Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost

by R D Wingfield

  Roger Miller thrust his face forward. He didn’t like the attitude of this nondescript little pip-squeak. “I’m here to answer questions, not listen to your cheap insinuations.”

  “Right,” said Frost, blandly, giving the twenty-year-old youth a twitch of a smile, “I’ll read your statement and then ask my questions.”

  The statement read:

  I returned home from the office at 6.25 p.m. I had brought some work back with me and I worked on it in my flat until 11.15 p.m.” at which time I realized that some papers I needed to complete my work were still in my briefcase in my car. At 11.20 p.m. I left the flat and walked around the corner to Norman Grove, where I had left my car, a Jaguar, registration number ULU 63A. To my concern, the car was not there. I presumed it had been stolen so I immediately phoned Denton Police Station to report this fact. I then returned to my flat and went to bed. The first I knew about the tragic accident which caused the sad death of Mr. Hickman was when a reporter from the Denton Echo phoned me at my office at two minutes past nine this morning. I was extremely distressed to learn that my car was apparently involved, and I immediately contacted my solicitor and arranged to come to the police to help them in whatever way I can.

  “Beautifully typed,” commented Frost when he finished reading it. He let it fall to the table. “You work for your father, I understand, Mr. Miller?”

  It was the solicitor who confirmed for his client. “That is correct. In the head office of Miller Properties Ltd, the holding company.”

  “I see,” said Frost, his head swinging from one man to the other. “And you’ve approved this statement, Mr. Moore?”

  “Yes, and my client is now prepared to sign it.”

  “I want to sign it right now,” said Roger Miller, pulling a rolled-gold Parker pen from his pocket. “I’ve wasted two hours already and I’ve got better things to do with my time than hang about here.”

  “And I’m sure Mr. Hickman would have had better things to do with his time than having to hang about on a slab in the morgue,” murmured Frost, ‘but we can’t always choose what happens.”

  “For a public servant you’re bloody insolent,” snapped the youth hotly, his pen scratching his signature across the foot of the page. He thrust the paper at Frost. “Can I go now?” He jerked his head at his solicitor, implying that whatever the inspector’s answer, they were leaving.

  “Just a few minor points if you don’t mind, Mr Miller,” said Frost, whose finger had directed Webster to stand in front of the door, blocking their exit. “Please sit down. It shouldn’t take long.” He gave them a disarming smile as they returned to their chairs. “My trouble is, gentlemen, I’m not very bright. There are a couple of things in your statement that don’t seem to add up. I’m sure it’s my stupidity, so if you could see your way clear to explaining . . .”

  “I’m sure it’s your stupidity, too,” said Miller condescendingly, ‘but try to be as quick as you can.”

  Frost scratched his head as if completely out of his depth. “The first thing that puzzled me, sir, is the question of your leaving your briefcase in the Jag.”

  Miller gave Frost a patronising smile. “And why should that puzzle you, Inspector?”

  “According to all the witnesses we’ve spoken to, sir, you never drive the Jag to your office. You always use the firm’s car, the Porsche. So how did your briefcase get in the Jag?”

  The solicitor confidently turned a questioning face to his client, then realized to his dismay that the youth was floundering, trying to think of an answer. Roger shook his head helplessly. Quickly, the solicitor said, “If you don’t mind, Inspector, I’d like a word with my client in private. I may have misunderstood his instructions.”

  Frost and Webster trooped outside and waited. After five minutes they were called back in again.

  “A lapse of memory,” explained Moore, removing the cap from his fountain pen, ready to amend the statement. “My client intended using the Jaguar car the following day, so he transferred his briefcase from the Porsche.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Frost said, his finger drawing circles around his scar. “Your client drove the Porsche from his office, parked it in the basement car park at the flats, took out the briefcase and walked with it round the corner to Norman Grove, where he put the briefcase in the Jag, and then walked back to the flat?”

  “Yes,” said Moore weakly. It didn’t sound at all plausible to him now the inspector queried it.

  “Very logical, sir. So if you’d like to alter the statement to that effect we can all get on to more important matters.” Moore’s pen began drafting a suitable amendment. The words wouldn’t flow, and he had to keep crossing out and altering the text. “Oh, just one other thing,” Frost added. “As I said, we’ve recovered the Jag - but the briefcase wasn’t in it.”

  Miller gave a superior sneer. “I imagine the thief took it.”

  Frost seemed to receive this suggestion with open arms. “Of course, sir, I hadn’t thought of that. Briefcases full of office papers must be a very valuable commodity.” He paused, then said with studied casualness, “Just one other thing . . .”

  Moore’s pen stopped in mid stroke and he tried not to show his anxiety. What bombshell was going to be dropped now? He wasn’t used to criminal work and was no longer positive that his client was telling the whole truth. He waited apprehensively, his eyes moving from the inspector to his client.

  “You say in your statement, Mr Miller, that you reported the theft to the police, then went straight to bed in your flat.”

  “That’s right,” answered Miller.

  “You may not be aware of it, sir, but in the early hours of this morning we had an anonymous phone call reporting that a man had been seen trying to break into the balcony window of a fourth-floor flat at Halley House. We investigated. On getting no reply from your flat and fearing for your safety, we used the caretaker’s passkey to enter. Happily, there was no sign of an intruder. But the puzzle is, there was no sign of you, either, sir - and your bed had not been slept in.”

  Miller sprang to his feet, sending his chair skidding across the floor. His face was brick red with anger. “You impudent swine! Are you telling me you had the temerity to sneak into my flat - to check up on me behind my back?”

  His solicitor stood up, hissing at Roger to calm down. Miller, fists clenched, chest heaving, fought to gain control of himself. At last he nodded to his solicitor, then sat down. But if looks could kill, Frost would be stone-cold dead.

  Moore capped his fountain pen and scooped up the statement, which he replaced firmly in his briefcase. “My client and I wish to reconsider our position, Inspector. At this stage we have nothing further to say.”

  But Frost hadn’t quite finished. He addressed the youth. “Sorry to be a nuisance, but there is one more thing. I think it’s only fair to mention it so you can clear up all the lies in one hit. We have a witness who saw you driving the Jaguar away from Norman Grove yesterday evening.” Frost caught Webster’s puzzled look and beamed at him. It wasn’t true about the witness, but why should Miller be the only one allowed to lie?

  With an unsteady hand, and feeling quite battered by the past few minutes’ experience, the solicitor zipped up his briefcase and led his client to the door. “We hope to be back to you within the hour,” he announced.

  “I don’t think we can allow your client to leave,” said Frost. “This is a very serious charge.”

  “Then I demand some time alone with my client.”

  “Fair enough.” Frost gathered up his cigarettes and his matches. He was reaching for the door handle when Miller’s resolve broke.

  “Wait, Inspector.”

  Frost dropped his hand and slowly turned around.

  Miller, the arrogance completely drained out of him, fumbled in his pocket for a slim, gold-and-black-enamelled cigarette case. He removed a cigarette which he kept tapping on the case. “I think I’d better tell you the truth.”

  Moore pushed in fr
ont of him. “Not until you’ve discussed it with me.” He moved to Frost. “We have nothing to, say until we have reconsidered our position.”

  “I didn’t park the Jag in Norman Grove,” continued Roger doggedly. “I wasn’t at my flat at all last night.”

  Moore was shaking with rage. He grabbed his client’s shoulder and spun him around. “If you wish me to continue representing you, Mr. Miller,” he spluttered, "you will remain silent until we have talked together.”

  “If you want to continue being my father’s solicitor, men shut up, you fat slob,” snapped Miller. “And take your greasy hands off of me.” The solicitor collapsed heavily on to a chair and dabbed at his forehead with a white handkerchief.

  Making sure that Webster had his notebook open and his pen poised, Frost asked, “So where were you last night, sir?”

  “I was with a girl ... I couldn’t mention her before - she is someone my father would strongly disapprove of.”

  “In that case I’m beginning to like her already,” said the inspector.

  “How long were you with her?”

  “From seven yesterday evening until a little after eight this morning. The car was stolen from outside her flat. Damn it, Inspector, I couldn’t let my old man know where I was, so I pretended it had been taken from Norman Grove. Obviously, I had no idea it had been used in a hit-and-run when I phoned the police, otherwise I would never have tried it on.”

  Frost said nothing. Webster’s pen sprinted across the page. Moore took off his glasses and held them to the light so he could better examine the dirt on the lenses. Then he put them back on his nose. “You were with her all night, from seven until eight this morning? You didn’t go out?”

  Roger nodded.

  “Would the girl corroborate all this?”

  “Of course.”

  The solicitor’s deep sigh of relief was followed by a smile of triumph. “In that case, Inspector, there is no way my client could have been involved in the death of that unfortunate man. He has an alibi.”

  Frost’s deep sigh was one of regret. He was hoping for a confession, not more flaming checking up to do. “Would you mind giving us the lady’s name and address, sir?” he asked the young man sweetly. “Just in case we wanted to check your story.”

  Her name was Julie King. She lived in an older-type house that had been divided up into six single-bedroom flats. It was situated in Forest View, a quiet backwater overlooking Denton Woods. The unlocked front door allowed access to a small hall containing a letter rack, a pay telephone, and a fire extinguisher. Julie King’s flat was on the first floor.

  A flight of stairs took them up to a landing where two doors stood side by side. On the first, a card attached by a drawing pin read “J. King’. The door to the other flat still had a morning newspaper poking through the letter box and a pint bottle of semi skimmed milk lurking on the step.

  “Flats of a couple of prostitutes,” observed Frost, making one of his ill-considered judgements. “One works days, the other nights. Let’s call on the day shift.” He thumbed the bell to Julie King’s flat.

  “This isn’t a bad neighbourhood,” remarked Webster as they waited.

  “As long as you don’t mind being raped,” said Frost. “The woods are only a couple of streets away.”

  The door, held firm by a strong chain, cautiously opened a few inches. A female voice demanded, “What do you want?”

  “Police,” said Webster, holding out his warrant card to the gap. A hand with long orange fingernails took it, then withdrew. The door slammed shut, then there were sounds of the chain being unhooked before the door opened fully.

  A sexual fantasy of nineteen or twenty throbbed and vibrated in the doorway. Her jeans were powder blue and skintight, and her lemon T-shirt was a second skin over a pair of primed, highly explosive breasts with the safety catch off. Her hair was golden blonde and her figure strictly X certificate.

  “Yes?” she asked huskily.

  Frost’s voice sounded a trifle high-pitched so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Julie King?” She nodded. “A few questions, miss. Do you think we might come in?”

  She ushered them into a sparsely but adequately furnished room. It was a flat for people who didn’t stay very long and it echoed none of its tenant’s personality. A green leather-cloth settee that had seen better days, and had long since forgotten them, lolled lumpily in front of a two-bar electric wall fire. Next to the fire, screwed firmly to the wall, was the landlord’s coin-in-the-slot electricity meter, finished in tasteful ex-Government surplus olive green. On the far wall, a door was slightly ajar and allowed a glimpse of sink, refrigerator, and cooker. A closed door next to it would lead to the bedroom. The thought of Roger Miller going through that door and taking this sizzler to bed made Webster hate the man all the more.

  “Nice and compact,” observed Frost, perching himself on the arm of the settee and taking out his cigarettes. “Perhaps you’d question the lady, son. I seem to have done nothing but ask questions all day.”

  Julie took one of Frost’s cigarettes, leaning over to give him a bird’s-eye view of deep, inviting cleavage as he lit it for her, his hand none too steady. She dropped down on the settee, patting the cushion for Webster to sit next to her. He sat. It was a very small settee and they were close together. He could feel the radiated animal heat of her body and was getting the full blast of her perfume. His hatred of Roger Miller was increasing by the minute.

  He cleared his throat. “Would you mind telling us exactly what you did last night, Miss King. From, say, six o’clock onward?”

  She smiled at him. The sort of smile that crept under his shirt and gently stroked the pit of his stomach.“Nothing much to tell. I was here all the time. In the flat.”

  Webster scribbled away in his notebook. “On your own?”

  She pursed her lips, and kissed out a tiny puff of smoke. “No. With a friend.”

  “Could I have his name please . . . assuming it was a “he”, of course?”

  “Miller. Roger Miller.”

  “Master Miller, the MP’s son?” chimed in Frost, who had now wandered over to the kitchen. “Just like in Happy Families. Where did he park his car?”

  Webster scowled. He thought he was supposed to be conducting this interview. “Are you taking over the questioning, Inspector.”

  “Me? Good heavens no, son. You carry on, you’re doing fine.” He had now edged over to the bedroom door and was silently turning the handle.

  Back to the girl. “What time did Mr. Miller arrive?”

  “Five and twenty past six. I remember looking at my wristwatch as he rang the bell.” Her hand moved to show Webster her watch, a ridiculously tiny thing in gold and black with what looked like real diamonds at every quarter hour.

  “And how long did he stay?”

  She pouted out a smoke puffball. “He left about eight o’clock this morning. I was still in bed.”

  Behind the girl’s back, Frost had quietly opened the bedroom door and had disappeared inside. Webster tried hard not to stare in that direction. He didn’t want the girl following his gaze. “Did Mr. Miller come by car?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “His blue Jag. He was going to leave here about twenty past eleven, but when he went out he found someone had stolen it. So I said he might as well stay for the rest of the night.”

  Frost had now emerged from the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind him.

  “Where was the car parked?” continued Webster.

  “Just across the road.”

  “I wonder if I can ask a personal question?” said Frost suddenly.

  Webster groaned in exasperation. How could he possibly conduct an interview with this idiot butting in every five minutes. “It is important, Inspector?” he asked resignedly.

  “Vital,” said Frost, disarming the girl with a friendly grin. “Tell me, miss, do you have a little mole on your right buttock?”

  Webster could only stare dumbfounded. The man h
ad gone mad, there was no other answer. The girl just looked stunned.

  “A little mole, like a beauty spot - just about here?” prompted Frost, jabbing his thigh.

  She stood up and crushed out her cigarette in a tiny ashtray on the mantlepiece. “What if I have? What the bleeding hell has it got to do with you, you dirty old git?”

  I couldn’t have put it better myself, thought Webster, noticing that in moments of stress the girl’s accent became pure cockney.

  Frost pulled a postcard-size photograph from his mac pocket. “Just being curious. I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was a fly or a mole.” He displayed the photograph. A nude study. A girl in thigh-high jackboots, carrying a whip. The face was covered by a leather mask, the breasts by nothing at all. Behind the girl a full-length mirror reflected the full glory of her rear view. It also reflected a dainty mole like a beauty spot on the right buttock.

  She snatched the photograph from him. “Where did you get that?”

  “I was looking for the bathroom,” Frost explained unconvincingly. “I went into your bedroom by mistake. One of the chests of drawers was open, and this photograph was on the top. I just happened to spot it.”

  “You just happen to be a bloody liar,” she retorted. “That drawer was shut tight, and the photographs were right at the bottom. If you must know, they’re my publicity stills.”

  “Publicity stills?”

  “I’m in show business - a specialty dancer. I work at The Coconut Grove.”

  “The Coconut Grove?” repeated Frost. Then the penny dropped. “Of course. You’re one of Harry Baskin’s strippers. Then you must know that other bird . . . Paula Grey . . . the one who nearly got herself raped.”

  “Of course I know her,” said the girl. “She lives in the next-door flat. Your lot were all over the place this morning asking if I’d seen anyone suspicious hanging about. The stupid cow. She was just asking for trouble cutting through those woods - you get flashers and God knows what in places like that.”

  “She was late for work so she took a shortcut,” explained Webster. “She was afraid Baskin would give her the push.”