs Dawson?’
Clare drained her glass and rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I’ll show you.’
They followed her up a wide, deeply carpeted staircase to the first floor. Her tight-fitting evening dress did more than hug her figure. It intimately explored it, and they were treated to a glorious display of wriggling buttock cleft which Webster might have missed had not Frost nudged him and pointed.
A short wade through the knee-deep carpet of the landing to a dove-grey padded door, which she opened. She clicked on the light, then moved back slightly for them to squeeze past. It was a tight squeeze and she didn’t seem to want to make it any easier. ‘This is Karen’s room.’
‘Thanks very much, Mrs Dawson,’ said Frost, taking her arm and steering her out, of the room. ‘We’ll give you a shout if we want anything.’ The door had barely closed behind her before he added coarsely, ‘Though it’s pretty obvious what you want, darling.’
Webster scowled but didn’t respond. He was becoming inured to the inspector’s tasteless comments on the people with whom they came into contact. But he would have thought even Frost would draw the line at a mother whose kid was missing.
Frost sprawled out on Karen’s bed and bounced up and down to test the springs. He found a half-smoked cigarette hiding in his pocket and lit it gratefully. ‘Well, you wanted to search the room, son, so search it. If you find any important clues, such as a severed hand, or a warm bra with the contents intact, let me know. Wake me up if I’m asleep.’ He closed his eyes and relaxed.
‘I was hoping for your co-operation.’
‘Oh, it’s me who’s supposed to co-operate with you, is it?’ he asked, as if understanding for the first time. ‘I thought it was the other way around. I’ll co-operate by keeping out of your way.’ And he wriggled comfortably.
Who needs your bloody help? thought Webster.
It was a teenager’s dream bedroom, straight out of the pages of an up-market pop magazine. The ceiling was finished in sky blue and dotted with a firmament of silver stars. Along one wall a custom-built unit held a music centre, a video recorder, and a small fourteen-inch colour TV to which was connected a computer keyboard.
Opposite, behind light-oak sliding doors, a built-in ward robe travelled the entire length of the wall. Webster slid back the door to reveal rows of dresses and coats rippling on hangers. In a separate section a white ballet dress shimmered and rustled next to a cat suit and three pairs of leotards. Neat lines of tap and ballet shoes occupied the wardrobe floor.
Webster moved to the corner, where a small desk faced a double row of bookshelves. On the desk were two blue-covered school exercise books with Karen Dawson, Form VB neatly written along the top. He opened one of them to read, in Karen’s neat handwriting, If I were Prime Minister, the first thing I would do on taking office would be to abolish poverty throughout the land . . . He dropped the exercise book back on the desk.
Frost was still stretched out on the bed, eyes half closed, watching puffs of cigarette smoke drift like clouds across the star-spangled ceiling. ‘OK, son, if you’ve got any theories, let’s have them.’
‘Well,’ Webster began, ‘if she has been kidnapped . . .’
‘Kidnapped!’ snorted Frost, reaching out for the exercise books. ‘I wish she had been, son. A nice kidnapping case might make Mullett forget I hadn’t done his lousy crime
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