wanted to check your story.”
Her name was Julie King. She lived in an older-type house that had been divided up into six single-bedroom flats. It was situated in Forest View, a quiet backwater overlooking Denton Woods. The unlocked front door allowed access to a small hall containing a letter rack, a pay telephone, and a fire extinguisher. Julie King’s flat was on the first floor.
A flight of stairs took them up to a landing where two doors stood side by side. On the first, a card attached by a drawing pin read “J. King’. The door to the other flat still had a morning newspaper poking through the letter box and a pint bottle of semi skimmed milk lurking on the step.
“Flats of a couple of prostitutes,” observed Frost, making one of his ill-considered judgements. “One works days, the other nights. Let’s call on the day shift.” He thumbed the bell to Julie King’s flat.
“This isn’t a bad neighbourhood,” remarked Webster as they waited.
“As long as you don’t mind being raped,” said Frost. “The woods are only a couple of streets away.”
The door, held firm by a strong chain, cautiously opened a few inches.
A female voice demanded, “What do you want?”
“Police,” said Webster, holding out his warrant card to the gap. A hand with long orange fingernails took it, then withdrew. The door slammed shut, then there were sounds of the chain being unhooked before the door opened fully.
A sexual fantasy of nineteen or twenty throbbed and vibrated in the doorway. Her jeans were powder blue and skintight, and her lemon T-shirt was a second skin over a pair of primed, highly explosive breasts with the safety catch off. Her hair was golden blonde and her figure strictly X certificate.
“Yes?” she asked huskily.
Frost’s voice sounded a trifle high-pitched so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Julie King?” She nodded. “A few questions, miss. Do you think we might come in?”
She ushered them into a sparsely but adequately furnished room. It was a flat for people who didn’t stay very long and it echoed none of its tenant’s personality. A green leather-cloth settee that had seen better days, and had long since forgotten them, lolled lumpily in front of a two-bar electric wall fire. Next to the fire, screwed firmly to the wall, was the landlord’s coin-in-the-slot electricity meter, finished in tasteful ex-Government surplus olive green. On the far wall, a door was slightly ajar and allowed a glimpse of sink, refrigerator, and cooker. A closed door next to it would lead to the bedroom. The thought of Roger Miller going through that door and taking this sizzler to bed made Webster hate the man all the more.
“Nice and compact,” observed Frost, perching himself on the arm of the settee and taking out his cigarettes. “Perhaps you’d question the lady, son. I seem to have done nothing but ask questions all day.”
Julie took one of Frost’s cigarettes, leaning over to give him a bird’s-eye view of deep, inviting cleavage as he lit it for her, his hand none too steady. She dropped down on the settee, patting the cushion for Webster to sit next to her. He sat. It was a very small settee and they were close together. He could feel the radiated animal heat of her body and was getting the full blast of her perfume. His hatred of Roger Miller was increasing by the minute.
He cleared his throat. “Would you mind telling us exactly what you did last night, Miss King. From, say, six o’clock onward?”
‘ She smiled at him. The sort of smile that crept under his shirt and gently stroked the pit of his stomach. “Nothing much to tell. I was here all the time. In the flat.”
Webster scribbled away in his notebook. “On your own?”
She pursed her lips, and kissed out a tiny puff of smoke. “No. With a friend.”
“Could I have his name please… assuming it was a “he”, of course?”
“Miller. Roger Miller.”
“Master Miller, the MP’s son?” chimed in Frost, who had now wandered over to the kitchen. “Just like in Happy Families. Where did he park his car?”
Webster scowled. He thought he was supposed to be conducting this interview. “Are you taking over the questioning, Inspector.”
“Me? Good heavens no, son. You carry on, you’re doing fine.” He had now edged over to the bedroom door and was silently turning the handle.
Back to the girl. “What time did Mr. Miller arrive?”
“Five and twenty past six. I remember looking at my wristwatch as he rang the bell.” Her hand moved to show Webster her watch, a ridiculously tiny thing in gold and black with what looked like real diamonds at every quarter hour.
“And how long did he stay?”
She pouted out a smoke puffball. “He left about eight o’clock this morning. I was still in bed.”
Behind the girl’s back, Frost had quietly opened the bedroom door and had disappeared inside. Webster tried hard not to stare in that direction. He didn’t want the girl following his gaze. “Did Mr. Miller come by car?”
“Yes,” she answered. “His blue Jag. He was going to leave here about twenty past eleven, but when he went out he found someone had stolen it. So I said he might as well stay for the rest of the night.”
Frost had now emerged from the bedroom, carefully closing the door behind him.
“Where was the car parked?” continued Webster.
“Just across the road.”
“I wonder if I can ask a personal question?” said Frost suddenly.
Webster groaned in exasperation. How could he possibly conduct an interview with this idiot butting in every five minutes. “It is important, Inspector?” he asked resignedly.
“Vital,” said Frost, disarming the girl with a friendly grin. “Tell me, miss, do you have a little mole on your right buttock?”
Webster could only stare dumbfounded. The man had gone mad, there was no other answer. The girl just looked stunned.
“A little mole, like a beauty spot just about here?” prompted Frost, jabbing his thigh.
She stood up and crushed out her cigarette in a tiny ashtray on the mantlepiece. “What if I have? What the bleeding hell has it got to do with you, you dirty old git?”
I couldn’t have put it better myself, thought Webster, noticing that in moments of stress the girl’s accent became pure cockney.
Frost pulled a postcard-size photograph from his mac pocket. “Just being curious. I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was a fly or a mole.” He displayed the photograph. A nude study. A girl in thigh-high jackboots, carrying a whip. The face was covered by a leather mask, the breasts by nothing at all. Behind the girl a full-length mirror reflected the full glory of her rear view. It also reflected a dainty mole like a beauty spot on the right buttock.
She snatched the photograph from him. “Where did you get that?”
“I was looking for the bathroom,” Frost explained unconvincingly. “I went into your bedroom by mistake. One of the chests of drawers was open, and this photograph was on the top. I just happened to spot it.”
“You just happen to be a bloody liar,” she retorted. “That drawer was shut tight, and the photographs were right at the bottom. If you must know, they’re my publicity stills.”
“Publicity stills?”
“I’m in show business a specialty dancer. I work at The Coconut Grove.”
“The Coconut Grove?” repeated Frost. Then the penny dropped. “Of course. You’re one of Harry Baskin’s strippers. Then you must know that other bird… Paula Grey… the one who nearly got herself raped.”
“Of course I know her,” said the girl. “She lives in the next-door flat. Your lot were all over the place this morning asking if I’d seen anyone suspicious hanging about. The stupid cow. She was just asking for trouble cutting through those woods you get flashers and God knows what in places like that.”
“She was late for work so she took a shortcut,” explained Webster. “She was afraid Baskin would give her the push.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “That’s just the sort of thing the rotten bastard would do.”
“The rotten bastard got himself robbed last night, did you know that?” asked Frost.
“Robbed? Harry Baskin robbed?” She threw back her head, her body shaking and her breasts jiggling as she laughed. “That’s made my day!”
You’ve made my day as well, thought Webster, wishing she would laugh more often. But they weren’t here
