A Touch Of Frost (30 page)

She nodded. “I’ll put them to bed in a minute.”

The door buzzer sounded. At bloody last, he thought. “My colleague with your neighbour,” he told her. “We thought you might need company.” As she started to protest, he added, “You can always send her away if you don’t want her.”

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I’m glad it was you.”

He gave her a hug, then made his way to the front door. Coats and hats were hanging from hooks in a recess under the stairs, and on the end hook was Dave Shelby’s police greatcoat. Looking back to ensure the kitchen door was shut, he quickly went through the pockets, heaving a sigh of relief as his fingers closed around the packet of photographs. He slipped it in his mac pocket, then opened the front door to Webster and a fat, motherly-looking woman from next door. “She’s in the kitchen,” he whispered, letting the woman squeeze past.

“How did she take it?” Webster asked when they were back in the car.

“Bloody badly,” said Frost. “It seems Shelby was the world’s greatest husband—never even looked at another woman in his life.” He didn’t tell Webster about the photographs.

Webster turned the key in the ignition. “Back to the station?”

Frost shook his head. “I don’t think I could stand it, son. All the bloody gloom. We’ve had all of Inspector Allen’s cases dumped on us, so let’s nip over to the hospital and chat up that poor tart who didn’t get raped last night.”

By now Webster needed no directions to find his way to the hospital. Indeed, so automatic was his driving that he suddenly realized his head was dropping and had to jerk it up to stop himself from falling asleep. He wound down the window and let the slap of cold air keep him awake.

Inside the hospital it was the same round of long, lonely corridors, the same smell of antiseptic and stale cooking. They passed a young nurse, a stray wisp of hair over her forehead, scurrying off on some errand. She was the same nurse Dave Shelby had been chatting up the night before. She had now lost forever her chance of appearing in his photographic collection.

Paula Grey was in Sinclair Ward. Frost didn’t need to ask the way. His wife had been in Sinclair Ward. His wife! He felt guilty that he couldn’t honestly mourn her death. Everyone should have somebody who would grieve at their passing. Even poor Ben Cornish.

The night sister was expecting them and pointed to a bed by a window. Paula Grey was sitting up, propped by two stiffly starched hospital pillows which crackled as she moved. The flesh around her eyes was purple and puffy. Below the eyes, her face was encased in a mask of bandages with a slit for her mouth. A cigarette poked through the slit and she puffed away at it greedily. Her bedside cabinet was loaded with a bowl of fruit and a vase of bronze-coloured chrysanthemums which propped up a card reading
Get well soon, Paula—from the girls at The Coconut Grove
. The blackened eyes narrowed suspiciously as the two men approached.

“Present from Mr. Baskin?” asked Frost, nodding at the fruit as he drew up a chair to the side of the bed.

The cigarette waggled furiously. “Baskin? That lousy git? He wouldn’t make you a present of the time of day. So who the hell are you?”

“Frost, Detective Inspector Frost. Old Father Time at my side is Detective Constable Webster. You’re not going to be able to eat that fruit with a broken jaw are you, Paula?”

She waved a hand toward the dish. “Help yourself.”

Webster didn’t want anything. Frost took a banana and began peeling it. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about last night.”

“I’ve already told everything to Old Misery Guts.”

“Old Misery Guts is off the case. It’s mine now,” explained Frost. “Tell me what happened.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I walked through the woods, I got jumped on. But I’ll tell you this. The bastard had better not try it again. I’ll be ready for him.” She reached for her locker and took out a flick knife. “I’ll rip the bastard to pieces! I’ll emasculate him!” She said it with such vehemence that Frost was quite prepared to believe her.

“Did you see him? Would you know him again? It would be a pity if you cut the wrong man’s dick off.”

“That’s the trouble: I never saw the sod. He jumped me from behind.”

“But you must have some idea,” insisted the inspector. “Was he young and well built like me, or old and decrepit like George Bernard Shaw here?”

Not more bloody beard jokes, fumed Webster, refusing even a token smile. The blackened eyes turned toward him and a long stream of smoke was ejected from the slit in the bandages.

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” said Paula.

“If you like them hairy,” said Frost, hiding the banana skin behind the flower vase. “But you’ve got to help us, Paula love. You’re his sixth victim, and we haven’t had one decent description. For all we know he’s a one-legged Chinaman. Now think, love. Any little clue?”

She bowed her head in thought, then shook it negatively. “Sorry.”

“Then tell us, in detail, what happened. It might bring something back.”

“I’m late for my spot at the club. I’m legging it as fast as I can, taking the shortcut through the woods. Suddenly, something black is chucked over my face.”

“A cloth?” asked Frost.

“No, plastic of some sort. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I try to scream but hands go round my throat and start squeezing. I reach up to his face, ready to claw his bleeding eyes out, but he squeezes harder and I’m choking. Then I passed out.”

“You say you reached for his face?” asked Frost excitedly. “Was he hairy like my colleague, or nice and clean-shaven like me?”

“He had a mask on—plastic of some kind. All I could feel was plastic. He even had plastic gloves on his hands.” She sunk back on the pillow. “They won’t let me have a mirror. How bad is my face?”

“It looks like a baboon’s backside,” said Frost, bluntly, “but it will heal. Now what about your attacker? Did he have any minor blemishes that might help us identify him, such as a wooden leg, or a plastic dick, or a mechanical appliance?”

The cigarette was threatening to set fire to the bandages. She took it from her mouth and dropped it into the flower vase. A woman after my own heart, thought Frost.

She thought for a while. “His trousers,” she said. “There was something about them.”

“What about them?” asked Frost quickly.

“I could be wrong. It was as I was passing out. I reached down . . . to grab him, you know. I got the impression his trousers were made of some sort of towelling . . .

Frost sat up excitedly. This was something new. “Like jogging trousers, or part of a track suit?”

“Could be,” she said.

“Anything else?”

“Sorry,” she said, sounding tired. “I can’t help any more. You wouldn’t have a fag on you by any chance?”

Frost located her mouth through the slit and pushed a cigarette in. He lit it for her. “You know he didn’t rape you?”

“Yes. That’s the final bloody insult, that is.” She inhaled deeply and coughed, her head banging on the pillow. “I can’t tell you anything else.”

“You’ve been a big help,” said Frost, standing up. “If anything comes to mind, here’s my card.” He laid a grimy card next to the one from the girls at The Coconut Grove. “And here’s some fags.” A fresh packet was pressed into her hand. He waved goodbye and was halfway down the ward when he remembered something else he had wanted to ask her. Telling Webster to wait, he ambled back to the bed.

“Quick,” she said, pulling back the clothes, “get in before Sister comes back.”

He grinned. “If only I had the time, love, I’d be in there like a ferret up a rabbit hole. Couple of quick questions. You live in the same flats as Julie King, don’t you?”

“That’s right. Why?”

“Happen to know if she was in last night?”

“Yes. She had her posh boyfriend with her—that MP’s stuck-up son. I happened to look out of my window about sixish and saw his car pull up.”

“What time did you leave for The Coconut Crove?”

She tapped her chin as she thought. “About ten to eleven.”

“And was Roger Miller still there when you left?”

“As far as I know.”

“Oh,” said Frost, sounding disappointed.

“Julie went out, of course, but Roger didn’t.”

Frost felt his heart misfire a couple of times before it started beating faster. If Julie had gone out, she could no longer alibi her boyfriend. “How do you know she went out?”

“I saw her, didn’t I? I was dashing off down the street, worried about being late and what bastard Baskin would say, when Julie roared past in that Jag.”

“Roger’s Jag?”

“Yes.”

“Was Roger with her?”

“No, only Julie. I yelled after her, hoping for a lift, but she didn’t hear me. If she had, I wouldn’t be in this lousy place.”

“You saw Julie driving off in Roger Miller’s car about ten to eleven last night?” repeated Frost, anxious there should be no misunderstanding.

She nodded. “How many more bleeding times?”

Frost beamed with delight. “Paula, my love, if ever you feel like being raped again, any hour of the day or night, just give me a ring and I’ll be right over.”

He clattered off down the ward and grabbed Webster’s arm, urging him to move faster as he explained the latest development. As soon as they were back in the car he radioed through to Control, requesting that Julie King be brought in for questioning immediately.

Frost could smell her loin-tickling perfume the minute he entered the lobby. It made him forget the misery of the previous few hours.

“She’s in the interview room,” called Bill Wells, ruling a line under the previous entry in the Incident Book. “Jordan and Simms have just brought her in.”

Webster was sent to relieve the two uniformed men from their arduous task of keeping an eye on Julie King while Frost shuffled over to the station sergeant.

“She’s a nice bit of crumpet,” commented Wells.

“Yes,” agreed Frost. “So long as you don’t mind getting run over. Any progress with the murder investigation?”

Wells shook his head sadly. “That was a lousy business, Jack. A damn fine officer.”

“Yes,” muttered Frost flatly. “Pity he wasn’t so bloody good while he was still alive. So Allen hasn’t got anywhere yet?”

“He’s put an all-stations alert out for Stan Eustace. We’ll get him.”

“Assuming he did it,” said Frost, sounding doubtful.

Wells looked surprised. “Mr. Allen is convinced of it.”

“Ah, well,” sniffed Frost, “that’s the end of it, isn’t it? We needn’t bother with a trial.”

“The men were asking about their overtime,” said Wells, abruptly changing the subject.

“It’s my number-one priority,” said Frost, swinging his scarf around his head like a lasso and heading for the interview room and Miss Julie King. He almost made it.

“Mr. Frost!” It was Mullett, his face sombre.

What now? thought Frost. He dived in first with the good news. “We’ve learned Roger Miller wasn’t driving the hit-and-run car, sir. It was his girl friend. We’ve brought her in for questioning.”

Mullett twitched a smile. “That’s excellent news, Inspector. Sir Charles will be delighted.” The smile twitched off. “Did you see Mrs. Shelby?”

“Yes, sir. I broke the news.”

“How is she taking it?”

“She’s shattered, sir. I’ve arranged for a man to stand guard outside the house to keep the TV and press away.”

Mullett’s lips tightened. “Of course, Frost, quite right.” He bowed his head sadly and studied his shoes. “We’ll miss him, Frost. A damn fine officer.”

“So everyone keeps telling me, sir,” said Frost, thinking of all the colour photographs, most of which were taken when Shelby was supposed to be on duty. He turned to go, but he wasn’t quick enough. Mullett still had one more bullet left to fire.

“Did the crime statistics go off?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Frost, instantly regretting the lie. Mullett was in such a good mood about Roger Miller he might well have overlooked the truth.

In the interview room Julie King, wearing orange slacks, a yellow jumper, and a white beret, sat on the edge of one of the hard chairs, her fake leopard-skin coat slung over the back. She smouldered, her cigarette smouldered, and her orange-painted nails seemed ready to claw at the slightest provocation. And provocation was the only thing not denied her. They wouldn’t let her phone Roger, they wouldn’t tell her what it was about, and this bearded wonder wouldn’t even talk to her. He just stood leaning against the wall, his eyes half closed, ignoring all her questions. She was all ready to explode when in came Scarface, as scruffy as ever, a long scarf sweeping the floor as it trailed behind him.

“Why am I here?” she demanded. “No-one’s said a damn word. What is this, the bloody Gestapo?”

“A few questions, fraulein,” said Frost, settling himself down at the table and arranging his cigarettes and matches within easy reach.

She consulted her jewelled wristwatch. “I’m due at the club in thirty-five minutes.”

Frost flicked a match into life with his thumbnail and lit up. “I don’t think you’re going to make it, Miss King. We’ve found out you’ve been telling us fibs.”

She dug into her handbag for a nail file and began rasping away a couple of inches of orange nail. “Everything in my statement was true. Roger was with me all the time.”

A theatrical sigh from Frost. “You’d better tell her, Constable. I don’t like breaking bad news to girls with moles on their behinds.”

Webster dragged a chair over and sat beside her. “You were driving the Jag, miss, not Roger Miller.”

She studied her nails and decided some minor adjustments were necessary. She filed carefully. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were seen driving the Jaguar.”

“Was I?” She blew away a puff of orange dust.

“Yes,” said Webster.

She gave him a sweet, pitying smile. “You must think I’m bleeding stupid. No-one saw me getting in the car for the simple reason I wasn’t in it.” She dropped the file in her handbag and snapped it shut. “I’m not obliged to stay here, and you have no right to keep me.” She stood up. “I’ll find my own way out.”