Baskin was now pulling himself together. He gulped down the whisky, hurled the sodden handkerchief into the wastepaper basket, and found himself a clean one in his desk drawer. “You bastards will pay for this. I’m suing you, I’m suing that sod outside, and I’m suing the whole bloody police force from the Home Secretary downward.” He picked up his phone and began dialling the number of his solicitor. Frost reached out and pressed down on the cradle, cutting him off.
“Forget it, Harry.”
“Forget it?” shrieked Baskin. “No bloody way!” He dragged a mirror from his desk drawer and examined the damage to his face. “Look what that bastard has done to me.”
“No worse than what you did to your security guard last night,” murmured Frost. “So let’s say this evens the score.”
Baskin shook his head so firmly it started his nose bleeding again. “No way, Inspector. That gorilla of yours has gone too far this time.” He moved the phone from Frost’s reach. “I am now going to phone my solicitor and instruct him to institute proceedings.”
Now it was the inspector’s turn to shake his head. “No you won’t, Harry. If you attempt to sue my detective constable for assault, I shall be reluctantly forced to lie my head off. I’ll swear on oath that you attacked him first and that he was compelled to act in self-defence. It’ll be my word against yours - the word of a heroic police officer with the George Cross against the word of a strip-club owner who deflowers fifteen-year-old schoolgirls.”
Baskin stared at Frost as if the man had gone mad. “Fifteen-year-old schoolgirls? What the hell are you going on about?”
In answer, Frost produced the coloured school photograph, pushed it, facedown, across the desk, then flipped it over as if it were the final ace to complete his running flush. “That stripper you’ve been bedding, Harry - her name is Karen Dawson. She’s a schoolgirl, and she’s fifteen years old.”
Baskin jabbed a finger at the photograph, then snatched it back as if it had come into contact with something red-hot. He looked pleadingly at Frost for some indication that it was all a mistake. “Fifteen? I don’t believe it.”
“A week ago today she was only fourteen, Harry. I reckon you’re good for at least seven years. The courts hate child molesters. But from what I saw this afternoon, I’ve no doubt she was worth it.”
Harry found a clean section of his handkerchief and used it to mop the sweat from his forehead. Refilling his glass, he downed the contents in one gulp. “You’ve got to believe me Mr. Frost, I had no idea. Blimey, who could tell by looking at her? I’ve seen twenty-eight-year-old women with smaller knockers than she’s got.”
“You don’t tell a lady’s age by the size of her knockers, Harry. That’s a fundamental principle of English criminal law.” As the whisky bottle was handy, Frost topped up his own glass. “Cheers.”
“Look,” said Baskin, ‘this is all a silly misunderstanding. I’m sure there’s some way of clearing it all up.” As he spoke, he brought out a fat, bulging wallet and riffled his thumb significantly through a hefty chunk of fifty-pound notes.
Frost stiffened. “Aren’t you in enough bloody trouble, Harry?”
The wallet was hastily replaced. “You’ve got to get me off the hook, Mr. Frost.”
Head on one side, lips pursed, Frost pretended to give it some thought. “There’s the question of this assault charge you’re going to make against my constable.”
“What assault charge?” asked Baskin, sounding sincerely puzzled. “I tripped and banged my nose on the wall.”
“No more taking the law into your own hands with your security men? We want Tommy Croll in one usable piece.”
His palms spread upward, Baskin said, “On my word of honour.”
“And lastly,” said Frost, ‘that poor slag of a stripper who got herself beaten up in the woods. It would be a noble gesture if you kept her on your payroll until she was well enough to work again.”
“Now hold hard,” Baskin protested. “That could take ages . . . months.”
"But nowhere near as long as seven years,” Frost pointed out.
A deep sigh of total surrender. “All right. I’ll pay her.”
Frost drained his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up. “I can’t make any promises, Harry. I shall simply tell the girl’s parents that she applied for an audition here as a dancer and that’s where we picked her up. I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea the girl will keep her mouth shut, but there’s no way I can force her.”
“I owe you one,” said Baskin.
“Where do I find the girl?” asked Frost.
“In her dressing room, first left, the end of the corridor.”
Webster was waiting outside, still glowering but inwardly feeling sick in the knowledge that this was the end of his career in the force. Why, oh why, couldn’t he learn to control his temper? As Frost approached he glared at him with all the bitter resentment of a man who knows he is completely in the wrong. Let him say one word, just one bloody word, he thought.
With a curt jerk of his head, Frost ordered the constable to follow him. When at last he spoke, the rebuke was fairly mild. “That was bloody stupid, son.”
“Thank you, I’ve worked that out for myself,” snarled Webster. “I suppose you can’t wait to report me to Mullett?”
“Report what to Mullett?” asked Frost. “I saw nothing. Baskin tells me he tripped and banged his nose against the wall. From the size of his hooter I’m inclined to believe that’s more than possible.”
At first he couldn’t take in what the inspector was saying. In that one punch he was sure he had thrown everything away, but suddenly, with his feet on the gallows trap, the last-minute reprieve. Relief made sweat trickle coldly down his back. He wanted to thank Frost but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “How did you get Baskin to agree to that?”
"By telling him we wouldn’t bring any charges in respect of the girl.”
Webster stopped dead in his tracks. “No charges? After what he’s done? He’s corrupted a juvenile.”
“Corrupted?” repeated Frost. “Do you really think Baskin was the first? Your sweet, innocent fifteen-year-old virgin has been on the pill for God knows how long . . .”
Webster stared at him blankly. “On the pill . . .”
“Yes, son. I found the packet in her bedroom last night. They were prescribed for the mother, who must have passed them on to Karen.”
Webster was stunned. “You never told me?”
“I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case, son. The kid was missing. We were called in to find her. Anything else was between her and her mother. Ah, this must be her dressing room.”
They had turned the corner and were in a short corridor with three doors leading off it. One door was marked Staff Toilets - Men, another Staff Toilets - Women and the door in between, Artists’ Dressing Room. The glamour of show business, thought Frost. “Right, son. She’s inside. Go and get her.” He stepped back.
Webster rapped on the door.
“Yes,” called a girl’s voice.
“Karen, it’s the police.”
Frost groaned. Webster shouldn’t have given the game away. He should have barged straight in and grabbed her. His fears were confirmed by a scuffling sound from inside the dressing room, then two loud clicks as the door bolts were rammed home.
“It’s the police, Karen,” repeated Webster, banging on the door. “Open up.”
“Piss off,” screamed the young schoolgirl.
“Kick the door in,” ordered Frost. “Harry Baskin won’t mind.”
Webster stepped back and kicked, his toe landing just below the door handle. One kick was enough. The door crashed back. He stepped inside a cheerless room with a long, greasy finger marked mirror above a Formica ledge that ran the length of one wall. He couldn’t see Karen. Then someone in the mirror moved. He spun around and there was the girl, stark naked, her clothes bundled in her hand, moving quickly to the door. He reached forward to grab a
t her. She hurled the clothes in his face, then her knee came up savagely. He doubled up, breathless, almost screaming with pain. Sweet, innocent Karen certainly knew how to hurt a man! He reached out blindly and touched naked flesh, then jerked his head back as long red fingernails clawed bloodied lines down his face. He clutched her wrists, pulling her hands away, finding enough breath to yelp in agony as her teeth sank into his arm.
“I could do with some help, Inspector,” he roared, shaking his wrist free of teeth.
Frost’s head poked around the door, saw the problem, and hastily retreated. “Stand guard outside, son. I’ll send for a woman officer.”
Some fourteen minutes later Dave Shelby’s patrol car nosed its way to the club entrance, and Shelby, followed by detective constable Susan Harvey, climbed out. They sauntered across to the reception lobby where Frost was waiting.
“Here we are, Inspector,” Shelby announced. “One lady police officer delivered safe and sound, as requested.”
“Thank you, Constable,” said Frost coldly, not responding to Shelby’s jocular manner. He was going to have a few quiet words with him when he got him on his own, words that would knock the cockiness out of him.
Unabashed, Shelby asked, “You’re not on this rape inquiry, are you, sir?”
“No,” replied Frost. “If you want to confess you’ll have to see Mr. Allen.”
Shelby flipped open his notebook. “Can I give you the details? I know who made that anonymous phone call last night. I’ve just interviewed him.”
Frost waved the notebook away. “Give it to Mr. Allen. I’m up to my armpits in naked fifteen-year-old girls at the moment.”
“Some people have all the luck,” called Shelby, quickly walking back to his car.
Frost watched him go. “He’s in a hurry. I’d have thought naked fifteen-year-olds were right up his street.” He turned to the woman constable. “Did he manage to keep his hands off you, Sue?”
She smiled. “He knows better than to try anything with me.”
Frost raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I’ve summed you up all wrong then, Sue girl. I’d have thought one tickle of his Errol Flynn moustache on your cheek and you wouldn’t be able to get your knickers off fast enough.”
Susan grinned. “What’s the problem, sir?”
He filled her in on the details, then took her back to the dressing room where the wounded Webster, patiently mounting guard, managed a grin of delight when he saw Susan. “Karen’s wedged the chair against the door handle,” he told them.
Susan tried the handle and banged on the door. “Karen, I’m a police officer. Open up.”
“Piss off,” called the girl.
“That’s French for “go away”,” explained Frost. “Boot it in again, son.”
The door crashed back from the onslaught. Karen, her eyes blazing, fingernails clawed, was crouching, ready to meet them, like a karate fighter. She was still stark naked and was not going to let them take her without a fight.
Sue moved into the room; the girl lunged forward to meet her. At the last moment, the woman officer sidestepped and stabbed out her foot to catch the girl on the ankle, sending her sprawling to the floor. Then Sue was down on her, her knee in the girl’s back, her hand forcing the girl’s arm high above her shoulder blades. All Karen could do was scream obscenities and pound the floor impotently with her free hand.
“You can either get dressed,” said the woman detective pleasantly, ‘or I can handcuff you and take you out to the car as you are. Which is it to be?”
To Frost’s disappointment, Karen agreed to get dressed.
A quick phone call to Clare Dawson before the runaway was returned. Frost was hoping she could get her husband out of the house so mother and daughter could get their stories sorted out. When they arrived Max Dawson was out, cruising the streets, looking for his daughter, and wouldn’t be back for half an hour. Apparently his wife hadn’t yet passed on the good news, wanting to surprise him on his return.
With sulky defiance, Karen shrugged off her mother’s attempts to make a fuss of her and just stood staring, with a sly, superior, knowing smile on her face, the smile of one who has power over another. Just wait until my daddy comes home, the smile said. Just wait until I tell him why I ran away.
But Clare, from long practice, knew just how to handle her daughter. “Do you still want to go to ballet school, darling?”
Instantly, Karen changed back to the fifteen-year-old, the dance-mad schoolgirl, her eyes bright with excitement. “It’s what I want more than anything, Mummy.”
“I think it can be arranged,” said Clare confidently.
“But Daddy has always said no.”
“You leave your father to me,” replied her mother. “But first we’d better have a little chat so we can explain to him what’s been going on.”
Clare showed them to the front door. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. Frost grunted his acknowledgement and walked with Susan to the car. As Webster followed, Clare took his hand and gave it a gentle, conspiratorial squeeze, her finger caressing his palm. “I’m alone here most afternoons,” she whispered. “Always glad of a bit of company.”
As he joined the others in the car, Webster didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or flattered. But he did know it was the best offer he’d had since he arrived in Denton.
“You look happy, son,” commented Frost as Webster slid in behind the steering wheel. “Your beard’s gone all stiff.”
Wednesday day shift (6)
The time had wormed its way around to three o’clock. None of them had eaten, so they took a meal break at a little back-street cafe. The food wasn’t up to much, but it was a happy time for Webster, who found he was hitting it off with Susan Harvey.
It was ten past four as they climbed back into the car. Webster, hoping the woman detective would sit next to him, was disappointed when she and Frost settled themselves down in the back seat. “The cop shop please, driver,” said Frost grandly, ‘and go the pretty way round via the gasworks.” Webster acknowledged the order with a petulant grunt. Frost’s pathetic attempts at humour had long worn paper-thin as far as he was concerned.
“Control to all units in the Denton area.”
Webster turned up the volume.
“Armed robbery at Glickman’s pawnbrokers, 23 North Street. Owner reported shot. Charlie Alpha in attendance but assistance urgently required.”
Frost leaned over to snatch up the handset. “Hello, Control. Frost here. We’re within two minutes of North Street. On our way. Over.”
Webster slammed the car around corners and in and out of back streets as he tried to meet the inspector’s rash and impossible estimate of two minutes. Frost and the girl were sent sliding from one side of the car to the other, their movements echoed by Frost’s spare pair of Wellington boots on the back ledge. Reaching the High Street, they slowed down to let Susan off, then roared away to North Street, a side-turning off Bath Road.
“Left here,” barked Frost. The Cortina nosed into North Street and pulled up abruptly behind area car Charlie Alpha.
The monotonous shrill of an alarm bell cut through the air. A small crowd of sightseers was being pushed away from the entrance to a shuttered shop by a uniformed police constable. Above the shop door a stout iron bracket supported the universal pawnbrokers’ trademark, three brass balls. A fading painted wooden sign announced s. glickman, jeweller and pawnbroker. The premises had a shabby, down-at-heel appearance and didn’t look nearly prosperous enough to warrant the attention of an armed robber.
They darted from the car to the shop, the uniformed man giving a nod of recognition to the inspector. Inside, their feet scrunched over shards of broken glass that powdered the carpet.
It was a tiny, dingy shop. A couple of paces and they were at a glass-fronted counter, its shelves stripped bare of the jewellery it once held. On the wall, to the left of the counter, a shattered glass showcase containing a mess of broken glass, cheap watches, and cigarette lighte
rs. The wall showcase to the right of the counter contained nine-carat gold chains and pendants and appeared to be untouched.
The fat man in the shiny blue-serge suit dabbing blood from his face was Sammy Glickman, the owner. Balding, middle-aged, tiny shifty eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, and a few more chins than the usual allowance, Glickman was slumped on a chair in front of his counter. A police officer, PC Keith Sutton, was questioning him, jotting down his replies.
The sound of the alarm bell was magnified in the enclosed space of the shop. “Can’t someone turn that bloody thing off?” pleaded Frost.
Holding his now crimson and soggy handkerchief tightly against his forehead, the pawnbroker fished a bunch of keys from his pocket, sorted one out, and offered it to Webster. “There’s a switch under the counter . . . left-hand side.”
Webster killed the alarm. It died immediately but the ghost echo of its high-pitched ringing still scratched at their ears.
The shop was too small to hold four men comfortably, so Frost instructed Webster to go with the other officer and start knocking at doors to find out if anyone saw anything. “Have a look in the road for a licence plate,” he called. “You never know your luck.”
There was now room to move and Frost was able to get close enough to the pawnbroker to examine his injuries.The forehead wound was little more than a deep cut. “The radio reported you were shot, Sammy,” said Frost, sounding disappointed. “I was expecting to find you with your head blown off.”
“Another couple of inches and it could have been, Mr. Frost,” Glickman replied.
“I’ve sent for an ambulance, Inspector,” said Sutton, ‘but it’s not very serious.”
The eyes behind the thick lenses focused indignantly on the constable. “Not very serious? I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. He fired straight at me.”
“He missed you, though, didn’t he?” observed Frost, moving behind the counter to poke at the damaged showcase. “And you’re hardly a small target.” Amongst the fragments of shattered glass and the cigarette lighters he spotted some flattened lead pellets. He picked one up with his finger and thumb and displayed it to the constable.
Frost 2 - A Touch Of Frost Page 20