search.
The Coconut Grove was part of a large leisure complex development on the outskirts of Denton, just north of the woods. It consisted of clubs, bars, restaurants, bingo halls, a theatre, a sports pavillion, and myriad other amenities. The police suspected that it catered for the odd spot of prostitution on the side, but they hadn’t been able to prove anything. It was run by a dubious character called Harry Baskin whose other enterprises included a chain of betting shops.
Baskin had bought the land cheap. No-one thought he’d get planning permission for his leisure complex because, under the new town development plan, the area was designated for agricultural purposes only. But, to everyone’s astonishment, planning permission was granted. A couple of months later, the chairman of the planning committee resigned and retired to the Bahamas. Some cynics unkindly suggested that these two events were connected, but no-one said so to Baskin. People who got on the wrong side of Harry Baskin suddenly found they had become extremely accident-prone.
Harry Baskin! Webster wondered where he had heard that name before? “He runs some betting shops, doesn’t he?”
Frost nodded, “He has thirty-seven all over the country. He also has subtle ways of making reluctant losers pay up. The punter wakes up one morning to find his dog’s had its throat cut, or that his car has mysteriously self combusted . . . little nudges like that. No-one owes Harry money for long.”
Leaving the main road, they followed large illuminated signs which beckoned THIS WAY TO DENTON’S FABULOUS LEISURE COMPLEX. A sharp turn, and there it was, a cluster of buildings in gleaming black-and-white mock marble, spangled with tasteful neon signs . . . Bingo . . . Fish and Chips . . . Striptease. Most of the satellite buildings were in darkness, but Frost steered Webster across a car park to the rear section, which a discreet blue neon sign proclaimed to be THE COCONUT GROVE.
They went through revolving doors into a dimly lit foyer where their way was barred by a wall of flesh, the bouncer, a hefty ex-wrestler in evening dress. He had been watching the approach of the mud-splattered Ford and had seen the two men get out. His orders from Mr Baskin were to exclude potential troublemakers, and these two were trouble if ever he’d seen it, especially the load of rough in the crumpled mac.
“Sorry, gentlemen. Members only . . .” he began, moving forward to urge them back through the exit doors.
“American Express,” said Frost, waving his warrant card under the man’s nose. “Tell Harry Baskin the filth are here.”
The bouncer muttered a few words into the house phone, then led them through a passage to a door marked Private . . . No Admittance. Above the door an illuminated sign in red announced Engaged . . . Do Not Enter. The bouncer rapped with his knuckles. The sign turned green and said Please Enter.
Baskin, dark and swarthy, in his late thirties, swivelled morosely from side to side behind a huge desk which contained nothing but the remains of a smoked-salmon sandwich. He wore a midnight-blue evening suit, the sleeves of the coat pulled back slightly to ensure an unrestricted view of oversized solid-gold cuff links, which clanked on his wrists like shackles. Everyone’s in evening dress tonight but me, thought Frost, his trousers still damp about his ankles, his shoes squelching slightly as he walked.
On the walnut-veneered wall behind Baskin were framed and signed photographs of the various celebrities who had visited the leisure complex—boxers, film stars, pop stars—their arms around, shaking hands with, or handing charity cheques to a smiling Harry Baskin. But he wasn’t smiling now. His face was black with anger and furrowed in a frown that could give one of Webster’s a hundred-yard start and still romp home. He didn’t seem very pleased to see Frost.
“Oh, it’s you, Inspector!”
“I’m afraid so,
The Coconut Grove was part of a large leisure complex development on the outskirts of Denton, just north of the woods. It consisted of clubs, bars, restaurants, bingo halls, a theatre, a sports pavillion, and myriad other amenities. The police suspected that it catered for the odd spot of prostitution on the side, but they hadn’t been able to prove anything. It was run by a dubious character called Harry Baskin whose other enterprises included a chain of betting shops.
Baskin had bought the land cheap. No-one thought he’d get planning permission for his leisure complex because, under the new town development plan, the area was designated for agricultural purposes only. But, to everyone’s astonishment, planning permission was granted. A couple of months later, the chairman of the planning committee resigned and retired to the Bahamas. Some cynics unkindly suggested that these two events were connected, but no-one said so to Baskin. People who got on the wrong side of Harry Baskin suddenly found they had become extremely accident-prone.
Harry Baskin! Webster wondered where he had heard that name before? “He runs some betting shops, doesn’t he?”
Frost nodded, “He has thirty-seven all over the country. He also has subtle ways of making reluctant losers pay up. The punter wakes up one morning to find his dog’s had its throat cut, or that his car has mysteriously self combusted . . . little nudges like that. No-one owes Harry money for long.”
Leaving the main road, they followed large illuminated signs which beckoned THIS WAY TO DENTON’S FABULOUS LEISURE COMPLEX. A sharp turn, and there it was, a cluster of buildings in gleaming black-and-white mock marble, spangled with tasteful neon signs . . . Bingo . . . Fish and Chips . . . Striptease. Most of the satellite buildings were in darkness, but Frost steered Webster across a car park to the rear section, which a discreet blue neon sign proclaimed to be THE COCONUT GROVE.
They went through revolving doors into a dimly lit foyer where their way was barred by a wall of flesh, the bouncer, a hefty ex-wrestler in evening dress. He had been watching the approach of the mud-splattered Ford and had seen the two men get out. His orders from Mr Baskin were to exclude potential troublemakers, and these two were trouble if ever he’d seen it, especially the load of rough in the crumpled mac.
“Sorry, gentlemen. Members only . . .” he began, moving forward to urge them back through the exit doors.
“American Express,” said Frost, waving his warrant card under the man’s nose. “Tell Harry Baskin the filth are here.”
The bouncer muttered a few words into the house phone, then led them through a passage to a door marked Private . . . No Admittance. Above the door an illuminated sign in red announced Engaged . . . Do Not Enter. The bouncer rapped with his knuckles. The sign turned green and said Please Enter.
Baskin, dark and swarthy, in his late thirties, swivelled morosely from side to side behind a huge desk which contained nothing but the remains of a smoked-salmon sandwich. He wore a midnight-blue evening suit, the sleeves of the coat pulled back slightly to ensure an unrestricted view of oversized solid-gold cuff links, which clanked on his wrists like shackles. Everyone’s in evening dress tonight but me, thought Frost, his trousers still damp about his ankles, his shoes squelching slightly as he walked.
On the walnut-veneered wall behind Baskin were framed and signed photographs of the various celebrities who had visited the leisure complex—boxers, film stars, pop stars—their arms around, shaking hands with, or handing charity cheques to a smiling Harry Baskin. But he wasn’t smiling now. His face was black with anger and furrowed in a frown that could give one of Webster’s a hundred-yard start and still romp home. He didn’t seem very pleased to see Frost.
“Oh, it’s you, Inspector!”
“I’m afraid so,
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