DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

the desk where Frost, on his knees, was almost rubbing his nose on one of the photographs. ‘Just admiring your art collection, Harry.’
    Making no attempt to hide his contempt, Baskin said, ‘If dirty pictures turn you on, I’ll find some. But in the mean time, could we just concentrate on the matter in hand?’
    Still preoccupied with the nude, Frost asked if anyone had seen anything unusual at the time of the robbery.
    With a snort, Baskin said, ‘No-one saw a bleeding thing. Some slag legs it off with five thousand quid of my money and no-one sees anything!’
    Frost seemed to lose interest in his questions. He ripped a photograph from the wall and held it nearer the light.
    The old fool’s going senile, thought Webster, deciding he had better take over. He opened the door and walked the short distance to the rear entrance. Down a couple of steps, and he was out in the car park where the night wind hurled a few handfuls of rain in his face. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were still quite a few cars dotted about. At 11.05, when the money was snatched, the area would have been crawling with motors and surges of arriving and departing customers. A man strolling to his car with a couple of small fibreglass suitcases, perhaps concealed under a mac, would attract no attention at all.
    He stepped back into the building to escape the rain squall and bumped into Harry Baskin, a huge cigar wedged in his mouth.
    ‘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 the 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.