DI Jack Frost 02 - A Touch of Frost

left?”
    “As far as I know.”
    “Oh,” said Frost, sounding disappointed.
    “Julie went out, of course, but Roger didn’t.”
    Frost felt his heart misfire a couple of times before it started beating faster. If Julie had gone out, she could no longer alibi her boyfriend. “How do you know she went out?”
    “I saw her, didn’t I? I was dashing off down the street, worried about being late and what bastard Baskin would say, when Julie roared past in that Jag.”
    “Roger’s Jag?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was Roger with her?”
    “No, only Julie. I yelled after her, hoping for a lift, but she didn’t hear me. If she had, I wouldn’t be in this lousy place.”
    “You saw Julie driving off in Roger Miller’s car about ten to eleven last night?” repeated Frost, anxious there should be no misunderstanding.
    She nodded. “How many more bleeding times?”
    Frost beamed with delight. “Paula, my love, if ever you feel like being raped again, any hour of the day or night, just give me a ring and I’ll be right over.”
    He clattered off down the ward and grabbed Webster’s arm, urging him to move faster as he explained the latest development. As soon as they were back in the car he radioed through to Control, requesting that Julie King be brought in for questioning immediately.

Wednesday night shift

    Frost could smell her loin-tickling perfume the minute he entered the lobby. It made him forget the misery of the previous few hours.
    “She’s in the interview room,” called Bill Wells, ruling a line under the previous entry in the Incident Book. “Jordan and Simms have just brought her in.”
    Webster was sent to relieve the two uniformed men from their arduous task of keeping an eye on Julie King while Frost shuffled over to the station sergeant.
    “She’s a nice bit of crumpet,” commented Wells.
    “Yes,” agreed Frost. “So long as you don’t mind getting run over. Any progress with the murder investigation?”
    Wells shook his head sadly. “That was a lousy business, Jack. A damn fine officer.”
    “Yes,” muttered Frost flatly. “Pity he wasn’t so bloody good while he was still alive. So Allen hasn’t got anywhere yet?”
    “He’s put an all-stations alert out for Stan Eustace. We’ll get him.”
    “Assuming he did it,” said Frost, sounding doubtful.
    Wells looked surprised. “Mr. Allen is convinced of it.”
    “Ah, well,” sniffed Frost, ‘that’s the end of it, isn’t it? We needn’t bother with a trial.”
    “The men were asking about their overtime,” said Wells, abruptly changing the subject.
    “It’s my number-one priority,” said Frost, swinging his scarf around his head like a lasso and heading for the interview room and Miss Julie King. He almost made it.
    “Mr. Frost!” It was Mullett, his face sombre.
    What now? thought Frost. He dived in first with the good news. “We’ve learned Roger Miller wasn’t driving the hit-and-run car, sir. It was his girl friend. We’ve brought her in for questioning.”
    Mullett twitched a smile. “That’s excellent news, Inspector. Sir Charles will be delighted.” The smile twitched off. “Did you see Mrs. Shelby?”
    “Yes, sir. I broke the news.”
    “How is she taking it?”
    “She’s shattered, sir. I’ve arranged for a man to stand guard outside the house to keep the TV and press away.”
    Mullett’s lips tightened. “Of course, Frost, quite right.” He bowed his head sadly and studied his shoes. “We’ll miss him, Frost. A damn fine officer.”
    “So everyone keeps telling me, sir,” said Frost, thinking of all the colour photographs, most of which were taken when Shelby was supposed to be on duty. He turned to go, but he wasn’t quick enough. Mullett still had one more bullet left to fire.
    “Did the crime statistics go off?”
    “Yes, sir,” replied Frost, instantly regretting the lie. Mullett was in such a good mood about Roger Miller he might well have overlooked the truth.

    In the interview room Julie King, wearing orange slacks, a yellow jumper, and a white beret, sat on the edge of one of the hard chairs, her fake leopard-skin coat slung over the back. She smouldered, her cigarette smouldered, and her orange-painted nails seemed ready to claw at the slightest provocation. And provocation was the only thing not denied her. They wouldn’t let her phone Roger, they wouldn’t tell her what it was about, and this bearded wonder wouldn’t even talk to her. He just stood leaning against the