“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?”
Allen, completely put out, stopped rocking. “Of course I damn well knew that. I’ve just taken a statement from her. But how did you know?”
Frost shrugged modestly. “Intelligent deduction.”
“Is this a private conversation, or can anyone join in?” asked Baskin peevishly.
Allen transferred his attention to the club owner. “Your employee Paula Grey was savagely attacked tonight. She claims you had threatened to sack her if she turned up late for a show.”
“That’s right,” nodded Baskin.
“She overslept,” Allen continued grimly, ‘so, to save time, she put on her stage clobber in her flat and took a shortcut through the woods, and that’s where it all happened. The bastard jumped her, chucked something over her head, then squeezed her throat until she passed out.”
Baskin took his cigar from his mouth and shook the spit from the end. “If he was after a nice young bit of the other, he must have been broken-hearted when he took the cloth from her face. I think the poor old cow draws her old-age pension next month.”
“You’ve got a heart as big and warm as Golders Green Crematorium,” observed Frost.
“He’s right, though,” said Ingram, moving to the centre of the room. “We think that’s why he beat her up instead of raping her. He only likes young stuff, and Paula was a great big turnoff.”
The malicious glint in Allen’s eye warned Ingram he would pay for having stolen his master’s thunder.
Taking advantage of the situation, Webster thought he’d try a spot of ingratiation in the hope it would improve his chances of being transferred from Frost to Allen. “How’s the search in the woods going, sir?” he asked, politely.
“Search?” shrieked Allen. “Don’t talk to me about the search. It’s a farce! I doubt if half of the search team are sober. I’ve called it off until tomorrow morning.” His head moved from Webster to Frost. “I’m holding a briefing meeting tomorrow, at nine. You were there when the victim was found, so I want you to attend.”
“Sure,” said Frost, wondering how he could fit in some sleep. “I’ll have to be away pretty sharp, though. I’ve got to go to a post-mortem.”
Telling Baskin he’d be back in the morning after he’d taken statements from the two security men, Frost signalled to Webster, busily engaged in a silent scowling match with Ingram, that it was time to leave. They were almost through the door when Allen fired his parting salvo.
“You will have the overtime returns done by the morning, won’t you? You know it’s the last day if we’re to catch the computer.”
“Sure,” said Frost automatically while his brain shrieked at him in horror. The bloody overtime returns! Was it time for them already? In the worry of trying to get the crime statistics off, he’d completely forgotten the damn things. Quickly he closed the door behind them before Allen could think of any more horrors he should have done.
As they crossed the car park, heads down against the slanting rain, he told Webster to remind him about doing the overtime figures the minute they got back to the office.
“Sure,” said Webster. It seemed to be the ‘in’ word.
They didn’t make it to the station. Control diverted them to Denton Hospital to follow up a complaint about a man prowling around the nurses’ sleeping quarters.
Ridley was most apologetic. “Sorry to dump this one on you, Inspector, but there’s no-one else available.”
“I hope you realize, Constable,” replied Frost sternly, trying to keep the delight from his voice, ‘that you’re stopping me from doing the overtime returns.”
Tuesday night shift (6)
“It was horrible,” said the little nurse. “He had these awful red, staring eyes… and his mouth was all
