DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

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