R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“You’re a nasty piece of work, Harry,” Frost told him. “I hope he sues you.”

“What was the exact sum of money taken?” asked Webster, realizing that Frost had asked a lot of questions but hadn’t touched on the basics.

“Five thousand, one hundred thirty-two pounds,” answered Baskin. “One of our slack nights the end of the week it could be nearer twenty grand.”

Webster jotted this down. “And what time did the robbery take place?”

“Round about five past eleven,” said Baskin casually.

Frost, whose eyes had again been drawn to the magnetic north of the breasts and bottoms of the pinups, spun around. “Five past eleven?” he said incredulously. “That’s more than four hours ago!”

Baskin spread his hands. “So what? I had no intention of calling you in, but my expensive lawyer told me that as a crime’s been committed I’ve got no choice. Your being here is just a formality to satisfy our insurers. What’s a lousy five thousand quid to me? It’s chicken feed! I can stand the loss, but what I can’t stand is the humiliation. He who pinches my purse steals trash, but he who filches my good name gets both his bloody legs broken. So I’ll find the bastard myself. Just take the details, go to the bar and have a free drink on the house, and then push off and forget all about it. Leave the hard work to me.”

Frost shook his head. “Sorry Harry, but we like to beat our own prisoners up. It’s one of the few pleasures we’ve got left. What was the money packed in?”

There was a black fibreglass attache case in the corner. Baskin picked it up and showed it to the two men. “It was in two cases like this.” He held it out for Frost to examine, but the inspector wasn’t there.

“Where’s the old git got to?”

“The old git’s down here,” called a voice from behind the desk where Frost, on his knees, was almost rubbing his nose on one of the photographs. “Just admiring your art collection, Harry.”

Making no attempt to hide his contempt, Baskin said, “If dirty pictures turn you on, I’ll find some. But in the meantime, could we just concentrate on the matter in hand?”

Still preoccupied with the nude, Frost asked if anyone had seen anything unusual at the time of the robbery.

With a snort, Baskin said, “No-one saw a bleeding thing. Some slag legs it off with five thousand quid of my money and no-one sees anything!”

Frost seemed to lose interest in his questions. He ripped a photograph from the wall and held it nearer the light.

The old fool’s going senile, thought Webster, deciding he had better take over. He opened the door and walked the short distance to the rear entrance. Down a couple of steps, and he was out in the car park where the night wind hurled a few handfuls of rain in his face. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still quite a few cars dotted about. At 11.05, when the money was snatched, the area would have been crawling with motors and surges of arriving and departing customers. A man strolling to his car with a couple of small fibreglass suitcases, perhaps concealed under a mac, would attract no attention at all.

He stepped back into the building to escape the rain squall and bumped into Harry Baskin, a huge cigar wedged in his mouth.

“I left your inspector dribbling over that tart’s photo. I suppose the poor old git hasn’t had a woman since his wife died and it’s making him go funny.” He pushed Webster aside to stare at a car turning off from the road and splashing over puddles as it crossed the car park. “Who the hell is this?”

The new arrival was a Ford Escort, one of the pool cars from the station. Two men got out, heads down, and made their way to the front entrance. As they passed under an overhead light, Webster identified them. Detective Inspector Allen and his charming sidekick, Detective Sergeant Ingram. He nipped back to the office to warn Frost.

The inspector was now sitting on the corner of the desk, looking quite pleased with himself. He only grunted when told about Allen, but as soon as Baskin returned, he snatched up the photograph of the stripper and asked the club owner if it had been retouched.

Baskin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“This lady seems to be devoid of hair in an area where I would expect to find some.”

Baskin took the photograph, holding it at arm’s length. “Don’t you know nothing? Strippers have to make themselves look more artistic before they perform in front of an audience. The raw human body is quite repulsive if left to its own devices, you know.”

Frost dropped his cigarette on the floor and gave it the full weight of his foot. “You said earlier that one of your strippers didn’t turn up for work?”

“That’s right. Paula Grey, the stripping schoolgirl.”

Frost turned to Webster like a stage artist awaiting an ovation, and Webster had the grace to reward him with a silent hand clap. The old fool wasn’t always as stupid as he made out.

“She does a routine in schoolgirl uniform,” continued Baskin. “It gives the dirty old men in the audience a cheap thrill to think they’re watching a juicy young bit of under-aged crumpet peeling off. To be honest, we have to keep the lighting well down so they can’t see how ancient the old cow really is we don’t want to put the punters off their meat pies.” A sudden thought hit him and he stopped in his tracks. “Here, you’re not suggesting she was involved in this robbery, are you?” He warmed to this theme. “Hold on, though. It makes sense. I should have twigged the minute she didn’t turn up to do her routine. She had inside knowledge… and she could have pretended to be the nurse on the phone.”

“No,” said Frost, ‘it couldn’t have been her. While you were being robbed, she was out in die woods getting herself booted in the kisser by the famous Denton “Hooded Terror”.” Baskin listened, shaking his head in amazement, as the inspector told him what had occurred.

“Who in his right senses would try to rape Paula, Inspector? You could have her any time for the price of a packet of fags, and if you didn’t have the price she’d lend it to you.” He grimaced with irritation as the door crashed open and Allen and Ingram barged in. “What the hell? This is a private office. Get out!”

Allen ignored Baskin and stared past him to the scruffy figure by the desk. “What are you doing here, Frost? I told you this was my case.”

Baskin looked from one inspector to the other.” Blimey, you’re not going to fight over it are you? Just find the joker who robbed me and you can split the money up between you.”

“Robbed you?” cried Allen, his lips quivering as he fought back a smile. “Dear, dear, dear, what a tragedy! How much was taken? A not inconsiderable sum, I trust?” He shook with silent laughter. Ingram, leaning against the wall, obediently joined in.

“I’ve already had this patter from your number-two comic,” snorted Baskin, nodding his head in Frost’s direction. “If you’re not here about the robbery, then what the hell do you want?”

Allen folded his arms and rocked with smug satisfaction on the balls of his feet, biting his lip to stop himself from laughing too soon. How he was going to love telling Frost that the girl he had identified as a fifteen-year-old school kid was an old scrubber. What sort of idiot could make a mistake like that? “Do you know a girl called Paula Grey, Mr. Baskin?”

But, annoyingly, before Baskin had a chance to reply, Frost chimed in with, “Paula Grey? That name rings a bell!” He knuckled his forehead in mock concentration, then snapped his fingers triumphantly. “Got her! Paula Grey, the stripping schoolgirl. She works for Harry. She’s the girl who was attacked in Denton Woods tonight. Didn’t you know that, Allen?”