A Touch of Frost djf-2 Page 8

  Indignantly, the little man pulled himself up to his full height. “Are you questioning my competence, Inspector? I have examined her. There are definitely no signs of recent sexual congress, nor of any attempt of forced sexual congress. You obviously cannot take in what I am saying, so you will please excuse me. I have other patients to attend to.” He pushed past them, bustling out of the ward, his white coat flapping behind him.

  Frost scratched his head and tried to make sense of this unexpected development. “Not raped? He stripped her off but didn’t rape her. It’s like unwrapping your Mars bar then not eating it.”

  “Perhaps he was disturbed before he could actually do it,” suggested Webster.

  “Disturbed?”

  “The bloke who made the anonymous phone call — perhaps he barged in on them at the crucial moment?”

  Frost rubbed his chin. “I can’t buy that, son. I had a quick look at her clothes. There was no blood on them, which means he kicked and punched her after he’d stripped her. If he had time to kick her, he had bags of time for the old sexual congress.” He shrugged. “Still, it’s not our case anymore. Let Inspector Allen solve it.”

  The ward door was barged open by a wheeled stretcher manoeuvred by a theatre orderly who had come to collect the patient for surgery. Through the open door Frost suddenly spotted Detective Inspector Allen, with Sergeant Ingram at his side, purposefully advancing toward the ward. He had no wish to be around when Allen learned of his foul-up with the victim’s age, so he quickly looked for a way of escape. With a quick wave to Sue, he hustled Webster through a rear door, down some dimly lit stone stairs, then along another empty, winding corridor.

  “You seem to know your way about,” commented Webster.

  “My wife was in here,” explained Frost. “I used to come every day.”

  The detective constable remembered being told that Frost’s wife had died recently and thought it best not to ask further questions. They turned right into the main causeway, which had wards leading off from either side.

  Frost stopped and pointed. “Look! The place is crawling with filth tonight.”

  Webster saw a young police constable, dark curly hair, small moustache, leaning against the wall, engaged in animated conversation with a ridiculously young night nurse who had a wisp of stray hair escaping from her cap. Webster scratched his memory for the man’s name; he had been introduced to so many people. Then he remembered. Dave Shelby, married with two young children but with the reputation of being woman-mad, or ‘crumpet-happy,” as Frost had crudely termed it.

  Catching sight of the inspector bearing down on him, Shelby quickly whispered something to the girl, making her blush, then in a loud voice, said, “Thank you very much, Nurse.” She hurried off, giving an apologetic smile to Frost as she passed.

  “Stay away from him, love,” Frost called after her. “He meets men in toilets after dark.” To Shelby, he said, “You want to try and stay off it for five minutes, son it can make you go blind.”

  Shelby grinned nervously. “Just passing the time, sir. I’m a respectable married man.”

  “So was Dr. Crippen,” sniffed Frost. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”

  Shelby jerked his thumb at the glass-ported swing doors behind him.

  “I’m with the hit-and-run victim. They’re operating on him now.”

  Frost squinted through one of the portholes. Not much to see. A huddle of green-robed figures, working silently. One of the robes was smeared with blood.

  “Rather him than me. It looks like an abattoir in there.”

  He looked over Shelby’s shoulder. Farther down the corridor all alone, an old lady was sitting. She looked bewildered and frightened.

  “That’s the victim’s wife,” whispered Shelby. “She slept through it all. Didn’t even know her husband had got out of bed until a neighbour knocked to tell her he’d been run over.”

  ‘ Poor old cow,” muttered Frost. “What are his chances?”

  Shelby gave a hopeless shrug. “His skull is smashed, he’s hemorrhaging internally, and he’s seventy-eight years old.”

  “The car that hit him was supposed to have shed its licence plate,” said Frost. “Have we traced the driver yet?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’m not really on this one. Mr. Allen pulled the area car off to help with the search for the rapist.”

  “That reminds me said Frost, staring closely at him have you been up to your larks tonight?”

  Shelby started visibly. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “The woman who was attacked. You haven’t been in Denton Woods tonight with your little truncheon at the ready?”

  A wave of relief seemed to wash over the constable. “No, sir,” he said, forcing a smile. “It wasn’t me.”

  But you have been up to something, my lad, thought Frost, and for a minute you thought I was on to it. Well, I’m not on to it. I’m not that clever… I can’t even tell the difference between a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl and a thirty-year-old woman.

  They had to pass the old lady on their way out to the car. She reached up and clutched at Frost’s arm. “My husband she said they’re operating on him. He is going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  “Of course he is,” beamed Frost. “He’s going to be fine.” He gave her a reassuring pat.

  They walked on.

  “Why raise her hopes?” asked Webster. “He’s going to die.”

  “Then you bloody tell her,” said Frost.

  Tuesday night shift (5)

  “I can’t give you any sort of description,” said the man. “I never saw him.”

  “You must have seen something,” said Wells. “How are we supposed to arrest him if we don’t know what he looks like?”

  The phone rang.

  “Answer that, would you Ridley,” yelled Sergeant Wells. “I’m attending to someone.”

  The man he was attending to had been robbed at knife-point while drawing cash from the automatic cash dispenser at Bennington’s Bank. “He stuck a knife in my back,” said the complainant, ‘then he grabbed the money and ran. By the time I’d plucked up courage to look around, he’d gone.”

  “Was he short, tall, fat, thin, white, yellow, or what?” asked Wells.

  “All I can tell you is he was a bloody fast runner,” said the man. “He went off with my money like a dose of salts.”

  The phone kept ringing.

  “Excuse me a moment, sir,” said Wells. He pushed open the door to the corridor and shouted, “Ridley!”

  The toilet gurgled and roared, then Ridley appeared, doing up his belt.

  “The bloody phone’s ringing,” snapped Wells. “You know I’m here on my own.”

  “I’m entitled to go to the toilet, aren’t I?” argued the constable.

  “Not when we’re short-staffed, you’re not.” He turned back to the man.

  “And how much did you say was taken, Mr. Skinner?”

  “Forty-five pounds. Nine five-pound notes.”

  “Any idea where Mr. Frost is?” called Ridley, holding the mouthpiece against his chest.

  “You’re on Control,” snapped Wells. “You’re supposed to know where everyone is.” It was really getting far too much. Every available man had been commandeered by Mr. Allen after the rape attempt in Denton Woods. Even young Collier had been roped in, leaving only Wells and the controller, PC Ridley, to run the entire station. He wasn’t good enough to go to their lousy party, but he was good enough to run a division almost single-handed.

  “There’s been a robbery and a coshing over at The Coconut Grove. They got away with more than five thousand quid.”

  “Hard bloody luck,” said Wells. “This gentleman’s lost forty-five pounds, and he was here first.”

  The lobby doors crashed back on their hinges, and in bounded Frost in his party suit with the sodden trouser legs and his everyday mac and scarf. With him was the new bloke, the bearded ex-inspector Webster.

  Ridley waved the phone. “Mr. Frost!
”

  While Webster went on to the office to make a start on the crime statistics, Frost ambled over to Ridley. “Yes, Constable?”

  “Robbery at The Coconut Grove, Mr. Frost.”

  “Sorry, I’m only doing bodies down public lavatories tonight,” replied the inspector. At Ridley’s look of reproach, he sighed and said, “All right. Take the details.” He crossed to the corridor and yelled, “Webster! We’re going out again.” Then he caught sight of Wells struggling to get a report form into the typewriter. “Everything all right, Sergeant?”

  “No, it bloody well isn’t,” snarled Wells, ‘and I’m too busy for small talk.”

  “I’ve seen a lady with rouged nipples,” said Frost.

  “Are you going to take my details?” demanded the man who had been robbed.

  “Just a moment, sir,” said Wells, waving him off as if he were intruding on a private conversation. “You saw what Jack…?”

  Before it had time to blink at being brought out into the light, the crime statistics return was stuffed back into the filing cabinet and Webster was once again behind the wheel of the Ford Cortina, driving off into the night. As the car skirted the woods, they could see the firefly dots of torches dancing among the trees, where Allen’s team continued its painstaking search.

  The Coconut Grove was part of a large leisure complex development on the outskirts of Denton, just north of the woods. It consisted of clubs, bars, restaurants, bingo halls, a theatre, a sports pavillion, and myriad other amenities. The police suspected that it catered for the odd spot of prostitution on the side, but they hadn’t been able to prove anything. It was run by a dubious character called Harry Baskin whose other enterprises included a chain of betting shops.

  Baskin had bought the land cheap. No-one thought he’d get planning permission for his leisure complex because, under the new town development plan, the area was designated for agricultural purposes only. But, to everyone’s astonishment, planning permission was granted. A couple of months later, the chairman of the planning committee resigned and retired to the

  Bahamas. Some cynics unkindly suggested that these two events were connected, but no-one said so to Baskin. People who got on the wrong side of Harry Baskin suddenly found they had become extremely accident-prone.

  Harry Baskin! Webster wondered where he had heard that name before?

  “He runs some betting shops, doesn’t he?”

  Frost nodded.” He has thirty-seven all over the country. He also has subtle ways of making reluctant losers pay up. The punter wakes up one morning to find his dog’s had its throat cut, or that his car has mysteriously self-combusted… little nudges like that. No-one owes Harry money for long.”

  Leaving the main road, they followed large illuminated signs which beckoned this way to den ton fabulous leisure complex. A sharp turn, and there it was, a cluster of buildings in gleaming black-and-white mock marble, spangled with tasteful neon signs… Bingo… Fish and Chips… Striptease. Most of the satellite buildings were in darkness, but Frost steered Webster across a car park to the rear section, which a discreet blue neon sign proclaimed to be the coconut grove.

  They went through revolving doors into a dimly lit foyer where their way was barred by a wall of flesh, the bouncer, a hefty, ex-wrestler in evening dress. He had been watching the approach of the mud-splattered Ford and had seen the two men get out. His orders from Mr. Baskin were to exclude potential troublemakers, and these two were trouble if ever he’d seen it, especially the load of rough in the crumpled mac.

  “Sorry, gentlemen. Members only…” he began, moving forward to urge them back through the exit doors.

  “American Express,” said Frost, waving his warrant card under the man’s nose. “Tell Harry Baskin the filth are here.”

  The bouncer muttered a few words into the house phone, then led them through a passage to a door marked Private… No Admittance. Above the door an illuminated sign in red announced Engaged… Do Not Enter. The bouncer rapped with his knuckles. The sign turned green and said Please Enter.

  Baskin, dark and swarthy, in his late thirties, swivelled morosely from side to side behind a huge desk which contained nothing but the remains of a smoked-salmon sandwich. He wore a midnight-blue evening suit, the sleeves of the coat pulled back slightly to ensure an unrestricted view of oversized solid gold cuff links, which clanked on his wrists like shackles. Everyone’s in evening dress tonight but me, thought Frost, his trousers still damp about his ankles, his shoes squelching slightly as he walked.

  On the walnut-veneered wall behind Baskin were framed and signed photographs of the various celebrities who had visited the leisure complex boxers, film stars, pop stars their arms around, shaking hands with, or handing charity cheques to a smiling Harry Baskin. But he wasn’t smiling now. His face was black with anger and furrowed in a frown that could give one of Webster’s a hundred-yard start and still romp home. He didn’t seem very pleased to see Frost.

  “Oh, it’s you, Inspector!”

  “I’m afraid so, Harry,” acknowledged Frost, sitting uninvited in the visitor’s armchair and rubbing his legs against the upholstery to dry his trousers. “All the good cops are busy on a rape case. A woman attacked in the woods earlier tonight I hope you’ve got a cast-iron alibi?”

  “Do me a favour!” pleaded Baskin, the cufflinks rattling as he flicked a hand to dismiss the bouncer. “I can get all the crumpet I want without moving from this desk. They come knocking on my door begging for it.” He jettisoned the remains of the sandwich into a bin. “I’ve had one hell of a night. First the bloody stripper doesn’t turn up, then the so-called cordon bleu chef burns the bloody meat pies, and lastly, this stinking robbery. So forgive me if I find it hard to raise a smile.” He jabbed a finger in Webster’s direction. “What the hell is that?”

  Frost introduced the detective constable.

  Baskin found it possible to smile thinly as he recognized the name. “Webster! The cop they kicked out of Braybridge! Blimey, we’re getting all the rejects tonight, aren’t we? You’d better watch out for him, Mr. Frost. He beats inspectors up.”

  Webster fought hard to keep his face impassive, but behind the mask his anger was building up a rare old head of steam. It wouldn’t take much …

  Frost bounced a thin smile back to the club owner. “He also beats up cheap crooks, Harry, so I wouldn’t upset him if I were you. He could knee you in the groin so hard those ladies you mentioned would be beating on your door in vain. What do you say we get down to business?”

  Baskin stood up and carefully adjusted the lines of his dinner jacket.

  “This way.”

  He took them through a maze of passages to an office near the rear entrance, its door newly scarred with deep gashes in the wood. Webster dropped to one knee to examine it. Baskin looked down with a sneer. “You needn’t get out your magnifying glass, sonny. My men did that. We had to axe our way in. A bloody good door ruined.” He opened the bloody good door and showed them into a small cell of a room… concrete floor, grey emulsioned walls, and a single high window fitted with iron bars. A cheap-looking light-oak desk and a non-matching hard-backed chair comprised the furnishings. On the desk stood a phone and a wired switch.

  Baskin checked that the corner of the desk was clean, made doubly sure by treating it to a flick of his silk monogrammed handkerchief, then sat on it.

  “A lot of our trade is done by cheque and credit card, but we also get a fair amount of cash sloshing about. It jams up the tills, so twice a night we empty them, bring the cash here to be counted and checked, and then it’s taken to the night safe at Bennington’s Bank. There’s a security man on guard in this room all the time the money’s here. He locks himself in. Take a look at the door.”

  They examined the inside of the door, which had two strong bolts top and bottom, a double security lock, and a thick iron bar which could be slotted into holders set tight into the concrete walls.

  “Simple but effective,” continued Baskin,
swinging his leg as he spoke. “We bung the money in the bank’s special bags, then a second security guard nips off to fetch the motor to take it to the night safe.”

  “Do you use the same car each time?” asked Webster.

  “Do I look that stupid, sonny?” scoffed Baskin. “If anyone wants to rob me, I make it bloody hard for them. A different set of wheels, a different time, a different route each night.”

  Webster said, “And who decides on that?”

  “I do, sonny, and I keep it to myself until the very last moment.”

  “Don’t call me sonny,” snarled Webster.

  “Touchy little sod, isn’t he?” grinned Baskin.

  Frost had wandered across the room. Taped to the wall behind the desk was a collection of black-and-white glossy photographs, all of nudes, most of them strippers who had appeared at the club. As he scrutinised the various poses, he said, “So, you’ve got one man locked inside, another fetching the car. Then what?”

  “The motor’s brought right up to the rear entrance, just outside here. The driver nips in, taps a prearranged signal on that door. The bloke inside gathers up the money bags, unlocks the door, and within five seconds he’s inside the car on his way to the bank.”

  “Is it a different signal each night?” persisted Webster.

  “Of course it’s a different bloody signal. I work it out myself and don’t tell them until the very last minute. If the bloke inside gets the right signal, he opens the door; if it’s wrong, he presses that switch, which raises the alarm. This was tonight’s signal.” He rapped out a short pattern of taps on the desk top.

  “I can name that tune in one,” muttered Frost, seemingly much more interested in the pinups than in the robbery. “It sounds foolproof to me, Harry. Don’t change it.”

  Baskin raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed theatrically. “You’ll have me in stitches, Mr. Frost, with your droll humour. Well, it wasn’t so bloody foolproof tonight, was it? Croll locks himself in with more than five thousand quid. His mate, Harris, waddles off to fetch the motor when, guess what? There’s an urgent phone call for Mr. Harris in the foyer. From the casualty ward of Denton Hospital… matter of life and death. The wooden tops in the foyer call him over the Tannoy. He legs it across the foyer, picks up the phone and this tart says, “Hold on a minute, please, and we’ll get the heart specialist.” As it happens, his old lady has a wonky ticker, so he swallows it and holds on.”