Authors: R. D. Wingfield
“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 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.”