Winter Frost

'Where now, guv?' asked Morgan, hoping the inspector would say 'Back to the station' so he could calm his rumbling stomach with a canteen breakfast. But Frost had other ideas.

'We're going to call on super-ponce Harry Grafton. He's the one who tells Mickey which toms to beat up.'

The wages of sin had definitely paid off for Harry Grafton. Denton Grange was a large brick gabled house in mock Tudor, set well back behind a small spinney which sheltered it from the vulgar gaze of people driving along the main road — probably on their way to one of Harry's prostitutes. They passed a 'Warning!! — Guard Dogs' sign and coasted through the spinney and on to the main entrance. Four expensive cars were parked in front of the house. The doors of a mock Tudor garage were open and a heavily built man, carefully polishing an already gleaming silver grey Rolls-Royce, looked up as Frost's Ford juddered to an exhaust-coughing halt. He put down his chamois leather and walked over to them. 'If you haven't got an appointment, piss off.'

'I've got something better than an appointment, Jeeves,' said Frost. 'I've got this.' He flashed his warrant card. 'Kindly inform your master the fuzz want to see him.'

The man scowled at the card, then led them inside the house to an oak-panelled hall. 'Wait,' he grunted as he disappeared down the passage.

'Did he say "Feel free to look around"?' asked Frost. 'Let's see how the rich pimps live.' He pushed open a door which led into a large room with bay windows overlooking a lawn and a covered swimming pool. The room held the rich smells of expensive leather, wool and cigar smoke. Their feet sank ankle deep into thick-piled carpeting on which stood a five-seater settee in pale blue hide and four matching armchairs. Frost sniffed in the heady aromas. 'The smell of opulence, Taff,' he said, dropping down into one of the armchairs, his eyes taking in the forty-two-inch wide-screen digital TV set with surround sound, the massive corner bar, complete with beer pumps, then up to the ceiling which was painted a midnight blue and decorated with silver stars. 'All it wants is a slop bucket and a spittoon;' he decided, 'and it would be a proper home from home. I wonder how many dicks had to work overtime to pay for this little lot.'

The door clicked open and Harry Grafton came in, a swarthy-skinned man in his mid-forties, dark hair balding, a thin black moustache and cold eyes which failed to match the oily smile. He wore a scarlet dressing-gown and could barely close his mouth over the fat cigar between his lips. The car polisher was at his side.

'Inspector Frost. An unexpected pleasure.' He clicked his fingers and pointed to a cassette recorder on a side table which his sidekick switched to record. 'I hope you don't mind, gentlemen. I like to have all conversations recorded, in case there is any dispute as to what has been said.'

'A wise precaution, Harry,' nodded Frost. 'It stops me from lying my bloody head off. We want to see Mickey Harris.'

Grafton pulled the cigar from his mouth and studied the glowing end. 'Mickey? Why?'

'Grievous bodily harm. He beat up a torn last night.'

Grafton smiled as if the idea were preposterous. 'And what makes you think it was Mickey?'

'She fingered him.'

Harry Grafton frowned, then clicked the smile back on. 'She was mistaken, Inspector. Mickey was here all night, never went out.'

Frost shook his head and tutted. 'God can hear you telling these lies, Harry.'

Grafton walked over to the cassette recorder and pressed the pause button. 'Off the record, Inspector, I do look after a few girls. It's hard enough for them to make a living at the best of times without these young amateurs muscling in on their territory. There's not enough trade to go round, so sometimes we have to give them a little slap on the wrist and suggest they would be better opening up shop elsewhere.'

'This was more than a little slap, Harry. Mickey put this seventeen-year-old kid in hospital. Broken nose, cracked ribs — she was coughing up bits of blood and teeth when I saw her. Put me right off my black pudding for breakfast.'

It was Grafton's turn to do the head-shaking and tut-tutting act as he released the pause button on the recorder. 'Disgraceful, Inspector. The animals who do that should be put inside — but it wasn't Mickey. As I said, he was here all night. I have witnesses.'

'Who?'

'Myself and six of my employees.'

'Quantity, but not quality, Harry. A rich pimp and six of his hired thugs.'

'As against the evidence of a single prostitute.' He smiled smugly. 'I think we both know which of us the courts would believe. But to show my good faith, even though I am not involved in this in any way and just to ensure my good name should not be smirched, I will personally see that the unfortunate girl is well compensated.'

I'm sure you could buy her off, Harry, but there was another girl Mickey had a go at.'

'Oh?'

'Mary Adams. Had a place in Clayton Street.'

A brief flicker of recognition instantly suppressed as Grafton again studied the glowing end of the cigar and shook his head vaguely. 'Name means nothing to me. When was this supposed to have taken place?'

'The night before last.'

Grafton smiled. 'Then again it couldn't have been Mickey. He was here all that night as well.' He turned to the car polisher. 'Isn't that right, Richard?'

Richard nodded his vigorous agreement. 'Dead right, Mr Grafton.'

'Mickey didn't stop at slapping her wrist, Harry. He killed the poor cow.'

The cigar drooped as Harry's mouth gaped open. 'Killed…?'

'We're talking murder, Harry, and we've got Mickey well and truly in the frame. Before we start discussing perjury and perverting the course of justice, do you still want to give him an alibi?'

Grafton's finger crashed down on the stop key of the recorder. He rewound the tape then waited while it erased before turning back to Frost. 'I know nothing about any killings. I don't want anything to do with this.'

'So Mickey wasn't with you the two nights in question?'

'No.'

'Is he here?'

Grafton jerked his head to his sidekick. 'Fetch him.'

As the man sidled out, Grafton snatched the cigar from his mouth and squashed it out in an ashtray shaped like a naked, recumbent woman. Frost winced. It reminded him of the cigarette burns on the dead girl's stomach. Footsteps outside and the sidekick returned with Mickey Harris, a thickset brute of a man in his forties with a boxer's flattened nose and thick ears. He scowled at Frost before turning to Grafton. 'You wanted me, Mr Grafton?'

The fuzz want you for questioning,' snapped Wafton, underlining his instructions with a jab of his finger. 'Keep your mouth shut, don't say a bleeding word, don't even pass the bloody time of day until your lawyer gets there. Right?' Without waiting for Mickey's reply, he turned on his heels and stomped out of the room.

Frost took Harris by the arm. 'Come on, Mickey. We're going walkies.'

Frost thumbed through his in-tray as he impatiently waited for the brief to turn up. Harris wouldn't say a dicky bird until the solicitor arrived. He tugged out a report from Forensic. They hadn't found any traces of blood on the clothes and shoes from Lewis, the boyfriend of Mary Adams, so Mickey Harris was now his one and only prime suspect and somehow he couldn't see Mickey as a strangler. But he was all he had. A groan from Morgan attracted his attention. 'What's up, Taffy? You on heat again?'

'No, guv, it's this damn abscess.' He rubbed his cheek and winced.

'You know what they say, Taff — abscess makes the heart grow fonder.' Morgan quivered a wan smile. He didn't think that half as funny as Frost who was coughing and spluttering with laughter at his own joke.

A tap at the door and Liz Maud entered carrying a couple of case files.