R. Wingfield - A Touch of Frost

“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 to welling

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 boy friend 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 boy friend. “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.

Wednesday night shift

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.”