DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

straight ahead, their eyes glued to the stage where the blonde was working herself up into a fair simulation of erotic frenzy. The building reeked with the aphrodisiac combination of cigar smoke and female sweat.
    “You’ve been up to your old tricks again, Harry,” reproached Frost, eyes dead ahead. “Putting your fright-eners on people. Wrecking their rooms.”
    “Now don’t take the bra off so quickly,” pleaded Baskin. “Get the audience drooling for you to unpack your goodies. Tease them, just like you teased me last night.” He turned his head to Frost. “Don’t know what you’re talking about Inspector. I don’t put the frighteners on people. I’m a respectable businessman. She’s got terrific knockers, hasn’t she?”
    “Has she?” said Frost vaguely. “I was so engrossed in the music, I didn’t notice. Tell me something, Harry. Do you know Roger Miller?”
    Baskin flicked about half a pound of ash from the end of his cigar. “The MP’s son? Of course I know him. He plays the gee-gees. Knocks around with one of my show girls.”
    “How’s his luck with the horses?”
    Baskin shrugged. “Sometimes he wins, but not often. Usually he loses. His trouble is he doesn’t know when to stop. He burned his fingers last month doubling up. Would have cost me a packet had he won, but, thank God, he didn’t.”
    “Does he owe you any money?”
    Baskin waggled his cigar reproachfully. “My client’s personal affairs are strictly confidential.”
    “Very reassuring,” said Frost. “You should be a doctor at a VD clinic. Gawd, look at that!” The girl had reached the end of her routine and stood stark naked in the centre of the stage, the spotlight sparkling on tiny dewdrops of sweat which glistened on her body like jewels. Frost nudged Webster heavily in the ribs. “The Intimate Bikini Styler Strikes again!” he commented coarsely.
    Applauding loudly, Baskin leaped from his seat then he made a circle with his forefinger and thumb and kissed it wetly. “Perfect, darling, absolutely perfect . . . take a breather.” She draped a red bathrobe over her shoulders, straddled a rickety chair, and began talking earnestly with the pianist, looking even more erotic half covered than she did when she was naked.
    “You know Roger Miller’s Jaguar?” asked Frost, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the girl.
    “Concorde on four wheels? Yes, I know it. Why?”
    “It knocked down an old man last night,” said Frost, watching Baskin closely.
    “Oh yes?” murmured Baskin, apparently more concerned with getting his cigar to draw properly.
    “The old man died,” continued the inspector.
    A streamer of smoke drifted from Baskin’s mouth and lazily twisted and turned as it hit the beam of the spotlight. “I always knew he’d end up killing someone. He drives like a bloody maniac’
    “Is he a good customer?” asked Frost.
    “He’s a good customer when he wins,” Baskin replied. “Trouble is, when he loses he don’t want to pay. You have to give him a little nudge.”
    “Put in the frighteners, you mean?”
    Baskin laughed out a cloud of smoke. “Frighteners? You’re becoming obsessed with that word, Inspector. I sent one of my accounts executives round to his flat to remind him of his obligations. Mr. Miller apologized for his regrettable oversight and immediately gave him a cheque in full settlement.”
    “When was this?” asked Webster.
    “Two days ago. Why? How come it’s of interest to you?”
    It’s of no bloody interest at all, thought Frost dejectedly. Another of his theories had been well and truly booted in the groin. If Miller didn’t owe Baskin any money, then Baskin had no cause to nick Miller’s Jag for a joyride. “Come on son,” he told Webster, ‘time to go.”
    They were out amongst the beer crates when Frost stopped dead in his tracks. He looked back at the rehearsal hall and a smile crawled across his face. He jabbed a finger at Webster. “Do you know what we are, son, you and me? Do you know what we are?”
    What now? thought Webster, shaking his head wearily and asking, “What are we?”
    “A couple of stupid twits, that’s what we are, son. Under our bleeding noses, and we missed it. The bikini line, son, the sleek bloody bikini line!”
    Webster leaned resignedly against a tower of crates to listen to Frost’s latest output of garbage. The old fool had been obsessed about this ever since they’d found that shaver in Karen’s bedroom. He was