“Debbie can tell us herself,” cut in Frost. He beamed at the young girl. “Tell us what happened, love, and the naughty man with the nasty beard will write it all down.” He had added this for Webster’s benefit as the constable’s notebook looked suspiciously devoid of shorthand.
Debbie spoke so quietly they had to lean forward to take in what she was saying. “I left Karen at the gates at the bottom of the drive. My house is farther on. As I turned and waved to her, I saw
… I thought I saw… someone at the window of Karen’s bedroom. I didn’t pay much attention. I didn’t know the house was supposed to be empty.”
“Was it a man or a woman?” asked the inspector.
She stared hard at the floor. “I can’t be sure but I think it was a man. He was closing the curtains. I only saw him for a second.”
“Closing the curtains? You mean the bedroom curtains were open. The man you saw was pulling them together?”
“Yes. I thought nothing of it at the time. I didn’t know it was supposed to be important.”
Frost rubbed his chin. “Did you see Karen go into the house?”
“No, but I saw her walking up the path toward the house.”
“And she had arranged to meet you outside the Odeon at what time?”
“Half past five.”
“You arrived on time?”
“I was there five minutes early. I waited until six… that’s when the programme started. She didn’t turn up, so I went in on my own.”
“Were you surprised she didn’t turn up?”
Her eyes blinked rapidly behind her glasses. “Yes. She’d been excited about it for weeks we both were and she was looking forward to spending the night at my house.”
“Any idea where she might have gone?”
She shook her head. “No. No idea at all.”
“We’ve phoned all her other friends,” said Dawson. “It’s bloody obvious. She’s been kidnapped. The man was inside the house, waiting for her.”
“Thank you, Debbie,” said Frost, ‘you’ve been a great help. Now, you go off home and back to bed. If you think of anything else, get your dad to phone me.” He dug around in his pocket until he found a dog-eared card, which he handed to Taylor. While Clare was showing father and daughter out, Frost asked for a photograph of Karen.
Max Dawson took a coloured photograph from a mosaic-topped coffee table and handed it to the inspector, who studied it, then passed it over to Webster. A photograph of a schoolgirl, dark, shiny, well-brushed hair, a scrubbed, glowing face with a hint of freckles, a snub nose, and a broad grin. If she was fifteen, then, like Debbie, she looked very young for her age.
“A pretty kid,” smiled Frost. “When was this taken?”
Dawson snapped a finger for Clare to reply. “About six or seven months ago,” she said obediently.
“And how old is she?” inquired Webster, writing the details on the reverse of the photograph.
“She was fifteen last Thursday,” Dawson answered.
“Thank you, sir,” said Frost. “And now a couple of questions for you, Mrs. Dawson.”
She started as he addressed her, catching her glass just in time to stop it from falling over. Then she tried to light a cigarette from a statuette of a visored knight in armour that doubled as a table lighter, but she had difficulty in steering the flame to the end of her cigarette. At last the cigarette was alight, but still she kept the statuette in her hand, fidgeting with it, clicking the flame on and off, on and off. “Yes, Inspector?”
She was understandably nervous, and of course worried… but there was something else… something almost furtive about her. The same furtiveness Frost had seen in the face of Dave Shelby. Later, he would remember how he had linked her with Shelby and all for the wrong reasons.
“What time did you leave the house to go out, Mrs. Dawson?”
“This evening you mean?”
“Of course he doesn’t bloody-well mean this evening,” snarled her husband, snatching the lighter from her hand and putting it on the oak mantelpiece above the fireplace, well out of her reach. “He means when you went out to get your bloody hair shampooed and set.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. The appointment was at two. I left the house shortly after one.”
With a quick glance to make sure Webster was recording these details, Frost then asked, “And what time did you get back home?”
“Five o’clock, perhaps a little later.”
“Three hours for a shampoo and set?” queried the inspector. “I didn’t think it took that long.”
“It only took an hour, but afterward I walked around the town, looking at the shops, then I went in Aster’s Department Store and had afternoon tea.”
“When you returned home, was there anything that didn’t seem quite right… any feeling that someone had been in the house while you were out?”
She considered this for a moment, then firmly shook her head. “No, nothing.”
Frost smiled his thanks, then switched his attention to the husband. “You suggest your daughter has been kidnapped, sir. I take it there’s been no contact from anyone claiming to be holding her, no phone calls or ransom demands?”
“There’s been no approach… yet. But it will follow, I have no doubt about that. I’m a rich man, a bloody rich man. My daughter is missing, a man was hiding in here, waiting for her. You don’t have to be a genius to see she’s been kidnapped.”
Frost leaned back in the chair and stared up at the high ceiling with its indistinguishable-from-real oak beams and its crystal chandelier. He worried at his scar and chewed the facts over. He wasn’t sold on Dawson’s kidnap theory. If the kid had been kidnapped, surely her abductors would have immediately warned her parents not to contact the police. And here it was, some ten hours or more after the event, and they still hadn’t made their approach. No, he couldn’t buy the kidnap scenario.
Webster watched the old fool drifting off into his reverie, trying to find inspiration from the ceiling. Look at 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.”