A Touch Of Frost (38 page)

The youth leaned forward confidentially, keeping his voice low. “I suppose there’s no way the charge could be dropped, Mr. Frost. I know the police have discretion, and it was a first offence.”

Frost gasped at the enormity of the suggestion. “No chance,” he said. He was stuffing the notes in his wallet and about to turn for the door when the idea struck him. He beckoned the youth closer. “Tell you what, Gerald. I might be able to fix it for you in return for a very small favour.”

“A small favour?” repeated the teller doubtfully.

“It’s all right; it’s official police business,” said Frost, “but it’s very confidential. I want to know a few minor details about someone’s account.”

The cashier, looked furtively about him. No-one was watching. “What’s the name of the account?” he asked, moving to the monitor screen and typing in the password for current accounts information.

Outside in the car, which was tucked, well hidden, down a side street in case a cruising police car spotted it, Webster waited impatiently. He felt like the driver of a getaway car in a bank raid. Ten minutes had passed since Frost, coat collar turned up, had sidled into the bank. How long did it take the idiot to cash a simple cheque?

Another minute ticked by and there he was, bounding along, his mac flapping, a broad grin threatening to split his face. He slid in beside Webster and flung out his arms with joy.

“I have a theory, son, that for every bit of bad luck you get compensated by a bit of good. So I deserve a bloody big chunk and I’ve just had it. Guess what?”

Webster didn’t answer. He was in no mood for stupid guessing games.

“When Roger Miller gave Harry Baskin his cheque for £4,865 to pay his gambling debts, he didn’t have a penny in his bank account; in fact, he was overdrawn by £32. But the morning after the robbery he paid in a cash deposit of £5,130, just in time for his cheque to be honoured.”

Webster turned slowly in his seat. “The morning after the robbery?”

Frost hugged himself with delight. “Yes, my son. Let’s go and bring the bastard in.”

Through the dull throb of his headache, Police Superintendent Mullett bravely smiled his thanks as his secretary, Miss Smith, brought him a cup of hot, sweet tea and a large bottle of aspirins. His headache was getting worse. He took off his glasses and pinched his nose to ease the strain, then gave his full attention to the station sergeant.

“We’ve been radioing Mr. Frost constantly since one o’clock, sir. He hasn’t responded, I’m afraid.”

Grunting his disapproval, Mullett popped two aspirins in his mouth and swallowed them down with a gulp of tea.

“His radio could be out of order,” suggested the sergeant.

“Yes,” snapped Mullett, replacing his cup on the saucer, “we all know how often, and how conveniently Mr. Frost’s radio breaks down. He’s to report to me the second he comes in, Sergeant.”

When the sergeant left, Mullett relaxed enough to take from his drawer the envelope with the House of Commons crest. He drew out the gold-engraved invitation and the short note in Sir Charles Miller’s own hand thanking him for his assistance in the hit-and-run case and inviting Mullett and his good lady to a small social gathering at the MP’s house the following night at which the Chief Constable would also be present.

Mullett’s pleasure at receiving this had almost outweighed his annoyance about the wretched business of the stolen police car. He had already had the press on the phone for his comments and he dreaded seeing the morning’s Denton
Echo
, which really seemed to have its knife out for the police these days.

He ran his finger along the gilt edge of the invitation, and the contact made him feel better. Sir Charles Miller’s private telephone number was on the letter requesting that the Superintendent phone him personally to confirm his acceptance. He had dialled the number and was holding on while the butler went off to find his master when there was a knock at his door.

“Wait!” ordered Mullett imperiously, but his command was ignored. The door opened and Frost ambled in, grinning from ear to ear.

“I asked you to wait,” barked Mullett. Typical of the man. Never here when you wanted him, but ask him to wait and he comes bursting in regardless.

“Hello, Mullett,” boomed Sir Charles at the other end of the phone.

“I’ve just arrested Roger Miller,” Frost announced.

Mullett’s mouth opened and closed. He looked at Frost, then looked at the phone in his right hand. “You’ve what?” he croaked.

“Hello, Mullett, are you there?” asked a puzzled Sir Charles.

“It was Miller who nicked that five thousand quid from The Coconut Grove the other night,” continued Frost proudly. “His girl friend was his accomplice; she’s given us a full confession.”

Mullett forced a barely sustainable smile of commendation and then became painfully aware of the irritated voice barking out of the phone. He took a deep breath. “Hello, Sir Charles,” he said at last. “I’m afraid I might have a bit of bad news for you.” With his free hand he dropped the invitation into the waste bin. Its thud as it hit the bottom sounded the death knell of his current social climbing aspirations.

“Well done, Jack,” called Johnny Johnson as the inspector trotted back to his own office. “How did Mr. Mullett take it?”

“Well, he didn’t exactly kiss my feet,” replied Frost, “but at least it distracted his attention from the car I lost.”

Frost had played his usual game of bluff and double bluff, aided by gambler’s luck, which was paying him one of its brief visits. First he and Webster had picked up the girl, Julie King, telling her that Roger Miller had been positively identified and had made a full confession implicating the girl as his accomplice. “The lousy bastard!” she said. “He promised to keep me out of it.” She then made a statement giving them everything they wanted. Armed with this, they arrested Roger, and, once he was in custody, Frost was able to issue instructions for his flat to be searched. To Frost’s Academy Award-winning act of stunned surprise, the exclusive handmade brown-and-cream shoes were found. These were later identified by Croll as those worn by his attacker. And tucked away, right at the back of a built-in cupboard, they found a Stan Laurel mask.

Then the uninteresting bit. The paperwork and the tying up of the various loose ends. This was interrupted at one stage by a phone call from Harry Baskin, who had obviously been contacted by Sir Charles Miller. He said he didn’t want to prefer charges.

“This isn’t a civil case, Harry,” Frost had told him. “It’s a criminal charge, so you’ve got no say in the matter.” It was another two hours of comings and goings with Miller’s solicitor and the director of the Public Prosecutions Office before Frost was able to turn his mind to more important matters.

“The rape case, son,” he informed Webster, “I want to make a move on it tonight.”

“Tonight?” repeated Webster, hoping he wasn’t hearing correctly. He had intended spending the night in the narrow El Dorado of Susan Harvey’s single bed.

“Yes. My every instinct tells me that King Dick is still in the area and he’s going to have another bash tonight. So let’s give him someone to have a bash at.”

“A decoy?”

“Exactly. Someone young and tasty with enormous knockers.” He opened the door and yelled in the general direction of the duty room, “Sue . . . got a minute?”

Oh no! thought the dismayed Webster. Please, not Sue!

Frost pushed a chair toward her so she could sit down, then asked, “You doing anything tonight, Sue?”

She hesitated, shooting a little sideways glance at Webster, who could only shake his head helplessly.

“If not, how would you like to be raped?” continued the inspector.

This was one of the inspector’s little jokes, of course. She giggled as she waited for the punchline. Then she saw he was deadly serious.

“I need you as a decoy, Sue. For this bloody rapist. I want to nail the bastard tonight.”

For just a second she hesitated, then she said, “What’s the plan?”

“It’s Mr. Allen’s plan, actually. I found it in the file. We fit you up with a two-way radio and we stake out the area. You prowl around, oozing sexual attraction, then, when he rises to the bait, we pounce, and then we all go home and have a cup of tea. How does it sound?”

She smiled. “I’ll do it. After seeing what he did to that kid last night, I’ll do anything to get the swine.”

Frost patted her hand. “Good girl. Now, we know he likes them young, dewy-eyed, and innocent, so no make-up, no bra, sensible knickers, and simple clothes—and take the Karma Sutra out of your pocket.” He consulted his watch. “It’s coming up to half past seven. Get off home. Try and grab some kip because, if we’re lucky, it’s going to be a busy night. I’ll send Webster round at ten to pick you up and bring you back here for a final briefing.”

Webster yawned pointedly. If he could get off now he would be able to drive Sue back to her flat, and to her bed, and they could relax and make up for the disappointment of the night before. “Perhaps we’d all better snatch a few hours’ sleep,” he suggested.

“Sure,” said Frost vaguely. “But there’s a couple of quick jobs we must do first.”

They’d better be quick, thought Webster, whispering to Susan that he’d be round at nine, earlier if he could, which would give them at least an hour before she had to get dressed in her decoy outfit.

“So what are these jobs?” urged Webster when Susan had left.

“Mm?” said Frost, not listening. He had taken out the packet of action photographs from Dave Shelby’s collection and was finding one of consuming interest. It showed Shelby and a woman, both naked. Shelby was lying on the bed, grinning. The woman, her back to the camera, showing off gorgeous buttocks, was astride him. The punchline to his old joke came into Frost’s head. “I knew it was the foreman,” he muttered to himself, “because I had to do all the bloody work.” He caught Webster’s eye. “Something nagging me, son. Why do I feel I should know where this was taken, and why do I feel it’s important?”

Can’t the old fool keep his mind on one case at a time, thought Webster as he bent to take a look. Wow! Lucky Shelby! The unknown woman looked a right little raver, and the action shot made him even more anxious to get the hell out of the office and into Sue’s bed posthaste so he could grin up at Sue as Shelby was grinning up at the woman.

“I’m not sure who the woman is,” said Frost. “I think it’s Mullett’s secretary. But I’m sure I know that bedroom. We’ve been there—and recently.”

Webster tore his eyes away from the woman’s bottom and studied the rest of the photograph. Behind the lovers was an out-of-focus yellow background. To one side, also out of focus, a brown fuzzy blur that might possibly be a bedside cabinet and which was topped by something that seemed to glow red. He shook his head. It meant nothing to him.

Then Frost let out a yelp of triumph. “Got it!” He jabbed a finger.

“That is Mrs. Dawson’s bedroom.”

Webster picked up the photograph and looked again, trying to compare what he saw with what he remembered. Of course. The out-of-focus yellowish background, the colour distorted by the flash, would be the cream leather headboard. Once that was established the other blurred objects clicked into sharp focus, down to the LED digital clock with its oversized red numerals. There was no doubt about it, Dave Shelby had been having it off with Mrs. Dawson of the buttocks beautiful.

“What if her old man had found out?” said Frost quietly.

Webster whistled softly. Then there would have been hell to pay. Max Dawson had a violent temper, and an armoury of firearms. Then it hit him what Frost was implying. “Surely you’re not suggesting . . . ?”

“Why not?” asked Frost. “It’s much more likely Dawson would kill Shelby than Useless Eustace, and it’s always bugged me that there was no blood in the getaway car.”

“But we found Shelby’s notebook.”

Frost clicked his Biro on and off. “There must be some other answer as to how it got there.” He pushed the pen back into his top pocket.

“You’ll have to tell Mr. Allen.”

Frost tightened his lips stubbornly. “He wouldn’t listen, son. He’s already made up his mind that Stan is his murderer. Besides, I don’t want anyone to see these photos until I’m sure. We’ll have to interview Max Dawson ourselves.”

“But it isn’t our case,” insisted Webster.

Frost stuffed the photograph back with the rest and put them in his pocket. “I promised Stan’s wife I’d help if I could.”

“You don’t owe her a bloody thing. We’ve got enough on our plates with this rape case. Besides, Mullett will crucify you if he finds out you’ve been meddling again.”

But it was hopeless. When Frost was in his stubborn mood, neither logic, common sense, nor appeals to reason would shake him. “It won’t take us long, son,” he said.

Clare, wearing a see-through blouse and white slacks, opened the door to them, but the smile died on her face and she looked startled, as if she was expecting someone else. “Max is out,” she said. “He’s gone to London for a meeting. He won’t be back until the morning.”

“Then perhaps you can help,” said Frost, smiling. It suited him to be able to question the woman first.

They followed the famous photogenic wiggling bottom into the oak-panelled lounge with its walls covered in weapons, one of which could have been used to kill Dave Shelby. She waited nervously, rubbing the back of one hand, watching Frost as he slowly and deliberately unwound his scarf. It was stifling in the lounge with the pseudo log fire eating up the therms.

“What is it about?” she asked anxiously.

“How’s Karen?” said Frost, balling the scarf and ramming it into his mac pocket. He sat down on the settee and unbuttoned his coat.

“She’s fine,” Clare told them. “My husband has agreed she can go to ballet school at the end of this term.”

Frost smiled at her. “So all secrets are safe?”

“Yes.” She waited for him to come to the point.

Frost opened his wallet and took out the press release black-and-white photograph of Dave Shelby, smiling and alive. He held it up to her. “Recognize him?”