Frankie (11 page)

Frankie had no way of telling the time – the watch she had received for her thirteenth birthday had broken – but she estimated that she would have to wait about twenty minutes. That would be long enough for the clothes to get reasonably dry and for the other customers to forget the half-noticed face of their true owner, but not so long that she would risk the woman coming back and catching her red-handed. So she sat there, keeping her head down and doing her best not to be noticed, estimating how much time had passed.

Finally she decided to make her move. She walked to the end of the parade of shops, where there was a small alleyway, and carefully placed her blanket by a rubbish bin – she knew nothing shouted out that she was homeless louder than that item. Then, taking a deep breath, she walked as confidently as she could into the laundrette. For once nobody paid her any attention as she entered. It was warm inside and smelled of heated washing powder – a comforting fragrance that Frankie had almost forgotten. Only two of the dryers were in use: one of them had a customer sitting in front of it, the other just a colourful plastic laundry bag. She walked straight up to it, opened the dryer and started to stuff the still slightly damp clothes into the bag. Nobody spoke as she tried to squeeze in all the crumpled laundry, but as she struggled with the zip she felt everyone's eyes burning through her. She immediately knew, instinctively, that they were suspicious – they were just being timid about confronting her. It would need only one of them to take the plunge, though. Frankie had to get out.

She picked up the laundry bag, ignoring the fact that a pair of tights was still trailing from it, and went straight back to the door. ‘Excuse me …' someone said falteringly behind her, but she did not turn to see who it was – she just opened the door and ran. She heard the voice behind her once again – ‘Hey, that's not yours!' – so she didn't stop to pick up the blanket she had stashed in the alleyway. She just ran and ran until her lungs hurt and her legs would not physically take her any further. Only then did she look behind her.

There was no one. She had got away with it.

She slipped down a deserted side street and took shelter
in the shadow of a big yellow skip full of rubbish. Rummaging through the clothes she found very little that was of use to her – large underwear and colourful headdresses, mostly – but there were two jumpers, one far too small and one far too big, that would at least disguise her a little, and keep her warm. Taking off her coat, she ripped the seams of the smaller jumper so that she could pull it on, then covered it with the larger one. It was a chunky polo neck with pink and white stripes – not that Frankie was looking at the colour – and still damp. If I walk around, it will soon dry off, she thought. She pulled her coat back over the jumpers, and then a small headdress caught her eye. It was plain, just a square of pale blue material. She picked it out of the bag and tentatively, as if remembering something she had done many times before but had half forgotten, she placed the material over her hair and tied two opposite corners together. Her newly black hair peeked out from under the front of the headscarf, and the colour of the material made her already blue eyes seem more piercing. She stood up with an air of delicate confidence, and walked back out into the street.

Had anyone paid her any attention as she walked serenely across the road, they might even have thought she was pretty.

It was ten-thirty, and Harriet Johnson was sitting at the kitchen table, still in her dressing gown having not slept all night. An untouched cup of coffee sat on the table in front of her, but it had gone cold long ago. Her eyes were red from crying, and they stared ahead of her. The soft murmur of the radio played in the background, but Harriet barely heard it.

The phone rang; she didn't acknowledge it. It had been ringing on and off all morning, but she didn't want to speak to anyone. Not even William. Especially not William, in fact. She knew it was illogical, but somewhere in her confused mind she couldn't help blaming him for all this. Why had he told his colleagues? Why couldn't he just do this one thing for her? She knew his motives were for the best; deep down she knew he was right. But that didn't change how she felt.

The attitude of DI Mark Taylor, who had come round to question her, had said it all. He had tried his best to be polite, of course, but there was no way that Harriet could persuade him that Francesca was anything more than a street bum. But although she'd seen with her own eyes the picture taken from the CCTV, she still couldn't believe that her daughter was a killer. The most haunting thing was the look in her eyes. Desperate. Hunted. Harriet remembered when Francesca was a small child, toddling around on sturdy little legs – her eyes had been the most appealing thing about her. Soft and beautiful. Eyes to fall in love with. Eyes like that should never be filled with such fear. Harriet felt her own eyes welling up again as the phone stopped ringing.

How long she sat there gazing into space she couldn't say. Suddenly, though, there was a tap at the window that made Harriet jump. She looked up to see her friend Sally standing there, waving at her with a cheery smile that turned into a quizzical look when she saw the blank, unsmiling expression on Harriet's face as she stood up slowly and went to open the door.

‘Harriet, I…' Sally was flustered to see her friend in
her dressing gown so late in the morning. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were still …'

But Harriet had turned her back on her and was heading back to the table.

Sally closed the door quietly and followed her. ‘Harrie,' she asked, her voice unable to mask her concern, ‘is everything all right?'

Harriet put her face in her palms and started to weep.

‘What on earth's the matter?' Sally persisted, putting her arm tenderly around her crying companion.

Between sobs, Harriet pointed to the work surface where a photograph lay. Sally picked it up. ‘Oh my …' she whispered. ‘Harriet, is this Francesca?'

Harriet nodded.

‘Where did you get this? Is she all right?'

‘The police gave it to me,' Harriet managed to gasp. ‘They think she's killed someone.'

Sally looked incredulously at her. ‘
Killed
someone? They can't think that.'

‘Do I look like I'm making it up?' Harriet snapped.

‘No, no,' Sally tried to mollify her. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I just meant … well … Francesca. There must be some mistake.'

‘I don't know. I just don't know.' Harriet's crying started to subside now, as if she hardly had the energy to summon up the tears.

‘Can't William do something? Speak to people …' Sally asked vaguely.

Harriet shook her head. ‘It was he who told the police that I recognized her on TV. He says we can't keep it a secret, that we'll only make more trouble for her if we do.'

‘Yes, of course.' Sally nodded her head. ‘Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?'

Harriet pulled a tissue from up her sleeve and dabbed at her face. ‘No,' she replied. ‘No, thank you. Just …'

‘What is it?'

‘Just keep this to yourself, won't you? I don't want the whole village knowing about it.'

‘Of course I will.' Her eyes flickered back down to the picture. ‘Call me if you want anything, won't you?'

‘I will,' Harriet replied, watching her friend let herself out. ‘I will.'

In central London, the clouds had cleared. It was still sharply cold, but the sky above was a clear blue, and the sun was casting shadows from the trees surrounding the small patch of park in St James's Square, just south of Piccadilly. The snow resting on the railings of the park area had turned overnight from soft powder to hard, crunchy ice; but it looked picturesque, adorning the metal spikes with a gentle, pleasing regularity. In the background was the hum of traffic making its way along Pall Mall, but this square was a respite from all that, a small haven of tranquillity in the crazy bustle of the city. There weren't even that many people here – just the occasional office workers in heavy overcoats on their way to a meeting or nipping out early to buy themselves a sandwich for lunch.

A large black Bentley turned left into the square and slowly drove almost an entire circuit of the one-way road before coming to a halt outside the unmarked door of a rather grand-looking townhouse. The uniformed driver stepped out and opened the rear door nearest the pavement, allowing his passenger to step out. He was a large
man, not in height but in build, and his round face was unsmiling as he spoke to his driver. ‘I shouldn't be more than half an hour,' he told him as he rearranged his scarf.

‘Yes, Mr Tunney,' the driver nodded, before closing the door and stepping back into the warmth of the front seat.

Tunney stood at the bottom of the stone steps that led up to the pretty Georgian townhouse next to the London Library. Unlike all the other buildings in the square it had no sign or plaque to say what it was. He pulled a small mobile phone from his coat pocket and switched it off before walking up the steps and ringing the bell. There was a short pause, then a woman's voice spoke in friendly, patrician tones. ‘Good morning.'

‘Morgan Tunney for Sir Ainsley Cooper,' Tunney grunted.

‘One moment, Mr Tunney,' the voice said politely. There was another pause – clearly she was checking that he was expected – before she spoke again. ‘Do come in, Mr Tunney.' There was a long buzz, and Tunney pushed the door open.

Inside could not have been more different to the austere exterior of the house. As Tunney stamped the snow off his shoes, somebody appeared seemingly out of nowhere to take his coat and scarf. Ahead of him was a long corridor with a plush red carpet, high ceiling and small but elaborate chandeliers; to his right was a reception desk with an immaculately dressed, extremely pretty young receptionist. ‘Good morning, Mr Tunney.' She smiled at him, forcing a grudging smile back from the middle-aged banker. ‘Sir Ainsley is already here. He's waiting for you in the Montgomery Room. Turn left at
the top of the stairs and it's the second room on your right.'

‘Thank you,' Tunney muttered almost under his breath as he walked quickly past the reception desk. To his left was a small dining room, already exquisitely laid out for lunch with creamy starched napkins and bright silver cutlery. If the meeting were to be more congenial, he knew he would have been invited to take lunch there; but today's business was too serious to be discussed over three courses and several bottles of Pomerol. No one was going to be entertaining anyone today. He'd even had to cancel lunch with his daughter – a monthly treat that neither of them would ever consider missing. Tunney headed straight up the stairs, clutching the banisters with his fat, clammy hand.

The door to the Montgomery Room, like all the other doors in this very private club, was a dark mahogany colour. Tunney stood in front of it for a few moments, dusting down the lapels of his expensive, single-breasted, pinstripe suit and needlessly straightening his tie, took a deep breath then knocked firmly on the door. ‘Come,' a voice on the other side sounded. He turned the brass door handle, opened the door and walked in.

The room in which he found himself was richly appointed. A long table stood in the centre, surrounded by comfortable-looking chairs. A tray with a large pot of coffee and a plate of freshly baked biscuits and cakes sat at one end. There was a merry fire blazing in the fireplace at the far end of the room, and the walls were lined with leather-bound books. Looking out onto a deserted courtyard from a floor-to-ceiling window framed by thick velvet curtains was a tall, thin man. He didn't turn round
as Tunney entered the room, but stayed standing there, immobile and unmoved by the awkward silence. ‘Do help yourself to a cup of coffee, Morgan,' the man said in a quiet but deep voice.

‘I won't, thank you,' Tunney replied, out of breath slightly from the exertion of climbing the stairs. ‘Jeanette tells me I drink too much,' he gabbled a bit nervously. ‘Makes for a much quieter life if I just cut down.' He walked the length of the room and stood by the fire. ‘Are the others not here yet?'

The man turned slowly and smiled at him – the sort of smile that betrayed no friendliness. His grey hair was brushed back to disguise his encroaching baldness, his face tanned from a recent family holiday, and healthy-looking despite its reptilian thinness. He spread his arms to indicate that the room was empty apart from the two of them. ‘It would appear not,' he said lightly. ‘Why don't you have a seat, Morgan?'

‘Thank you.' Tunney collapsed into a chair at the head of the table.

‘You don't mind if I stand, I suppose,' Sir Ainsley purred. ‘I find it clarifies my thoughts and helps me think straight. And we need to think straight just at the moment, don't we, Morgan?' He gazed into Tunney's eyes in a way that always made the banker feel uncomfortable.

‘Yes,' he replied, his voice cracking slightly. ‘Yes, we do.'

‘Good. I'm glad we agree on that. It will make our little chat so much more straightforward.'

Tunney didn't answer – he just avoided Sir Ainsley's gaze.

Suddenly Cooper slapped his hand forcefully down on
the table. The coffee cups jangled slightly. ‘What in
heaven's
name were you thinking?' he spat, his bright green eyes glaring with fury. ‘What idiocy possessed you to leave that information at the bank?'

‘Security!' Tunney spoke the word louder than he had intended, then quickly looked nervously at the door. ‘Security,' he repeated himself more quietly.

Cooper stood up straight and regained his composure. ‘How could it possibly ensure the security of our venture, Morgan? If this information falls into the wrong hands …'

‘Not
your
security!' Tunney was less deferential now, angry that Cooper had spoken to him in such a way and contemptuous that he was taking him for an idiot; but he still seemed unsure of himself. ‘Mine. Those documents can put me in prison for a very long time, as well as you. Do you really think I'm going to let someone else be the only person to have a copy?'