about the robbery or the rape, so why couldn’t Frost stick to the point? “We came about the hit-and-run,” he reminded the inspector.
“So we did, son,” agreed Frost, looking about the room. “Where’s your television set, miss?”
She blinked at the pointless question. “I haven’t got one.”
“And you’re asking me to believe that you and Master Roger were stuck in this prison cell of a flat from half past six yesterday evening until eight o’clock this morning with no telly to keep you amused? I can’t even see any books to read. So what do you do to keep yourselves amused?”
“We happen to love each other,” she said simply. “What do you think we did?”
But Frost wasn’t having any of this. “Come now, miss, there are limits. If it were me, I could stare all night at your mole and want nothing more than a dripping sandwich and a cup of tea. But Master Roger isn’t the stay-at- home type. He couldn’t sit still for hours in a pokey little hole like this. He’d want to get out, go somewhere, knock some poor wally down with his expensive motor and then get some silly little tart to provide him with an alibi.”
Her eyes spat fire. “I find you offensive.”
“Then you’re in good company, Miss King. Mind you, I find it offensive that rich men’s sons can kill innocent people and get away with it.”
The girl caught her breath and looked frightened. Very frightened.
“Killed? You mean the man’s dead?”
Frost looked up in surprise. “You didn’t know he was dead? Surely your boy friend didn’t keep that tidbit of news from you before asking you to fake his alibi?”
She stared unbelievingly at him, then looked pleadingly at Webster for him to tell her it wasn’t true.
“He died late last night, miss,” the constable confirmed.
She dropped heavily on to the settee, hands twisting her handkerchief into a tight silken rope, her face as white as a hospital sheet.
“So you see, miss,” said Webster quietly, ‘it’s a very serious matter.”
“He’s not worth lying for,” added Frost. “He wouldn’t lie for you.”
She tugged at the handkerchief as if she were trying to rip it in two, then jerked her head up defiantly. “I’m not lying. Roger arrived here yesterday evening. He stayed with me until eight this morning. We did not go out. We couldn’t have gone anywhere even if we wanted to. Roger didn’t have any money. He was broke.”
“Broke? Come off it, love. He’s rolling in it.”
“He had some debts to pay off- to Harry Baskin, as it happens. If you don’t believe me, you can ask him. Which is why we had to stay in
… all bloody night. Are you satisfied?
There’s only one way you could satisfy me, love, thought Frost, and that involves showing me your mole. His eyes held hers. She tried to meet his gaze, but her head dropped. I know you are lying, he thought, but I just can’t prove it. He expelled a sigh. “All right, miss. We’d like you drop in at the station sometime today to give us a written statement. It shouldn’t take long.”
He straightened his aching back and buttoned up his mac. A loose button was hanging by a single thread. He would have to find someone to sew it on for him before he lost it. Julie King didn’t look the sort of girl who knew what a needle and thread were for.
“If you want my opinion, she’s lying,” announced Webster when they were back in the car.
“Probably,” said Frost, who had just found the note in his pocket that he had scribbled earlier, ‘but there’s something else that worries me, something that makes me wonder if the girl might, perhaps, be telling the truth. It’s that bloody licence plate. It was too damn convenient, our finding it. It’s like a crook leaving his name and address, or a rapist leaving a photograph of his dick.”
“The plate fell off when the Jag crashed into the dustbins,” said Webster, who saw nothing illogical about that.
“How many licence plates have you known to fall off?” asked Frost, reaching for the handset so he could call the station.
Johnny Johnson was delighted to hear from him. “Mr. Frost! We’ve been trying to reach you. Mr. Mullett wants to see you. Something about the crime statistics.”
“Sorry,” said Frost, ‘can’t hear you. This is a very bad line.”
“I can hear you perfectly,” the sergeant told him.
“Good. Then tell me something. I asked for someone to check the spot where we picked up that licence plate to see if they could find the plastic screws. Any joy?”
“No, Jack. Charlie Bravo did a thorough search of the area. Couldn’t find anything. Now, about Mr. Mullett…”
“Still can’t hear you,” said Frost quickly. “Over and out.” He switched off the radio in case the station tried to call back, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If the licence plate fell off, the screws holding it to the car would have had to come off just before it dropped. So where are they?”
“No idea,” shrugged Webster.
“Secondly,” Frost continued, ‘we’ve got to suppose that both screws came out simultaneously.”
“Why?”
“If only one screw fell out, the other would hold it, causing the plate to pivot down. It would have dragged along while the Jag was still going at top speed. But the plate was undamaged.”
“It wouldn’t necessarily drop down,” said Webster. “The remaining screw could have been holding it so tightly it stayed in position.”
“If it was holding it as tightly as that, son, there’s no way it could have unscrewed itself to let the licence plate drop off. No, that licence plate was deliberately removed, carried in the car, then chucked out near the accident so the dumb fuzz could find it.”
Webster looked at Frost pityingly. “I imagine the last thing Roger Miller would have wanted to do was leave his licence plate behind.”
“If he was driving, I agree. But supposing it was someone else who wanted to get him into trouble?”
The detective constable could only shake his head in despair. This was getting beyond him.
Frost settled back in his seat. “Try this out for size, as the bishop said to the actress. The girl told us that Miller bets with Harry
Baskin and that he’s short of money. Let’s suppose he’s run up a dirty great gambling debt and he can’t pay. like I’ve told you, Harry has his own roguish little ways of speeding up slow payers he sets their car alight, or cuts their cat’s head off. Suppose Harry decides to put the screws on Roger by getting one of his minions to nick the Jag, drive it around at speed, knocking a few dustbins over in the process, and drop off the licence plate so there’s no doubt as to whose car it was… a warning to Miller that there’s worse to come if he doesn’t cough up. That’s the plan. But it went wrong. The minion knocks an old man down and kills him. He has to abandon the Jag and leg it back to
The Coconut Grove the car wasn’t found all that far away from the club if you recall.”
Webster chewed this over. “There’s a lot of loose ends, but I suppose it’s possible,” he grudgingly admitted.
“Yes,” said Frost. “The only trouble is, if I’m right, then Master Roger is innocent, and that would be contrary to natural justice.” He tugged at the seat belt and fastened it across his lap. “Ah well, we have other cases to occupy our fertile minds. Let’s go and see Old Mother Wiggle-Bum.”
Webster turned the key in the ignition. “I presume you mean Mrs.
Dawson?”
The inspector nodded, chewing his lower lip as another nagging doubt rose to the surface. “She worries me, son. It was bloody windy in the town yesterday afternoon.”
With a grimace, Webster said, “Was it?” He wondered what the old fool was drivelling on about now.
Frost looked out on the trees of Denton Woods as the car cruised along the ring road. “Near gale force. It would have blown your beard all over the place. If you were a woman who wiggled her bum and you had just had your hair done for a very important do, would you risk walking in the wind for a couple of hours?”
“No,” said Webster.
“Old Mother Dawson did,” said Frost. “Before we see her we’ll nip into the town and call on a few hairdressers. We might even let them give your beard a blue rinse.”
