DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost by R. D. Wingfield Page A

would do such things to a kid.
    Muffled sounds came from his jacket pocket. His radio was trying to talk to him.
    ‘Sergeant Wells calling Inspector Frost.’
    ‘Yes, Bill, what is it?’
    ‘Message from Detective Inspector Allen. He’s on his way with a full team. He said don’t anyone touch anything until he gets there.’
    ‘I won’t even touch my dick,’ said Frost.
    ‘Is it Karen Dawson, Jack?’ asked Wells. ‘I’m getting phone calls every five minutes from her father asking if there’s any news.’
    ‘Hard to tell. The way the bastard’s rearranged her face she could be anyone . . . Karen, Bo Derek, or Old Mother Riley. Keep stalling her old man. We might want him to identify her, but I’ll be back to him as soon as there’s any thing positive. Over and out.’
    He pushed the radio back into his pocket. No surprise that Allen was taking over. Allen was in charge of the ‘Hooded Rapist’ investigation and would want to get Frost as far away as possible the second he took command.
    Car doors slammed, then Simms pushed his way through the bushes to report that the ambulance men were hot on his tail. ‘Do you want me and Jordan to start looking around, sir . . . to see what we can find?’
    He shook his head. ‘We’ve been ordered not to touch anything. Mr Allen is on his way, so we can expect an arrest in seconds.’
    Out of sight behind him, Webster grinned. It was common knowledge that Frost and Allen didn’t get on, but then, coldly efficient Allen was a real detective, unlike the clown in the mac. Webster had successfully led many rape cases back in his old division. Tomorrow he would request a transfer to Allen’s team.
    ‘Where the hell are you?’ came a cry for help from the ambulance men, floundering about in the dark. Simms waggled his torch like a cinema usherette and yelled, ‘This way!’ then, lowering his voice, said to the inspector, ‘Something a bit odd about the girl, sir. Did you notice?’
    ‘Painted nipples, you mean?’
    ‘No, sir. Something else . . . lower down.’
    ‘If it was something else, then I have missed it.’ Frost pulled back the greatcoat again and Simms directed his torch. ‘I keep feeling like a dirty old man every time I do this, Simms. What am I supposed to be looking for?’ The torch beam moved down and pointed. ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Frost, very surprised.
    He replaced the greatcoat and straightened up. ‘You’re probably too young to be told this, Simms, but that feature is known to us men of the world as “the sleek bikini line.” You can buy special shavers for it. Webster’s wife has one. That’s why he grew a beard - he didn’t want to share the same razor.’ He called Webster over and showed him.
    ‘It’s got to be her,’ said Webster. ‘It’s got to be Karen.’
    Frost still couldn’t convince himself. ‘This is hardly bikini weather, son. Still, we’d better get her father to meet us at the hospital, just in case.’
    The ambulance men forced their way through and lifted the girl onto a stretcher, covering her with thick red blankets. ‘Anyone travelling with her?’ one asked.
    ‘No,’ Frost told him, ‘but we’ll be sending a woman police officer to the hospital as soon as we can.’
    As the ambulance pulled away, a convoy of cars containing Detective Inspector Allen and his team roared up. There was a barrage of overexcited shouting and door-slamming as everyone piled out, immediately silenced when Allen bawled that they were all to get back inside their cars and wait. ‘No-one to move until I give the say-so.’ He didn’t want people trampling all over the evidence before he had a chance to see it, especially as some of them were clearly the worse for drink.
    Detective Inspector Allen, a wiry man with a thin sour face and a permanent sneer, looked sharp, alert and efficient despite being dragged away from the drinking party well after midnight. His assistant, Detective Sergeant Vic Ingram, slightly unsteady on his