Frost stiffened. “Aren’t you in enough bloody trouble, Harry?”
The wallet was hastily replaced. “You’ve got to get me off the hook, Mr. Prost.”
Head on one side, lips pursed, Frost pretended to give it some thought. “There’s the question of this assault charge you’re going to make against my constable.”
“What assault charge?” asked Baskin, sounding sincerely puzzled. “I tripped and banged my nose on the wall.”
“No more taking the law into your own hands with your security men? We want Tommy Croll in one usable piece.”
His palms spread upward, Baskin said, “On my word of honour.”
“And lastly,” said Frost, ‘that poor slag of a stripper — who got herself beaten up in the woods. It would be a noble gesture if you kept her on your payroll until she was well enough to work again.”
“Now hold hard,” Baskin protested. “That could take ages… months.”
‘ But nowhere near as long as seven years,” Frost pointed out.
A deep sigh of total surrender. “All right. I’ll pay her.”
Frost drained his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up. “I can’t make any promises,
Harry. I shall simply tell the girl’s parents that she applied for an audition here as a dancer and that’s where we picked her up. I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea the girl will keep her mouth shut, but there’s no way I can force her.”
“I owe you one,” said Baskin.
“Where do I find the girl?” asked Frost.
“In her dressing room, first left, the end of the corridor.”
Webster was waiting outside, still glowering but inwardly feeling sick in the knowledge that this was the end of his career in the force. Why, oh why, couldn’t he learn to control his temper? As Frost approached he glared at him with all the bitter resentment of a man who knows he is completely in the wrong. Let him say one word, just one bloody word, he thought.
With a curt jerk of his head, Frost ordered the constable to follow him. When at last he spoke, the rebuke was fairly mild. “That was bloody stupid, son.”
“Thank you, I’ve worked that out for myself,” snarled Webster. “I suppose you can’t wait to report me to Mullett?”
“Report what to Mullett?” asked Frost. “I saw nothing. Baskin tells me he tripped and banged his nose against the wall. From the size of his hooter I’m inclined to believe that’s more than possible.”
At first he couldn’t take in what the inspector was saying. In that one punch he was sure he had thrown everything away, but suddenly, with his feet on the gallows trap, the last-minute reprieve. Relief made sweat trickle coldly down his back. He wanted to thank Frost but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “How did you get Baskin to agree to that?”
‘ By telling him we wouldn’t bring any charges in respect of the girl.”
Webster stopped dead in his tracks. “No charges? After what he’s done? He’s corrupted a juvenile.”
“Corrupted?” repeated Frost. “Do you really think Baskin was the first? Your sweet, innocent fifteen-year-old virgin has been on the pill for God knows how long…”
Webster stared at him blankly. “On the pill..”.”
“Yes, son. I found the packet in her bedroom last night. They were prescribed for the mother, who must have passed them on to Karen.”
Webster was stunned. “You never told me?”
“I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case, son. The kid was missing. We were called in to find her. Anything else was between her and her mother. Ah, this must be her dressing room.”
They had turned the corner and were in a short corridor with three doors leading off it. One door was marked Staff Toilets Men, another Staff Toilets Women and the door in between, Artists’ Dressing Room. The glamour of show business, thought Frost. “Right, son. She’s inside. Go and get her.” He stepped back.
Webster rapped on the door.
“Yes,” called a girl’s voice.
“Karen, it’s the police.”
Frost groaned. Webster shouldn’t have given the game away. He should have barged straight in and grabbed her. His fears were confirmed by a scuffling sound from inside the dressing room, then two loud clicks as the door bolts were rammed home.
“It’s the police, Karen,” repeated Webster, banging on the door. “Open up.”
“Piss off,” screamed the young schoolgirl.
“Kick the door in,” ordered Frost. “Harry Baskin won’t mind.”
Webster stepped back and kicked, his toe landing just below the door handle. One kick was enough. The door crashed back. He stepped inside a cheerless room with a long, greasy finger marked mirror above a Formica ledge that ran the length of one wall. He couldn’t see Karen. Then someone in the mirror moved. He spun around and there was the girl, stark naked, her clothes bundled in her hand, moving quickly to the door. He reached forward to grab at her. She hurled the clothes in his face, then her knee came up savagely. He doubled up, breathless, almost screaming with pain. Sweet, innocent Karen certainly knew how to hurt a man! He reached out blindly and touched naked flesh, then jerked his head back as long red fingernails clawed bloodied lines down his face. He clutched her wrists, pulling her hands away, finding enough breath to yelp in agony as her teeth sank into his arm.
“I could do with some help, Inspector,” he roared, shaking his wrist free of teeth.
Frost’s head poked around the door, saw the problem, and hastily retreated. “Stand guard outside, son. I’ll send for a woman officer.”
Some fourteen minutes later Dave Shelby’s patrol car nosed its way to the club entrance, and Shelby, followed by detective constable Susan Harvey, climbed out. They sauntered across to the reception lobby where Frost was waiting.
“Here we are, Inspector,” Shelby announced. “One lady police officer delivered safe and sound, as requested.”
“Thank you, Constable,” said Frost coldly, not responding to Shelby’s jocular manner. He was going to have a few quiet words with him when he got him on his own, words that would knock the cockiness out of him.
Unabashed, Shelby asked, “You’re not on this rape inquiry, are you, sir?”
“No,” replied Frost. “If you want to confess you’ll have to see Mr.
Allen.”
Shelby flipped open his notebook. “Can I give you the details? I know who made that anonymous phone call last night. I’ve just interviewed him.”
Frost waved the notebook away. “Give it to Mr. Allen. I’m up to my armpits in naked fifteen-year-old girls at the moment.”
“Some people have all the luck,” called Shelby, quickly walking back to his car.
Frost watched him go. “He’s in a hurry. I’d have thought naked fifteen-year-olds were right up his street.” He turned to the woman constable. “Did he manage to keep his hands off you, Sue?”
She smiled. “He knows better than to try anything with me.”
Frost raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “I’ve summed you up all wrong then, Sue girl. I’d have thought one tickle of his Errol Flynn moustache on your cheek and you wouldn’t be able to get your knickers off fast enough.”
Susan grinned. “What’s the problem, sir?”
He filled her in on the details, then took her back to the dressing room where the wounded Webster, patiently mounting guard, managed a grin of delight when he saw Susan. “Karen’s wedged the chair against the door handle,” he told them.
Susan tried the handle and banged on the door. “Karen, I’m a police officer. Open up.”
“Piss off,” called the girl.
“That’s French for “go away”,” explained Frost. “Boot it in again, son.”
The door crashed back from the onslaught. Karen, her eyes blazing, fingernails clawed, was crouching, ready to meet them, like a karate fighter. She was still stark naked and was not going to let them take her without a fight.
Sue moved into the room; the girl lunged forward to meet her. At the last moment, the woman officer sidestepped and stabbed out her foot to catch the girl on the ankle, sending her sprawling to the floor. Then Sue was down on her, her knee in the girl’s back, her hand forcing the girl’s arm high above her shoulder blades. All Karen could do was scream obscenities and pound the floor impotently with her free hand.