Frankie (22 page)

All around her the station was buzzing – it was rush hour and the concourse was a sea of activity. She had one foot hooked around a wheel of Jasper's pram, and had been keeping an eye on him as she called Keith. Her son was asleep, blithely unaware of all the bustle around him.

She stood for a moment in the open booth. This wasn't
like Keith – normally he couldn't wait to see his little boy and he had been so adamant on the phone last night that he would be there to pick them both up. There must be some explanation, she told herself as she hitched her rucksack further up her shoulder, then pushed the pram towards the exit and the bus station opposite. Caught up at work, maybe, although it was out of character.

There was a long queue for her bus, and she took her place at the end of it with a sigh. The woman in front of her smiled affectionately at Jasper, who was still asleep. ‘He's beautiful,' she said to Frankie, who smiled back – she never knew quite how to respond when people said that to her out of the blue. She always wanted to agree with them, but it seemed somehow arrogant. He
was
beautiful, though. Just looking at him seemed to dispel her frustration and tiredness.

Although it took only five or ten minutes by car, it was a slow bus ride home – not because of the traffic but because it was a circuitous route back to the suburb of Bath where Keith and Frankie lived, made more tortuous by the fact that plenty of people embarked and disembarked at each stop. No one actually made any comments about the amount of space Frankie and her pram were taking up, but the barbed looks and impatient sighs all around her were enough to indicate that at least some people considered it an imposition. But Frankie was oblivious to them: she was used to it, and she knew she and Jasper had as much right as anyone else to be there. She was far more bothered by a man who had been in the queue behind her and who just sat there looking stony-faced while an elderly lady stood right next to him, gripping the handles as firmly as her frail hands would
allow. Frankie wanted to say something, but found herself reticent. There was a time when she would have thought nothing of a confrontation, but months of keeping a low profile had cured her of that – apart from when it came to Jasper, of course.

As if woken by that thought, her son suddenly started crying, which only evoked more annoyance among some of the regular commuters. Must be hungry, she realized, and she bent down over the pram and gently stroked his cheek. It always felt so soft against her rough, calloused hand. ‘Shhhh …' she comforted him. ‘We'll be home soon.'

Eventually the bus arrived at Frankie's stop. She struggled to push the pram through the little crowd of people around the exit, then awkwardly bumped it down onto the pavement. It was a complicated route that took her into the heart of the quiet residential area where they lived. She remembered the first time she had taken the bus from the shop to Keith's house, smothered with apprehension and unsure whether she really wanted to take the step in their relationship that her arrival alone at his place would undoubtedly initiate. On that occasion she had had to write down Keith's bewildering directions on a scrap of brown paper; now, though, she could find her way blindfolded, she had walked it that often.

It took ten minutes to reach the house. Frankie left the pram in the driveway as she always did – Keith would bring it in later for her – and lifted Jasper out. The walk had settled him a bit, and his crying had changed to the gentle cooing that she always found so adorable. She held him close to her body and hurried up to the door. She pulled her keys from her pocket and opened up.

It was strangely quiet inside. Frankie slung her rucksack onto the floor in the hallway as she wondered why there was no music playing in the house. Keith was always playing music. She called out to him. ‘We're home!' Jasper gurgled as if in confirmation, and she stepped towards the kitchen, absent-mindedly tickling her son under his chin as she went.

She would never forget the sight that met her in that kitchen for as long as she lived. Every detail etched itself on her consciousness in a moment: Keith, naked and bruised, taped to the kitchen chair; horrific wounds on his shoulders weeping blood down his arms; the look of dejected panic on his face as he stared at her, his mind clearly even more tortured than his body; the smell in the room, a strange odour of burning that she could not place; and the man standing behind Keith, blond-haired and grim-faced, one hand over his captive's mouth to stop him from shouting out, another aiming a gun directly at the back of his head. ‘Sit down,' he told Frankie curtly as he removed his hand from Keith's mouth.

She shook her head and took a step backwards, her arms instinctively wrapping themselves tighter around Jasper.

‘I will kill this man without a second thought if you do not do what I tell you.' The blond man spoke quickly but concisely – he obviously didn't want her to get away. But Frankie took another step backwards, her every instinct screaming at her to do what she could to protect her son.

‘Very well,' the man continued. He moved the gun away from Keith's head and pointed it towards Frankie. His hand was perfectly still. ‘If you do not sit down like I told you, I will kill Jasper immediately. The bullet will kill you too.'

Suddenly Keith shouted out. ‘You bastard!' he yelled, and tried in vain to struggle out of the chair.

‘Shut up,' the man spat. He moved the gun away from Jasper for a moment to bring its butt down hard on Keith's head; but Keith was too inured to the pain now for it to affect him. As heavily as he could, he used the weight of his body to rock the chair forwards and then sharply back. The blond man collapsed roughly underneath him, and swore violently in a foreign language as he did so.

‘Frankie,' Keith shouted breathlessly. ‘Run! Now!' And then, as Frankie turned and sprinted back down the corridor with Jasper still in her arms, she heard him shout again. ‘I love you,' he called, but more quietly this time.

Frankie stopped momentarily and looked back over her shoulder. She could hear scuffling in the kitchen and she wanted to go back, to help Keith overpower this intruder in her house. But as instantly as she stopped, she started moving again: she had Jasper to think about. He was her first priority, and she knew Keith would feel the same. She had to make sure her son was safe. She fumbled with the latch of the front door before opening it and running outside. She hurtled through the gate and away from the house.

And then she heard it.

It wasn't as loud as she expected a gunshot to be, but there was no mistaking it. At first she thought that she and Jasper had been fired at; but she soon realized that it was not as close as that. Even though it had not been directed at her, Frankie felt the impact of that bullet thud through her very being. Her body screamed at her to go back and hold Keith in her arms, but her legs kept running
as she clutched her son tightly. She knew what she had to do.

She turned back and saw she was being chased by a different man from the one who had killed Keith. She tore furiously down the street and round the corner – there was no way she could outrun anybody, carrying Jasper at the same time, so her only chance was to hide herself in the confusing maze of streets that she knew well but which she could only hope would confuse and lose her pursuer. She ran blindly, turning left here, right there, not thinking where she was headed but desperately trying to get as far away from home as possible. As she ran, the image of Keith, broken and beaten, filled her head. She screwed up her eyes, expecting tears to come, but for some reason they did not. They seemed inadequate – the desperation that Frankie felt was more profound than that, more gut-wrenching and hopeless. She had no idea who that man was, but she knew, without quite knowing how, that he was there for her and not Keith. Keith had known that too: she had seen it in his eyes. It was all too terrible to bear. The man who had held her in the dark and promised to look after her and her child had done just that; the man who had given her back her life and her dignity had sacrificed himself to protect her.

Jasper started screaming, howling in the way that Frankie felt she wanted to. It was almost as if he knew his father was dead.

Frankie didn't know how long she ran, with Jasper wailing piteously and a silent scream in her own heart if not in her mouth. The horror of what had just happened had barely had time to sink in, but now that she had caught her breath her whole body became saturated with a thousand different emotions. Self-loathing – the terrible thing that had just befallen Keith was her fault, she was sure of it. Why else would anyone want to do such things to him? Fear – for herself, certainly, but mostly for the small child in her arms. Disbelief – this could not have just happened. But above all, sorrow – great pounding waves of it threatened to make her whole body collapse. Her Keith. Her darling Keith, one of the only people in her life who had ever cared for her, accepted her for what she was and loved her. She would never see him again, and it was too much to bear. She felt strangely unable to cry, but the pain she was feeling was coursing through her body like hot metal in her veins.

She had been running without thinking, and had no idea where she was, but now, looking around to take in her surroundings, she saw that she was outside her local supermarket. It was fairly crowded, somewhere she could lose herself – even though she thought she had shaken off the men, she still felt a desperate need for anonymity, a few quiet moments to allow her to compose herself, to come to terms with the terror of what had happened.
She shifted Jasper onto one arm, picked up a shopping basket and walked in.

When she was running, she hadn't noticed the stares from concerned passers-by; now, though, she couldn't ignore the looks she was getting. Her face was damp with sweat, as was the lightweight denim jacket she was wearing; her eyes were raw and she was sniffing heavily; and Jasper was complaining as loudly as he could. Although she might have wanted anonymity, in fact she was a spectacle, cutting a swathe through the crowd of shoppers who eyed her with interest, but did not want to get too close to this traumatized-looking woman and her bawling child.

The first thing she had to do was to comfort Jasper, so she marched purposefully down the aisles of the supermarket looking for the baby items, then grabbed a carton of formula milk, a bottle and some teats. She then strode to the checkout and waited in line to pay with one of the few notes she had remaining in the back pocket of her corduroy trousers. A woman in front let her go first – whether out of compassion or irritation at Jasper's screaming Frankie was too preoccupied to notice – and when she had paid for everything and stuffed the change back in her pocket, she made her way to the cafe area at the front of the supermarket. It had closed down for the evening, but there were tables and chairs there, out of the way of everyone else. She prepared a bottle for Jasper, who drank his milk gratefully and hungrily.

As she held her feeding child, she could feel her arms shaking, and gradually the trembling started to take over her whole body. She stared at Jasper without seeing him – the image of Keith strapped in that chair with a look
of abject fear was all she could focus on. She just couldn't believe what had happened. Who were these men? Random thieves? She didn't think so. But why Keith? Why her? She had always half expected the police to catch up with her, but not this. Maybe they were associates of Bob Strut, the man she had killed. It was the only thing that made sense. And yet, if they were, how had they tracked her down?

At the thought of Strut, her shaking became more pronounced. It was all her fault. And now, Keith's life had been taken in exchange for Strut's – it hardly seemed a fair trade.

Jasper finished feeding, and Frankie knew she had to snap out of it. She also knew precisely what Keith would say if he had been here: look after Jasper, Frankie. Look after our son. She held the now contented baby up to her shoulder and started patting him gently on the back; with dreadful clarity, she saw the impossible predicament she was now in. She was already wanted by the police for murder, a fugitive from justice. Supposing the men who had killed her innocent partner covered their tracks successfully – it would not take the police long to work out that it was she who had fled the scene of the crime so quickly. So there was no way she could go to them: they would never believe her. She wasn't thinking about herself, but about Jasper. His father dead, his mother in custody, he would be taken into care, ripped away from the one person in the world who loved him more than life itself. She held him a little bit tighter and vowed, in a silent promise to herself and to Keith, that that would never happen …

There was only one person who could help her. Frankie
could not even begin to imagine what June's reaction would be when she told her what had happened, but she was the only person in the world the distraught young woman could turn to. She would have to tell her everything, of course, but she knew June would do whatever she could to make things right. Frankie stood up gently so as not to wake Jasper, who was now sleeping soundly on her shoulder. She put the empty bottle into her pocket, then walked over to the public payphone that was only a few metres away. Using her free hand she awkwardly fished some change out of her pocket and dialled June's number.

It took a while to answer, but that was nothing new – June always took an age trying to find her cordless phone. But Frankie was not prepared for what happened when the ringing stopped. Instead of her friend's gentle southern voice, she heard nothing. ‘June?' she asked timidly. ‘June, is that you?'

To her astonishment, a man answered. ‘Francesca Mills?' he asked, very precisely.

Frankie gave a sharp intake of breath, but didn't answer. ‘Is that Francesca Mills?' the voice repeated implacably.

‘How do you know my name?' she whispered. ‘Who is this?'

For a moment there was no reply, just the brief clatter of movement as the phone was passed elsewhere. Then she heard June's voice. It was wavering and terrified. ‘Frankie, I don't know what's going on. There are men here, they've tied me up …'

But the phone was moved away before she could finish and the male voice came back on the line. ‘Be here within half an hour, otherwise she dies.'

Frankie listened to the heavy breathing at the other end of the line, and the silence was suddenly broken by the sound of June in the background. ‘Don't come here, Frankie!' she shouted. ‘Get away!' There was a scuffling, and then she heard June scream. It was a terrible thing to hear a woman of her age shout in what was clearly a mixture of pain and fear, and Frankie couldn't stand listening to it. She slammed the phone down on its cradle, but clutched on to the receiver as if it was her only way of maintaining contact with her friend.

She couldn't let this happen. Keith had died because of her, and it would haunt her for the rest of her life. There was no way she could let the same thing happen to June. She picked up the phone and dialled 999. ‘You need to send a police car,' she said urgently to the operator who answered. ‘There's an elderly lady being held at gunpoint, and she will be killed if you don't arrive as soon as possible.'

‘How do you know this?' The operator's question was calm but firm.

‘I can't tell you. You just have to get there.' She told the operator June's address. ‘Please,' she continued, tears in her voice, ‘just hurry.' She hung up.

A small queue of people had materialized behind Frankie – women, mostly, with trolleys full of heavy shopping, waiting to call taxis to take them home. They tutted under their breath and raised their eyes skyward when she picked up the receiver for a third time and falteringly dialled a taxi number that was pinned on a noticeboard in front of her. ‘I need a cab,' she said curtly, ‘to take me into Bath.'

‘Five minutes,' the voice at the other end replied.

Ten minutes later she was still waiting outside. She had taken her jacket off and swaddled Jasper in it: it was midsummer, but dusk had brought with it a faint chill. The little hairs on her bare arms were standing on end. Finally a cab arrived. She stepped forward towards it, but a young man in a hooded top suddenly barged in front of her and made as if to open the back door for himself. ‘Hey!' Frankie called. ‘That's my cab.'

‘Fuck off.' He turned to look at her, and Frankie saw that even though there was aggression on his face, he was just a teenager. She walked up to him and drew herself to her full height, then pushed him away and opened the door. ‘
You
fuck off.'

Her voice was as calm as she could make it, but the teenager must have seen the anger in her eyes. ‘All right, take it easy,' the boy whined as she climbed in, holding Jasper protectively to her chest.

‘Parade Gardens,' she instructed the driver. She didn't want to pull up right in front of the flower shop, so she asked to be dropped nearby and would then walk surreptitiously the rest of the way. ‘Please drive quickly, I'm in a hurry.'

The cab driver laughed gently as he drove away. ‘Everyone's always in a hurry,' he said in a slow Caribbean accent. ‘Where you say you going, darling?'

‘Parade Gardens,' Frankie repeated. ‘And please hurry.'

The driver looked in his rear-view mirror at this girl whose voice dripped with desperation. He looked as though he was about to say something, but then thought better of it. He nodded his head slowly, then upped the speed.

Fifteen minutes later, Frankie carried Jasper out and
handed the driver a ten-pound note. There was no change. Jasper was still sleeping, so she held him gently but firmly against her shoulder and headed off towards the flower shop. She whispered a prayer to herself as she hurried along a convoluted route to the road where June lived. Please, let the police be there. Let June be OK.

There was no way she could just walk down the road and knock on June's door, so she made her way to the end of the street and stood round the corner with her back against the wall for a minute, catching her breath and preparing for what was to come. Then, gingerly, she put her head round the corner.

The scene that met her eyes made her catch her breath in horror, as though she had been punched hard in the stomach. The street was illuminated by the flashing lights of two police cars. The area around the shop was cordoned off by blue and white police tape and five or six police officers were standing around – a couple were taking statements from passers-by. And as she watched, as if in slow motion, a private black ambulance, just like the one that had taken her father away after his death, drove past her and stopped outside the flower shop.

Frankie looked on in stunned silence. Then she hid herself back round the corner of the street and slid slowly down the wall, too overwhelmed even to cry. A deathly chill had overcome her body, and as she held on even more tightly to her sleeping child – the only source of warmth she had – she heard a cry. It sounded alien, divorced from her body, but in fact the hoarse, desperate shout came from her own lips.

‘
No! Please, God. No!
'

Andreas found himself walking briskly over Pulteney Bridge, away from the flower shop. His associates had all left in different directions, losing themselves among the theatre-goers and diners in the centre of Bath. They would meet up later to discuss their options, and Andreas knew he had to have a plan by then. He wasn't one for dwelling on past mistakes, but he couldn't help cursing himself for allowing the girl to escape the house. Everything that followed had been a natural consequence of that, and although it was far from ideal leaving a trail of two dead bodies, he was sure he had covered his tracks well.

He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket and he put it to his ear without even checking who the caller was. ‘Yes?' he asked curtly without stopping.

‘It's Cooper. This line is secure, I take it.'

‘Sir Ainsley,' he acknowledged. ‘We can talk freely.'

‘I hope you have some good news for me, Andreas. Do you have the locket?'

‘Not yet,' Andreas answered curtly.

There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘What do you mean, not yet?' Cooper asked in a threatening tone of voice. ‘I thought you had located the girl. How long do you need?'

‘We had to abort. The police arrived.'

‘What?' Cooper whispered, incredulous. ‘We're not paying you all this money for you to allow a slip of a girl to pass through your fingertips.'

‘I have made arrangements, Sir Ainsley,' Andreas told him a bit stiffly.

‘I should bloody well hope you have. What the hell's been going on?'

‘It's best you don't know.'

Cooper sounded furious. ‘Don't treat me like a child,' he said waspishly. ‘You're not talking to Tunney now. Tell me what you have in mind before I put someone more competent on the case.'

Andreas's eyes narrowed – he wasn't used to being spoken to in this way, but he knew Cooper was a man to follow through with his threats, so he briefly explained the events of the past few hours.

‘I see,' Cooper said when he had finished, his voice strained. ‘And this is your idea of making arrangements, is it? It sounds like a total bloody mess to me.'

‘On the contrary,' Andreas replied, his voice level. ‘The girl is wanted for murder. There is nothing to link me or my associates to the house or the flower shop, so the police will naturally assume that she is implicated. She will be the prime suspect for three murders – she won't be able to hide for long, and they will put all their resources into finding her. And I have already demonstrated that I can get to her before the police.'

‘Are you sure she has the locket?'

‘Positive. Her partner confirmed it before he died. She wears it all the time.'

‘Did you get any indication that she knows what it is?'

‘None whatsoever. You can rest assured that she doesn't have an idea.'

‘I can rest assured,' Cooper snapped, ‘when you deliver that locket to me. Find it. Now.' He slammed the phone down.