R. Wingfield - Hard Frost

"Nothing, Jack. He was wearing a jacket over a boiler suit, but the pockets were empty. I'll get Forensic to give it the once-over."

Frost signalled to Evans who was keeping as far from the body as possible and answered Frost's summons reluctantly. "I'm afraid you're going to have to touch it. Fingerprint the fingers that are left and check with records to see if we've got him on our books." He stubbed out his cigarette. The smoke was tasting of the body. "Let's get out of here, Arthur."

As they moved away, the mortuary technician, whistling tunelessly to himself, began sewing up the incisions made during the post-mortem, leaning to one side in mid-stitch so Evans could gingerly take fingerprints.

Outside the night air had a clean, fresh smell. But it was cold. Bitterly cold. And they still hadn't found the boy. "We're not going to break our necks on this one, Arthur," said Frost, pausing as Drysdale, followed by his secretary lugging a metal specimens case that seemed far too heavy for her, strode past to the Rolls with only a curt nod to the two detectives. "He's been dead for weeks," continued Frost, 'so another couple of days won't make any difference. We'll keep it ticking over and look busy if ever Mullett comes sniffing around, but we'll concentrate our efforts on trying to find Bobby Kirby and the bastard who killed the other boy." He shivered. The cold was beginning to get to him. "Let's hope that poor little sod isn't out in this."

All they had for him in the incident room were more negative reports. The few sightings they had been able to check had all turned out to be false leads.

"What about the dead kid's mother, the blackjack dealer? Have we checked her out?"

"I saw Harry Baskin, this afternoon began Burton.

"Harry Baskin?" said Cassidy, who had been sitting at a corner desk, listening and scribbling notes. "Is he still running the Coconut Grove?"

Burton nodded. "Baskin says she started work at the club at eight, worked through her meal break and finished around three in the morning. She left with one of their clients."

"By eight o'clock her son was dead," said Frost. "She could have killed him before she went to work. I want to interview her client to see if he noticed anything in the flat when he went back with her, like the smell of chloroform or a severed finger on the bread board."

"Baskin refuses to give the bloke's name. Says he respects people's rights to privacy."

Frost stood up and grabbed his scarf. "This is a murder case. He'll give me the punter's name or I'll run him in for living on immoral earnings."

"Hold it!" called Cassidy, rising to join him. "I'm coming with you."

"Sure," nodded Frost. "Glad to have your help." But he wasn't happy. This could open old wounds. It was just outside the Coconut Grove where Cassidy's daughter had been run down and killed.

They travelled in Cassidy's car and it was a silent, uncomfortable ride with Cassidy making it tacitly clear he was only tolerating Frost's company. The Coconut Grove was busy, with the car-park three-quarters full. They brushed past the bouncer who wanted to know if they were members and ignored the leggy blonde who tried to take their hats and coats, making straight for Baskin's office. A sign on the door said "Private Do Not Enter'. They went straight in without knocking.

Harry Baskin, dark and swarthy and in his late thirties, looked up from his desk with a frown. "Can't you bloody well read?" Then he saw who it was and he gave a deep sigh. "What the hell do you want?"

Frost dragged out a chair and sat down. He pointed a thumb to his companion. "You remember Mr. Cassidy?"

For a moment Baskin looked startled, but quickly composed himself. "Mr. Cassidy! I heard you were back in Denton." He waved a hand. "Sit down."

But Cassidy had moved to the window behind Baskin, a window that overlooked the road running past the club. He stared out at the cars that sped past, on to the straight section of the road before it curved towards Denton. He spoke, almost to himself. "That's where it happened."

Baskin shot a glance across to Frost, whose face remained impassive. "It was a long time ago, Mr. Cassidy."

"Was it one of the drunken bastards from your club who was at the wheel, Harry?"

"We've had all this out before, Mr. Cassidy. The driver didn't stop. We don't know who he was." He swivelled his chair to face Frost. "Is this what you've come to talk to me about ancient bloody history?"

"We're here to talk about Joy Anderson," said Frost.

"The new girl! If I had known she had a bloody son, I never would have employed her."

"She hasn't got a son any more, Harry," said Frost. "He's dead."

Baskin spread his palms, the chunky gold cuff-links on his wrists clanking as he did so. "Tell me about it!" he moaned. "Bloody fine advert for the club, isn't it… have your blackjack cards dealt by a girl whose son was murdered. It puts a damper on the bloody place. I'm not a hard man, Mr. Frost, but I'm getting shot of her."

"No, you're not, Harry," snapped Frost. "The poor cow has suffered enough without losing her job as well."

"All right." He tried to sound reasonable. "She can stay away for a few days I might even pay her but when she comes back she'd better not go around with a long bloody face. We need to keep the punters happy."

"Of course you do, Harry so we want to know the name of the punter she kept happy last night."

"As I told the other copper, people who come to this club have a right to privacy. Whatever arrangement the gentleman made with Joy Anderson after she left the club is a matter entirely for him."

Frost gave a sweet smile. "Let me put it plainly, Harry. People come to your club for a gamble and a bit of the other and you are happy to provide both so long as they pay. Most of the girls who work for you are known prostitutes. You take at least hah0 of what they earn on the side, probably more if the client pays by credit card. You also provide the girls' flats at exorbitant rents. So what say I nominate you as Pimp Of The Year and charge you with living off immoral earnings?"

Baskin's face flushed a dark red. "This is a respectable club. I could have you up for defamation of character… but if it will help you catch the boy's killer.. He scribbled something on a pad and tore off the sheet. "There's his name and address now piss off!"

Frost glanced at the note, then stuffed it into his mac pocket. "Thanks, Harry. I knew I could appeal to your better nature." He stood up and looked over to Cassidy. "Ready?"

Cassidy was still staring out of the window and seemed to have taken no interest in Frost's conversation with Baskin. He frowned as if dragged out of a reverie. "What?"

"Let's go."

"Sure." One last look out of the window. "Sure."

Joy Anderson's client lived in Lexington. Frost radioed through to Lexington Division to send someone round to question him. They had barely got inside the station when Arthur Hanlon came running up to them, beaming all over his face and falsely raising Frost's hopes that the boy had been found. "You were right about the body in the bunker, Jack. We've matched his prints we know who he is."

"Are you going to tell me his name, Arthur, or do I get three guesses?"

"He's Lemmy Hoxton."

Hanlon offered the form sheet to Frost. Frost didn't take it. He stared at Hanlon open-mouthed. Lemmy! The bloated balloon of the putrefying face swirled in front of him as he tried to compare it with the living Lemmy Hoxton, a vicious and habitual petty criminal he had arrested many times. "We won't try too hard on this one," said Frost. "Whoever killed him deserves a medal." He fumbled for a cigarette.

"He's been dead over two months and his wife hasn't reported him missing?" observed Cassidy.

"Probably couldn't believe her bloody luck," said Frost. He sighed. "But you're right. She's got a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Let's pay her a visit."