A Touch of Frost djf-2

by R D Wingfield

  The Coconut Grove the car wasn’t found all that far away from the club if you recall.”

  Webster chewed this over. “There’s a lot of loose ends, but I suppose it’s possible,” he grudgingly admitted.

  “Yes,” said Frost. “The only trouble is, if I’m right, then Master Roger is innocent, and that would be contrary to natural justice.” He tugged at the seat belt and fastened it across his lap. “Ah well, we have other cases to occupy our fertile minds. Let’s go and see Old Mother Wiggle-Bum.”

  Webster turned the key in the ignition. “I presume you mean Mrs.

  Dawson?”

  The inspector nodded, chewing his lower lip as another nagging doubt rose to the surface. “She worries me, son. It was bloody windy in the town yesterday afternoon.”

  With a grimace, Webster said, “Was it?” He wondered what the old fool was drivelling on about now.

  Frost looked out on the trees of Denton Woods as the car cruised along the ring road. “Near gale force. It would have blown your beard all over the place. If you were a woman who wiggled her bum and you had just had your hair done for a very important do, would you risk walking in the wind for a couple of hours?”

  “No,” said Webster.

  “Old Mother Dawson did,” said Frost. “Before we see her we’ll nip into the town and call on a few hairdressers. We might even let them give your beard a blue rinse.”

  Wednesday day shift (5)

  Max Dawson gave the barrel of the rifle a final polish with a soft duster, then carefully rested the butt against his shoulder, and lined up the sights to the exact centre of his sleeping wife’s forehead. Then, very gently, he squeezed. A metallic click. She stirred a little and slept on.

  He lowered the rifle, almost wishing it were loaded. How could she sleep? Her own daughter missing, possibly even lying dead somewhere, and all she could do was sleep.

  The rifle was replaced in its leather case and zipped in. He carried it out to the metal cupboard which, in compliance with his firearms certificate, was fixed to the wall beneath the stairs by bolts set in concrete. He was turning the key in the security lock when the phone rang.

  It was Karen. It had to be Karen.

  He raced back to the lounge, scooped up the phone, and croaked, “Yes?”

  The ringing had woken up Clare. “Is it Karen?”

  An impatient flick of his hand ordered her to silence. He listened, his face red-hot with anger. He turned his head incredulously to his wife. “Would you believe it? It’s the bloody office with some piddling little query.” Enraged, he yelled into the phone, “Get off this bloody line, you bitch. Don’t you dare phone me at home again.” He slammed the receiver down with such force he feared he might have broken it. He checked, and heard the reassuring purr of the dial tone. His hand still shaking, he replaced it carefully this time.

  Clare pushed herself from the armchair, where she had been huddled in an uneasy sleep, and stretched to straighten out the kinks in her back. A quick glance in the mirror over the mantlepiece while she fluffed up her hair, then she padded across to her husband and gently squeezed his arm.

  “Shall I make some coffee?”

  He jerked his arm away. He didn’t want her touching him. He blamed her for Karen’s disappearance. If she had been here yesterday afternoon when Karen came home early from school, none of this would have happened. “I don’t want any coffee.”

  Shrugging off the rejection, she knelt on the padded window seat and looked out across the landscaped garden. Thin sunlight trickled down and an edgy wind ruffled the shrubs and the water of the ornamental fish pond.

  The bray of a horn as a car turned off the road and into the drive. She went cold. “Max, a car!”

  He almost leaped across the room to join her at the window. He recognized the Ford Cortina. “It’s the police,” he told her. “Those two idiots who were here last night.” She reached out for the comforting reassurance of his hand, but he drew away, watching the Ford pull up at the front door, watching the two policemen get out, both looking grim.

  The door bell chimed. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. If he didn’t open the door, he wouldn’t have to hear their awful news and Karen wouldn’t be dead.

  A second ring, longer this time.

  Clare again examined herself in the mirror, adjusted the hem of her sweater, then went to the front door. His eyes followed her. Look at her! Her only daughter dead and she’s preening herself.

  She was up, facing him, her breasts quivering with indignation. “How dare you…!”

  He gently pushed her back down into the chair. “If it helps to find your daughter I’ll dare as much as I like. All I’m trying to do is see if we can’t eliminate this mystery man from our inquiries.” The lighter clicked on, off, on, off. He felt like doing what her husband had done the night before take it away from her. “I’m asking you, point-blank, can I eliminate him or not?”

  She found the lighter of consuming interest.

  “I promise you, Mrs. Dawson, if he was just here for a bit of spare, I’ll keep him out of it. Can I eliminate him?”

  “Yes, damn you, you can.”

  Frost heaved a sigh of relief. The first hurdle safely over. “I checked with your hairdresser. Your appointment was originally for two o’clock, but you phoned yesterday morning and put it back until five. Is that correct?”

  “If you’ve checked with the hairdresser, then it must be,” she answered defiantly.

  “OK,” said Frost. “So we take it that you altered your appointment because your boy friend was popping in to see you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were both here when Karen came home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “We were in here, on the settee. We were kissing… my dress was unbuttoned. We didn’t hear Karen come in. We didn’t expect her. That bloody school should have phoned. Karen saw us. She ran out of the house.”

  “Any idea where she is?”

  “No. But I’m sure she’ll be back. My husband doesn’t know it, but she’s been off like this before. Karen’s not quite the innocent he thinks she is.” She put the lighter on the floor then walked to the bar where she slopped a shot of vodka into a glass. Staring defiantly, she raised the glass to her lips. Then she crumpled. “You won’t tell my husband? He’ll kill me if he finds out.”

  Frost shrugged. “If it’s not necessary for him to know, then I won’t tell him. But your daughter is bound to spill the beans when she comes back.”

  “I can take care of Karen,” she said significantly.

  “Right,” said Frost, rewinding his scarf. “We’ll keep an eye open for her, but we won’t worry too much for a day or so. If you get any news, let us know.”

  The lounge door opened for the return of Max Dawson and a dusty, cob webby Detective Constable Webster.

  “She’s not down here,” said Frost. “We’ve looked everywhere.”

  When they got back to the car, Frost took a chance and switched the radio on. Control was calling him. Charlie Bravo had gone to Tommy Croll’s place to pick him up. No sign of Croll, but his rooms had been broken into and all the furniture systematically ripped and smashed. “We’re on our way,” said Frost.

  Detective Inspector Allen rapped at the door of the Divisional Commander’s office and went in. Mullett, sitting ramrod-stiff behind his satin mahogany desk, smiled and indicated the inspector should sit.

  “You look worn out, Allen.”

  Allen sat down wearily and stretched tired muscles. “Thought I’d better put you in the picture with the rape investigation, sir. I’m sorry to say we’ve made no progress at all. A mature woman dressed in schoolgirl clothes walks from her home to the woods and we haven’t been able to turn up a single witness who saw her. We’ve knocked on doors, we’ve asked everywhere. I’ve been thorough ‘

  “I’m quite sure you have, Inspector. That goes without saying,” smarmed Mullett.

  “
I’ve put our usual circus of known sexual offenders through the hoop… still some more to question, but nothing positive up to now.”

  “Any joy from your radio and television appeals to the public?”

  “We’ve had a fair amount of response, which we’re following up, but most of it useless old maids who reckon the man next door must be the rapist because he always looks over the fence when she hangs her knickers on the line, that sort of thing. I hate to have to say it, sir, but at the moment it looks as if we’ll just have to wait until the rapist strikes again and hope that this time he might leave the odd clue behind.”

  Mullett pulled a face. “We can’t leave it like that, Inspector. He must be stopped before he claims another victim. Have you traced the anonymous phone caller?”

  “No, sir. We’ve appealed for him to come forward, but he hasn’t obliged yet. I do have one suggestion, sir.” He looked hopefully at the Superintendent.

  “Yes?” asked Mullett uneasily, feeling he was about to be forced into making a decision.

  “We set a trap, send in a decoy a policewoman tar ted up to tempt the rapist into having a go at her.”

  Mullett readjusted his moustache and smoothed the bristles down “I don’t like this, Allen. It could be dangerous.”

  “Let me show you the plan, sir.” Allen left his chair and moved to the large-scale wall map behind the Superintendent’s desk. “We would have men hiding here, and here. Also a couple of radio cars on the surrounding roads. I’d have more men back here, and two more staked out here.” He jabbed at the map. “The woman decoy ‘

  “Only one?” Mullett queried.

  Allen nodded. “It’s safer that way. We want to keep the operation confined to as tight an area as possible, so we can get to the decoy before he can harm her.”

  Mullett studied the map over Allen’s shoulder. “You’re pinning all your hopes on him operating in the same area as last night. Those woods are vast. You could all be over the west side while he’s raping victims to the east.”

  “To cover the entire area, sir, would require so many men there wouldn’t be room for the rapist to get in. If the bait’s attractive enough, I’m hoping he will come to us.”

  “How many men are you talking about?” asked Mullett.

  “About fifteen or twenty.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mullett evasively as he returned to his chair. “There’s too much left to chance. And the overall cost would be terrific fifteen or twenty men, all on overtime. I’m under severe pressure from County to cut down on our manpower costs. Let me show you the memo they sent me.” He unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out the memo with “Strictly Confidential’ typed in red capitals across the top.

  Allen barely gave it a glance. He didn’t want to see these stupid pieces of paper. “Then you’re saying we do nothing at all, sir? We simply sit back, twiddle our thumbs, and wait for our man to pick his next victim. Is that what you’re saying, sir?”

  Mullett could feel the wall pressing hard against his back. “What can I do?” he said weakly, waving the memo like a flag of truce. “We’ve got to cut down on expenditure. I mean I could authorize it, and you could waste night after night, fifteen men all on overtime, expenses soaring and nothing to show for it. County would crucify me.”

  “Let’s restrict it to five nights only, then, sir.”

  “Three,” countered Mullett, feeling he was scoring a victory.

  “Fair enough, sir. Three,” agreed Allen. “And then we can decide whether to extend it or not.”

  “But let me see a costing first,” called Mullett as Allen made for the door.

  “Of course, sir,” smiled the inspector. “I’ll have it on your desk in half an hour. I’ve already started working it out.”

  “This is how we found it, Inspector,” said PC Kenny, leading Frost and Webster into Tommy Croll’s rooms.

  The two rooms were a chaotic mess with upholstery slashed, drawers pulled out, cupboards yawning open and their contents strewn all over the floor. The mattress in the bedroom had been dragged from the bed and knifed, its lacerations bleeding horsehair. A heap of clothing tumbled from the wardrobe had a snowy coating of feathers from ripped pillows. In the kitchen the contents of packets of soap powder and corn flakes had been spewed all over the floor where they scrunched noisily underfoot.

  “It’s been done over, sir,” said PC Kenny.

  “Funny you should say that,” said Frost, “I was thinking the same thing myself.” He kicked at a tin of baked beans which rolled to rest against some broken slices of bread. “No sign of Croll, I suppose?”

  “No, sir. His landlady downstairs didn’t even know he was out of hospital.”

  “Does she know who did this?”

  “No, sir. Says it happened while she was out.”

  Frost picked up a battered transistor radio from the floor. “Well, there’s no mystery about who did it a couple of Harry Baskin’s heavies searching for the stolen money and putting in the frighteners at the same time.” He plugged in the radio and clicked it on. An angry crackle followed by a blue flash. He switched it off. “We’ll have to find Tommy before Baskin’s boys get hold of him. We don’t want him ending up like his mattress, with his innards poking out.” He told Kenny to ask Control to put out a priority signal that Croll was to be found and brought in immediately for questioning in connection with the robbery at The Coconut Grove.

  Their next stop was at the house of the other security guard, Bert Harris, who lived in one of the newly built houses east of the main Bath Road. Harris, a cropped-haired, thickset man in his late twenties, sported a black eye and a bruised nose, souvenirs of his reprimand from Harry Baskin the previous night. He didn’t seem at all pleased to see the two policemen.

  “It’s not really convenient, Mr. Frost,” he protested, but the inspector pushed past him.

  “We don’t mind if it’s a bit untidy, Bert.” He opened the lounge door and peeped inside. A carbon copy of Croll’s place with slashed upholstery and emptied cupboards. “Looks like my house on a good day,” commented Frost as he managed to find a dining chair with its seat intact so he could sit down. “I take it some friends of Mr. Baskin’s have paid you a visit.”

  “I’ve got no comment to make on that,” said Harris.

  Frost lit up a cigarette.” Did they find the money before they left?”

  Harris laughed hollowly. “They couldn’t find it because I haven’t got it. I had nothing to do with that robbery.”

  “It had to be an inside job, Bert, which has got to mean you and Tommy Croll.”

  Harris pulled a tobacco tin from his pocket and began to roll a hand-made. “We’re talking about five thousand lousy quid, Mr. Frost. If me and Tommy split it down the middle, that is two and a half thousand apiece. Do you seriously think I’d risk Harry Baskin’s boys ripping me open for a lousy two and a half thou? Look at this bloody mess!” He indicated the rubble of his lounge. “There’s at least a thousand quid’s worth of damage. If I was going to stitch Harry Baskin up, I’d pick a night when there was at least ten thousand quid in the office, and when I’d nicked it, you wouldn’t see my arse for dust. I wouldn’t hang around so Harry could use me as a punching bag.”

  Frost was forced to admit that this made sense. “So who do you reckon took the money… Tommy Croll?”

  “It’s not for me to say, is it, Inspector? But he’s stupid enough, and it’s bloody funny he’s done a runner from the hospital.”

  The radio was talking to an empty car. “Control to Mr. Frost. Come in, please.”

  Frost picked up the handset and in a mock, quavering baritone, sang, “I hear you calling me.”

  A pause from the other end, then a reproving voice sniffed, “Please observe the correct radio procedure, Inspector.”

  It was Mullett!

  “Sorry, Super,” said Frost. “We seem to be on a crossed line.”

  County had been on to Mullett about the non arrival of the crime statistics, and Acc
ounts had contacted him wanting to know where the overtime returns were. Frost breezily told Mullett that both returns would go off that day without fail, then signed off quickly.

  “Next stop The Coconut Grove, son. I think we should have a little talk with lovable Harry Baskin.”

  Like an ageing prostitute who’d had a rough and busy night, The Coconut Grove didn’t look its most seductive in the harsh glare of daylight. Shafts of gritty sunlight grated in through grimed windows, spotlighting every blemish. On asking for Baskin, Frost and Webster were directed through a back door, across a yard piled high with crates of empty beer bottles, and on through to another building from which the sound of a misused piano floated out.

  Pushing through a side door marked Staff Only Keep Out, they found themselves in a darkened hall. At the far end of a well-lit stage a long-haired blonde girl, wearing nothing more than a bright-red bra and matching G-string, was twisting and gyrating to the repetitive thump of Ravel’s Bolero, which a pretty, golden-haired man in a floral shirt was bashing out on the stage piano.

  “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” asked Webster.

  “Definitely,” replied Frost.

  They were halfway down the aisle when the music reached a climax and the girl suddenly twisted around, whipped off the bra with a flourish and stood bare-breasted, nipples quivering, arms triumphantly outstretched, panting with exertion, and smiling into the dark of the auditorium.

  “No, no, no,” yelled a man’s voice from the front row.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” cried Frost, thudding down the aisle.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Frost,” said Baskin. The girl looked startled, then embarrassed, and immediately covered her breasts with her hands.

  “Get those bloody hands off,” called Baskin. “You’ve got to get used to people seeing you stripped. Flaunt them, darling, flaunt them.”

  Baskin was slouched in one of the front-row-centre seats, an enormous cigar in his mouth pointing almost vertically upward like a Titan rocket ready for launch.