Frankie (15 page)

‘I'm sorry,' Carter replied, humbled slightly. ‘I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. But I do have to ask these questions, and you must think carefully about them.'

Harriet nodded gently.

‘Can you think of any reason at all why Francesca might have run away?'

‘No,' she said meekly. Carter was looking directly at her when she said it, and she appeared to be avoiding his eyes. He sensed there was something she wasn't telling him, but there was a look of frailty around her face that hinted that if he probed too far she was likely to crack.

‘Mrs Johnson,' he said mildly, ‘I wonder if there's anyone else I can speak to.'

‘Well, there's my husband,' she said uncertainly, ‘but he's at work. I'm not sure there's anything –'

‘I mean someone outside the family,' Carter interrupted. ‘Someone Francesca might have confided in. A close friend, perhaps.'

Harriet shook her head. ‘She was always quite a solitary girl,' she explained. ‘Hard-working; she didn't have many friends.'

‘What about teachers, then? Did she go to school in the village?'

She nodded.

‘And?'

‘You'll have to ask them.' Suddenly it seemed as if she had clammed shut. Carter furrowed his brow at her quizzically, as if to ask her to expand on what she had just said, but Harriet was looking down at her hands resting on her lap. Everything about her body language suggested she had said as much as she was prepared to say. But he felt she was hiding something.

He decided to try a different tack. ‘Has Francesca's room changed much since she left?'

Harriet shook her head mutely.

‘Do you mind if I take a look?'

She took him upstairs and opened the door. The bedroom was neat and tidy, everything in its place. Teddy bears were piled at the end of the bed, and even her study books were neatly stacked against the large hi-fi, which had probably been top of the range four years ago, but now looked rather old-fashioned. Carter looked at the photos above the bed. ‘Was that your husband?' he asked as sensitively as he could.

‘Yes.'

‘And are there any pictures of Mr Johnson in here?'

Harriet shook her head, to be met by an inquiring look from Carter. ‘They never got on,' she told him in a quiet voice. ‘She thought I married too soon after her father's death.' She turned to look out of the window. ‘I only wanted her to be happy,' she said in a voice full of emotion. She began to sob.

Carter realized he had reached the end of the line here – for today at least. This woman needed to be left alone with her sorrow. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Johnson,' he said. ‘You've been very helpful. I'll show myself out.'

Carter was pensive as his car trundled down the driveway. What wasn't she telling him? Something about the whole situation made no sense at all. Why would a young girl run away from such a nice home? Her mother seemed like a decent enough woman, despite her reticence – but why would she hold something back? Maybe she just didn't want the police to catch up with her daughter. Maybe she was scared of the consequences. Maybe. But somehow he didn't think so.

He parked the car outside the pub and walked in. A burly barman with tattooed arms was sitting behind the
bar reading the paper. He looked up as Carter walked in. ‘What'll you have, squire?'

‘Actually, mate, I was wondering if you could tell me where the local secondary school is.'

‘Right out the pub, first on your left. You can't miss it.'

‘Thank you,' Carter replied. He looked around the pub. It was full of memorabilia – old pictures of nearby landmarks, press cuttings of village events. If ever there was a locals' pub, this was it. ‘Actually, mate,' he said as an afterthought, ‘maybe you can help me a bit more. Do you know the Johnson family at all?'

The barman shrugged. ‘A bit,' he said warily. ‘Why?'

‘Do you know anything about their daughter, Francesca?'

The barman was looking more hostile now. ‘Who's asking?' he mumbled.

‘DI Carter, Serious Fraud Office.'

The barman's face twitched slightly. ‘Right. You a copper?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, I don't know anything. She ran away from home a few years ago. Hasn't been heard of. Now are you buying a drink or not?'

Carter took the hint. ‘No, you're OK, thanks.' He turned and left.

What was his problem? Why was everyone being so damn secretive?

The playground to the school was empty as he walked across it to the main entrance. A neat little sign directed all visitors to the reception, so he followed the directions and soon arrived at the door, which was painted an institutional grey colour, and knocked. A couple of minutes
later he was being led down an echoing hallway to the headmaster's office. The smell of the place – that curious mixture of overcooked school dinners and freshly polished wooden floors – brought back memories of his own schooldays, and he smiled as he passed a noticeboard with a list of rules and regulations. No doubt they seemed impossibly severe to the young pupils in this place – God knows he'd been inspired to flout his own school rules in his time. A couple of kids ran down the corridor, screeching to a more sensible pace at the sight of grownups. Sean felt their curious eyes on him as they passed, but avoided meeting their gaze. It was weird: he'd been in the same room as some of the most dangerous criminals in London without batting an eyelid, but kids always made him feel uncomfortable. Just not used to them, he supposed.

The headmaster was a rotund little man, red-faced and slightly balding; he had a fairly jolly air to him. ‘Peter McGill,' he introduced himself. ‘Do sit down, Mr …'

‘Carter,' Sean replied. ‘DI Carter, Serious Fraud Office.'

The little man looked worried – people often did when he introduced himself like that. He assumed they were worried he might have caught up with them about some dodgy expenses on an old tax return. ‘Don't worry,' he reassured the head. ‘I just need to ask you a few questions about a former pupil at this school. How long have you been headmaster here?'

‘About ten years. Often seems like longer.' He chuckled slightly at his own joke.

‘Do you remember a pupil by the name of Francesca Mills?'

A shadow fell across Mr McGill's face. ‘Yes, of course.
Poor Francesca. A lovely girl. Polite, hard-working. It was all terribly sad.'

Carter nodded in sympathy. He had taken an instant liking to this man – everything about him said that he took the care of his young charges very seriously indeed. ‘Mr McGill, I'm going to be very frank with you if you don't mind.'

‘Please …'

‘I need to find Francesca Mills very urgently.'

‘Inspector Carter, I'm sorry – I thought even the police had assumed that, well, that she was dead.'

‘I have good reason to believe that's not the case.'

The headmaster nodded soberly, then picked up the phone. ‘Hi, could you get Brenda for me, please?' He replaced the receiver and looked back at Carter. ‘If you don't mind,' he continued, ‘I'd like to ask another teacher to join us. Mrs Phillips – Brenda Phillips. She was Francesca's form teacher, and – well, I'll let her explain …'

He stood up and left the room. Five minutes later he returned with a youngish woman in her middle to late thirties, fair-haired and bespectacled with an open, honest face. ‘Brenda Phillips, this is DI Carter from the Serious Fraud Office. He wants to ask you some questions about Francesca Mills.' Mrs Phillips nodded her head and took a seat.

‘Mrs Phillips, do you have any idea why Francesca ran away?'

‘Yes,' the teacher replied. ‘I believe I do.'

Carter gestured at her to continue.

‘A few months before she disappeared, I found Francesca alone in a classroom. She was sitting at a desk crying
her eyes out. I asked her what was wrong. It was very unlike her – she was a happy little soul, although I had noticed her retreating into herself for a little while beforehand. She said nothing was wrong, and was very reluctant to continue the conversation, so I told her that if she ever wanted to tell me something in complete confidence, she only had to say. Then I left her alone.

‘A week later she came to see me. I asked her what was wrong and …' Mrs Phillips suddenly looked uncomfortable, and turned to the headmaster for reassurance.

‘Go on, Brenda,' he said. ‘It's OK.'

She took a deep breath. ‘She told me that she was being sexually abused by her stepfather.'

Carter closed his eyes. Suddenly so many things made sense.

‘She didn't use those words, of course. She said that he came into her room at night and “touched” her. I alerted Mr McGill and we contacted social services.'

‘And?'

McGill took up the story. ‘Social services interviewed Mr Johnson and decided that he had no case to answer.'

Carter looked puzzled. ‘Why?'

‘Well, he claimed that Francesca had never really accepted him and, in her childlike way, was always trying to undermine his relationship with her mother. According to him this was just another in a long line of lies she had told to try and get him into trouble.'

‘And Mrs Johnson?'

‘Stood by him. Claimed she knew nothing of what Francesca was alleging and that she would be astonished if it was true.'

The three of them sat in silence. A bell rang in the
corridor indicating the end of a lesson, and there was a sound from all around of chairs being scraped.

Carter looked at the two teachers in turn. ‘You don't believe Mr Johnson, do you?'

They eyed each other awkwardly. ‘Mr Johnson was cleared of any wrongdoing by social services and by an internal police investigation,' Mr McGill said a bit stiffly. ‘You're aware that he's in the police force, I presume.'

Carter nodded and was about to say something when Mrs Phillips interrupted.

‘Francesca Mills was not the kind of girl to tell a lie like that. I spoke to her. I held her when she was so tearful she couldn't speak. There is no doubt in my mind that that girl was being abused. I don't know how long for, or to what extent, but I've always believed that is why she ran away. After Mr Johnson was cleared, it was made perfectly plain to me by the authorities that I should not tell anyone about the claims. Francesca barely spoke to me again. I imagine she thought I'd let her down. That everyone had let her down. And to be honest, I wouldn't blame her. We all thought she was dead – I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that she's not. I always blamed myself for betraying her confidence, and not helping more.'

Her face was severe, her voice trembling. There was no doubting her conviction.

‘Thank you for your frankness, Mrs Phillips,' Carter said sincerely. ‘You've been most helpful.'

Frankie arrived for work early. It was a strange concept for her – arriving for work – and she felt rather odd as she walked the streets of Bath towards the flower shop. She had chosen somewhere to sleep that was a good distance away, as she didn't want June to know she was sleeping rough, but she had waited a good three-quarters of an hour outside the shop before June came down from her flat above and opened up.

‘You must be freezing!' she exclaimed when she saw Frankie standing outside the door shivering. ‘How long have you been standing there?'

‘Not long,' Frankie lied. ‘I just got here.'

‘I don't believe you for a minute. Look at you – your lips are blue.' She practically pulled Frankie into the shop. ‘Now, you can put your coat in the back room,' June told her as she pulled her newspaper in from the letter box, placed it down on the table and switched the shop lights on. The strip bulbs flickered slightly before illuminating the room. ‘And if you've brought any sandwiches you can pop them in the fridge.' She looked at Frankie's empty hands. ‘Ah well, not to worry,' she said lightly. ‘I'm sure I can rustle something up for the both of us at lunchtime.'

Frankie stood awkwardly in the centre of the shop. ‘What would you like me to do?' she asked nervously.

‘Oh first things first,' June said in her light southern accent. ‘It's far too cold to start working without a hot
drink inside us. Sit down and I'll make us a nice cup of tea. Then we can get the displays out.'

Frankie sat down in the same seat she had occupied the previous afternoon and stole a glance at the newspaper while June put the kettle on.

Her heart stopped. She was on the front page – the same picture that she'd seen in the other newspaper, only twice as big this time.

She quickly put the paper face down on the table and glanced back at June. She was happily babbling away to herself about something or other – Frankie wasn't listening – and then she went into the back room. Frankie picked the paper up again and started to read.

PLEASE COME HOME! A MOTHER'S PLEA

Well-to-do Harriet Johnson, 51, made this impassioned plea when it was revealed that her daughter, Francesca Mills, was wanted by police in connection with the murder of a known criminal in London earlier this week. Francesca, 19, has not been in contact with her mother and stepfather, a local policeman, for 4 years.

Speaking from her comfortable home in leafy Surrey, a tearful Mrs Johnson could offer no insight into why her daughter should have gone off the rails in such a spectacular fashion. When asked whether her daughter was capable of such an action, she replied simply, ‘Of course not.'

The murdered man has been named as Robert Strut, a known pimp and drug dealer. It is thought that his killer may have been working for him at the time.

Her eyes drifted away from the words. In the corner of the page was a picture of her mother, standing looking
haggard at the door. It had been so long since Frankie had seen her, she'd almost forgotten how to conjure the image of her in her head. Now it all came flooding back in a maelstrom of emotions that she could not identify.

She quickly put the paper down again as June placed a cup of tea on the table for her and sat down. She reached for the paper. ‘What's wrong with you, dearie?' she asked, looking at Frankie with concern. ‘You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

Frankie said nothing. She just shook her head, stood up and turned her back on June, walking up to the tea things and spooning some sugar into her cup. She knew she looked different enough to the picture in the paper – to the casual eye at least – but surely someone sitting right opposite her would notice the similarity. She heard the rustling of the paper behind her, and then a silence. She dared not look round. ‘I have something I have to ask you,' June said in a clear voice after a few moments.

Frankie turned to look at her, not knowing what she would do if she was challenged by this sweet lady who had been so kind to her.

‘Are you good at crosswords?'

Frankie blinked. June had opened the paper in the middle, then folded it back on itself so that a page of crosswords and puzzles was displayed. ‘I'm not bad myself, but they're so much more fun with two, don't you think? It's the only reason I buy a paper,' she confided. ‘I much prefer to listen to the radio. So, are you any good?'

The younger woman shook her head. ‘No,' she said shortly. ‘No, I don't really do them very often.'

‘Ah well, I'm sure you're better than you think.' June sipped at her tea and peered down at the crossword.

‘Look,' said Frankie, wanting to keep moving so that her companion did not have a chance to browse through the newspaper with her sitting right opposite, ‘why don't I start putting things out? I think you should have more flowers on display outside than you did yesterday. People like to see a bit of colour when it's so grey and miserable outside, and they should be OK in the cold, as long as it doesn't freeze.' She looked around and started grabbing pots of colourful blooms and green foliage, which she carried out and began to arrange on the empty metal shelving outside the shop.

June watched her, her face inscrutable. Finally she sighed. ‘Very well,' she said as Frankie came back in to fetch more display material. ‘I can see I'm going to have to keep on my toes when you're about, young lady.'

Frankie stopped. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I didn't mean to be bossy.'

June waved her arm dismissively. ‘No, no, you're right. Let's get to work.'

‘And June.' Frankie put her hand lightly on the older woman's arm. ‘Thank you. You don't know how much I appreciate what you've done for me.'

Mark Taylor picked up his phone. ‘Sean Carter here to see you, sir.'

Taylor sighed. ‘OK, show him up.'

Once again Taylor didn't bother with the pretence of a greeting, he just indicated with a wave of his hand and not much enthusiasm that Carter should take a seat. Sean did so, then dumped a copy of a newspaper on the desk. ‘Your handiwork?' he asked lightly.

‘What's it got to do with you?'

‘Oh come on, Mark. You
know
the commissioner's given me permission to use the Met's resources. Why do you have to make this so difficult?'

Taylor turned his attention back to what he was doing. ‘And I suppose the commissioner is delighted that you got me to send four members of armed response to arrest an out-of-work builder who was just settling down to have a cup of tea in front of the telly. I'm just filling in the paperwork now – you know how much I love paperwork. And for your information,' he nodded at the newspaper, ‘that's got nothing to do with me. In any case, why are you getting so worked up? She was in the paper two days ago. Some hack's been sniffing around and came up with the girl's identity about the same time as we did – the press office just confirmed what he already knew. We probably would have released her details to the press as we've got nothing else to go on, but he saved us a job. Got a problem with it?'

Carter shrugged. ‘I just want her not to go further underground.'

Taylor shook his head. ‘It's not likely. Her prints are on file, so if she gets into some sort of trouble – likely, knowing the kind of people she was hanging around with – then we'll be able to bring her in. Apart from that, our only hope is if she gets in touch with the parents.' He flicked the newspaper. ‘Which means
this
could actually help.'

Carter shook his head. ‘She won't be getting in touch with her mother.'

‘Really? Well, you'll forgive me, Sean, if I take your hunch with a pinch of salt this time.'

Carter looked at his old friend. It had always been this
way. Sometimes he felt he understood his anger; at other times it was inexplicable to him. Today he was in two minds. But what he wished more than anything at this moment was that he could talk to Taylor the way they used to. Get his help. It was a lonely business doing what he did, and while he could handle loneliness elsewhere in his life, on the job sometimes you just needed a friendly ear. ‘It's more than a hunch, Mark,' he told him. ‘I've done some snooping.'

Taylor smiled briefly. ‘Investigating, you mean.'

‘Whatever. I asked around and talked to one of the girl's former teachers. It seems that just before she disappeared, Francesca Mills accused her stepfather of abusing her.'

Taylor looked at him with distaste. ‘But he's on the force …'

‘I know. Social services decided he didn't have a case to answer, and apparently there was an internal inquiry that cleared him. Reading between the lines, it looks like the mother believed him too. Francesca ran off soon after.'

‘How do you know she was telling the truth? Kids lie about stuff like that all the time. Not that that's exactly your area of expertise.' It was an unkind joke, but some-how Sean knew it was not meant to be as unkind as it sounded.

‘I don't,' Carter admitted. ‘But the teacher was convinced. It all kind of figures – if the stepfather's on the force, he'll have seen situations like this before now. He'd know what to say to get social services on his side. And the mother was definitely hiding something.'

‘Bastard,' Taylor muttered under his breath. It was one thing they could agree on. ‘I spoke to him only a few days ago. He said he'd do anything to help us bring her in.'

‘Of course he did,' Carter stated flatly. ‘He's probably spent the last few years thinking his stepdaughter was dead. Suddenly she pops up again and he's nervous. If he can help get her a conviction for manslaughter at the very least, it makes her story even less convincing and him even more upstanding.'

‘That's a pretty big accusation, Sean. A serving officer trying to get his stepdaughter convicted for manslaughter to save his own skin.'

Carter nodded grimly.

‘But how come the papers didn't pick up on this?' Taylor asked quizzically.

‘It seems the teacher was very discreet. And they can't just print wild speculation, even if they did find out,' Carter explained. ‘And remember, there were no charges. So we can't let him know that we're on to him.'

‘Why the hell not?'

‘Because he's being helpful. At the moment, the family are the only link we have to Francesca Mills. We might need them in the future, and we don't want to scare this guy off.'

Taylor laid his pen on the desk. ‘You don't have a daughter, Sean.'

He shook his head. ‘You know I don't.'

‘Well, let me tell you how it is. If someone did something like that to Samantha, I'd kill him. Without a second thought.'

‘I know, Mark. But you've seen this happen before, and you'll see it again. We both know that.'

The two men sat in silence at the thought.

‘Well, it doesn't really change anything,' Taylor said abruptly, suddenly uncomfortable with the vague sense
of camaraderie the news had engendered between the two of them. ‘She's still missing, and we still don't know how to find her. If she's got any sense, she'll keep her head down and make sure it stays that way.' He went back to his paperwork.

‘I know,' said Carter, as he prepared to leave. ‘That's what I'm afraid of.'

But Taylor wasn't listening.

Back at the office, Carter did his best to ignore the frustration building up inside him. A few days ago he had been in control, ready to bag the biggest conviction of his career; now he was flailing around, desperately trying to follow up a barely existent lead. This sort of detective work, he knew, was all about your gut feeling. Evidence could wait till later; all he needed to do now was trust his instincts. And his instincts told him that if Francesca Mills had managed to stay hidden from the ones who loved her all this time, she wasn't going to crawl out of the woodwork for him. He slammed the door to his office shut, took his phone off the hook and looked with loathing at the pile of files on his desk. There were other cases he had to attend to, but he knew he would not be able to concentrate on any of them while the image of Rosemary's grotesque corpse remained unexorcized in his mind.

He had to get his hands on that information, and he knew his chances of locating the locket were almost non-existent. Up until now, he had been reluctant to seek a warrant to search the bank's computer systems – it would just alert them to his suspicions, and in any case they had probably removed any trace of the transactions
he was after once they knew that Rosemary was on to them. But now he didn't seem to have any other choice. With his boss, Andrew Meeken, at a training seminar for the rest of the week, he strode out of the office and went to find the secretary of the director of the SFO.

Minutes later he was being ushered into the director's office. Alistair Baker was a small man with a full head of suspiciously black hair that belied the fact that he was only a year or so from retirement. He wasn't an unfriendly man, from the few encounters Carter had had with him, just a bit distant.

‘Come in, Carter.' Baker smiled, and the creases on his face became more pronounced. ‘How are you?'

Carter shrugged. He wasn't really in the mood for small talk. ‘Not too bad,' he replied blandly.

‘Good. What can I do for you?'

‘I need a Section 2.' This was a special power that the SFO had in order to question people or obtain documents in a hurry – especially when they believed documents or computer files may be destroyed in order to hide evidence.

‘To do what?'

‘Search the records of Lenham, Borwick and Hargreaves.'

Baker nodded impassively. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Andrew Meeken informed me that you were investigating them. What do you hope to find?'

‘Details of a high-level fraud,' he explained, ‘possibly involving a government minister.'