Frankie (23 page)

Andreas held the handset while he gazed out over the River Avon. The image of Francesca Mills's horrified face flickered in his mind.

He knew he had to find her. His reputation depended on it.

Half a mile away, Frankie was wandering blindly. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, and she walked as if in a dream. Of all the nightmares she had experienced in her life, this was the worst. She almost refused to believe it was happening, but then the image of Keith's terrified face would rise in her mind, and she knew she wasn't imagining things. Her head was a jumble of confusion; she couldn't think straight.

She found herself outside the theatre. People were spilling out into the street, and a couple of policemen in luminous yellow coats were walking the beat. The sight of them suddenly brought her back to reality: what the hell was she doing? They would be looking for her, and she was an easily recognizable target – a lone woman wandering the streets of Bath with a baby and no obvious way of looking after him. She turned and walked away from them, looking around for somewhere to rest and collect her thoughts. Jasper might have been little, but he seemed to grow heavier with each step Frankie took.

She made her way towards North Parade Bridge: there was a park on the other side where she could sit down and tend to her son. He was still sleeping, but needed changing, so she called into a late-night shop to buy the smallest packet of nappies she could find, and some wipes. As she was browsing the shelves, she saw a little pair of nail scissors, which gave her a dreadful sense of déjà vu: the terrible night after she had killed Strut, when she had to change her appearance. It suddenly struck her that she was in a similar situation, only worse. Tonight
she had run from the scene of two murders; and even though the blood was not on her hands, she couldn't risk being caught. No one would see in her a desperate mother, afraid for the life of her child and mourning the death of his father and her best friend. In the eyes of the police, she would just be the same street bum that had eluded them for so long. She took the scissors and what Jasper needed from the shelves, paid for them and left. Moments later she was over the bridge, sitting on a park bench changing Jasper's nappy; but her mind was elsewhere. For nearly two years she had tried to avoid thinking about Strut and the life she had led beforehand, but now it was all she could remember. That night she had unknowingly taken the first steps that got her off the streets. It hadn't seemed so at the time, but in a bizarre way she had been fortunate – if it hadn't been for Strut she would never have left London, never have met June, never have met Keith. She shook her head as tears started welling once more in her eyes at the thought. Poor Keith. Poor June. If Frankie had never come into their worlds they would still be alive. Everyone she touched seemed to come to harm. How could she possibly think she had been lucky? Luck was not for people like her.

And now she was back where she started, alone and desperate. Had it not been for Jasper she might have considered turning herself in, tried to persuade the police that the deaths of Keith and June were nothing to do with her. The worst she could expect was a prison cell, and under the circumstances that didn't seem so bad. But there was no way she would let anyone separate her from the only thing she had left in the entire world.

It was suddenly clear what she had to do. She had to
make her own chances, to do whatever it took to ensure her safety and that of her child.

She would have to return to the streets.

It was the only place she had a chance of never being found, the place she knew best, the place where she could become just another faceless vagrant, ignored by anyone who saw her; the only place Jasper would be safe and no one would try to take him from her; the only place she knew she could survive.

At least for a little while.

He was awake again now, but quiet, gazing up at his mother with his bright eyes, free from the worries that plagued her. Frankie let him lie there as she pulled the nail scissors she had bought from their wrapping and hacked off her long dyed-black hair in clumsy fistfuls, discarding the locks in a bin just next to the bench. It would take a while for her natural hair colour to come through, she knew – she could worry about that when it did. She put her hand in her pocket, pulled out what money she had left, and started to count it. Sixty-three pounds. Two years ago, on the street and with no one to care for, it would have seemed like a fortune. Now, with a small baby, it seemed a pittance.

As she sat there, a couple walked past arm in arm. Frankie stared at them wide-eyed: they seemed so happy, just enjoying each other's company as they strolled in silence. Forty-eight hours ago they could have been her and Keith. As they passed, the woman turned her head back to look at Frankie. There was an unmistakable look of disapproval on her face. What was she doing there, so late at night, with a baby lying on a bench wrapped in a denim jacket? What kind of mother was she? Frankie's
eyes fell to the ground as she felt the hot flush of shame rise in her cheeks. She gathered Jasper up in her arms once more and started walking in the opposite direction, back towards the town.

She walked aimlessly with Jasper wrapped tightly against the night air. Had anyone looked at her, they might not have even noticed the baby pressed against her body – it just looked like a bundle of clothes, though why she should be carrying such a bundle would be a mystery. She attracted a few curious looks, but mostly she was ignored.

Frankie had no idea how late it was, but as she walked past a pub she saw people spilling out onto the street, suggesting it was some time past eleven. They were boisterous, as they often were after enjoying a night with friends, and she moved away when she saw a few of them jostling with each other. It was nothing more than drunken playfulness, but it was best to keep your distance – these things had a way of escalating, and the last thing she wanted was to put her child in danger, or draw attention to herself. She moved away, doing her best not to catch anyone's eye, but she had the uncanny sensation that she was being looked at. It was confirmed when she heard a voice behind her. ‘Hey, darling, what's the hurry?'

She quickened her pace to walk further away from the crowd, but heard the clatter of footsteps behind her. They belonged to more than one person, she could tell from the sound, but it was only a single man who eventually swaggered up behind her, lurching slightly from his drunkenness. Frankie could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores, and it made her gag. Since moving in with
Keith she had managed to avoid it herself. Now the very thought of it churned her stomach. ‘Leave me alone,' she told the man, not even turning to look at him. Her hackles were rising, and she knew she was in danger of losing it.

‘Come on, gorgeous. We're going to a club – why don't you join us?' He slurred his words, but his voice was transparently cajoling, not aggressive. He put his arm around her and squeezed suggestively.

For Frankie it was the final straw. It had taken months for her to get used to Keith holding her in that way, months for her to overcome the natural revulsion she felt at the touch of a man; now she felt herself repelling this man who was forcing himself on her, however innocently. She stopped still. ‘Get the hell off me!' She whispered the words viciously, but the man ignored her and seemed about to say something else, something to persuade her to go with him. ‘Get off me!' She screamed the words this time, hysterically and with a fury in her eyes that made the man instantly move his arm and step away. Frankie looked around: there were four of them, including the one she had just shaken off. He was looking a bit shocked by her reaction, surprised that she had taken it so badly, and embarrassed too. His friends had smirks on their faces, clearly oblivious to the subtleties of the situation, all of them looking as if they might have a go themselves.

But then, wakened by the sound of his mother's voice, Jasper started to cry. The men looked in surprise at the bundle of denim in Frankie's arms – clearly they had not suspected it contained a baby. Their expressions changed from amusement to guilt and lack of interest and they
melted silently away to find another target for their boisterous drunkenness.

Frankie stood there shaking, not knowing what to do to calm Jasper when she was in such a state herself. Tears streaming down her face, and a feeling of helplessness welling up inside her, she disappeared into the night, leaving just the memory of Jasper's wailing in the minds of the crowds of people who would most likely forget all about her the moment she left their sight.

DI James Cole of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary was having a long night. He had already attended the scene of one shooting, and now a second had been reported on the outskirts of town. Forensics and other SOCOs (Scene of Crime Officers) were already on their way.

It really wasn't the sort of thing you expected in Bath. Dead bodies might be two a penny up in London, but not down here, and he was still shaken up from the scene he had witnessed earlier that evening. It made you sick, the things some people would do. The woman had been tied to a chair using garden twine that she kept behind the counter of her little florist's shop. It had cut deeply into her thin wrists – the forensics officer had pointed out the little puddle of blood that had collected at the back of the chair. The bullet that had killed her had passed through one side of the head and out of the other – it hadn't taken long to find it on the other side of the room – but the wounds were surprisingly small. It had been the look on her face that had shocked him more than anything. Total fear. Total panic. He knew it would stay with him for a long time.

He pulled up outside the house where the second shooting had been reported. There were already police cars and an ambulance there, their lights flashing silently, and the area had been cordoned off. A few members of the public had congregated in a small crowd just outside the cordon, and a couple of members of the local press were being politely but firmly kept away by the officer guarding it.

Inside was devastation. A man had been taped naked to a chair, but, unlike the old woman, was lying on his side. His body had deep wounds on the shoulders, and the bullet wound in the head was identical to the one he had seen a few hours previously. ‘What have you got, Simon?' he asked the same forensics officer who had been at the other crime scene.

Simon was kneeling down by the body. He glanced up, and when he saw it was James he got to his feet. ‘The entry and exit wounds suggest this man was killed by the same type of gun that shot the old lady. The wounds on his shoulders indicate to me that he was tortured quite extensively before he was shot.'

‘What with?'

Simon pointed to the work surface where a small kitchen blowtorch was lying on its side.

‘Jesus,' James said under his breath. ‘What kind of sick bastard does a thing like that?'

‘The same kind that puts a bullet through a sixty-four-year-old woman's skull.' He turned back to his work. ‘I'll give you more as and when I have it.'

Simon got back to work, while James continued to look around the room. It was immaculately tidy, with the exception of a few children's cloth books, with brightly
coloured pictures on the fabric pages, lying on the table, and that morning's breakfast things – just one bowl and one cup, Cole noticed – stacked up by the sink. The walls were painted a subtle green colour, and they bore no pictures; but there were two photographs in silver frames on the side. One was of a small baby, probably no more than a couple of weeks old. The other was a young woman with long black hair and a sad, slightly enigmatic smile.

‘Excuse me, sir.'

James looked round to see a young sergeant standing at the door.

‘Yes, Pete. What is it?'

‘Fingerprint report from the earlier scene, sir.'

‘That was quick.'

The sergeant shook his head. ‘It's from yesterday. Apparently the place was dusted for fingerprints after a burglary last night, and something's just come up.'

James rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘So who was he?'

‘It wasn't a he, sir.' He handed his boss two A4-sized photographs. ‘It's a she.'

James looked at the photographs. One of them showed a young girl, no more than fourteen or fifteen, a cheerful family shot in full colour. The other was quite different. Although it was undoubtedly the same girl, she looked older and desperate. The photo was grainy and indistinct – he recognized it as a CCTV still – and she was clearly running from something. ‘She's wanted by the Met in connection with a murder nearly two years ago. She's been on the run ever since.'

James looked at the picture, then looked back at the photograph on the side. There was no doubt about it:
though the images could not be more different in many ways, this was the same person. He felt a feeling of contempt welling up in him. This was the girl responsible for these despicable acts. It hardly seemed possible, but there it was – twenty years in the job had taught him that when all the evidence points towards somebody, there was generally little room for doubt. ‘Get the fingerprint boys to sweep this place as soon as they can,' he told the sergeant. ‘And first thing in the morning I'll get hold of the officer in charge of the case in London. Tell him we've found his killer.'

Mark Taylor was on his second cup of coffee when the call came through. Sergeant Steve Irvin was just going through a few things with him – yet more stuff to pile up on his desk, which made him even grumpier than he normally was at that time of the morning. ‘Just a minute, Steve,' he told the younger man as he picked up the phone, quietly grateful for a gap in the proceedings. ‘Taylor.'

‘Good morning, DI Taylor. DI James Cole, Avon and Somerset.' His voice had a soft West Country lilt to it, which Taylor couldn't help thinking sounded a bit yokelish. ‘I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.'

‘Go ahead,' Taylor replied, rolling his eyes slightly at Irvin. ‘What can I do for you?'

He listened as the officer filled him in about the two murders on his patch, before asking if he would send down the files relating to Francesca Mills. Cole was immaculately polite, but Taylor understood what he was saying between the lines: this is our case now, not yours. Stay out of it. And Taylor would: he had quite enough on his plate without the need to reopen the Francesca Mills case. ‘That's fine,' he said shortly. ‘Let me know if I can do anything to help.' He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic about the offer.

‘Thanks. I'll be in touch if I need anything else.'

Taylor hung up the phone and indicated to Irvin that he should carry on, so the young sergeant continued the
briefing. But his boss was distracted, and barely took anything in. As Irvin's voice droned on in the background, Taylor's mind was elsewhere. Everything about that call had been wrong. Francesca Mills had killed Bob Strut in self-defence, there was no doubt in his mind about that. OK, so it didn't make her whiter than white, but two shootings within an hour of each other? They didn't bear the hallmarks of a desperate street killing. And where would she get a gun from? He knew those vagrants – if they had a few quid in their pocket they'd be much more likely to spend them on cheap drink and drugs rather than firearms. Maybe she'd fallen in with some council estate gang. Maybe she'd been so desperate for her next hit of crack that she'd been prepared to do anything, and this was the result. But then again, maybe not.

Irvin had stopped talking, and was looking at the DI with an expectant look on his face. ‘I'm sorry, Steve,' Taylor told him. ‘We'll have to finish this later. I need to make a call.'

Irvin nodded, picked up his papers and left, while Taylor tapped a number into his phone. It was answered immediately. ‘Sean Carter.'

‘Taylor here.' Taylor sounded businesslike, even a trifle embarrassed, and determined to make this call as short as it could be.

‘Mark. What a surprise. You must want something. I thought I was in your bad books.'

Taylor ignored the sarcasm. ‘You are. But something's come up you should probably know about.'

‘What?'

‘Francesca Mills. She's cropped up in Bath, along with two dead bodies.'

Taylor heard rustling at the other end of the line as Carter grabbed a pen and paper. ‘Go ahead,' he said, all traces of light-heartedness gone from his voice.

Taylor filled him in on the salient points of his conversation with DI Cole. ‘I just thought you should know, that's all.' He sounded almost apologetic.

‘Mark, listen to me. Francesca Mills is not guilty of those murders. I told you before that I thought she was in danger. I still think she is.'

Taylor paused a moment before answering. ‘How can you be so sure? If I were in Cole's shoes, she'd be my prime suspect.' But he didn't sound so sure of himself.

‘It doesn't matter how I know – surely you can see that this doesn't add up. You've got to speak to someone, get the investigation back under your jurisdiction. We'll work on it together, but it'll be your case, I promise. And we
will
find her.' Carter was cajoling now, almost desperate.

‘Forget it, Sean.' Taylor spoke decisively, as if he'd known Carter would ask him this. ‘You asked me to keep you abreast of things, and that's what I'm doing. There's no way I can take on a double murder from outside my area even if the suspect has killed before. You know that. Now if you don't mind, I've got work to do.' He slammed the phone down on its cradle, annoyed by Carter's pure desperation. Then he stood up, and stormed out of the office for a breath of air.

Carter's mind was racing. This had all been so sudden, and now he had to think fast. He knew Taylor was right. Half of him wanted to go straight to Meeken, get his orders from above, but he knew Meeken would just tell
him to do what he thought was appropriate. That was the trouble with having a superior officer who trusted you implicitly – no guidance. In any case, he was too personally involved in the whole thing to let go of it like that. One thing was clear to him, though: he had to get to Francesca Mills, and he needed this DI Cole on his side.

It took him ten minutes to track the inspector down, and he didn't waste any time when he got him on the line. ‘DI Sean Carter, Serious Fraud Office. I need to speak to you about Francesca Mills.'

‘Go ahead.'

‘I know she seems to be implicated in the two shootings you're investigating, but I have reason to believe that she's not the killer.'

‘I see.' Cole's soft West Country accent sounded sceptical. ‘It doesn't look that way from where I'm standing, DI Carter.'

‘No, I understand that. But I need you to tell me what you've got. Have you identified the victims yet?'

‘Yes. One of them was June Baird, sixty-four. Mills was an employee at her flower shop. The other was her partner, Keith Osbourne. It seems they had a child together. Both were tied up, probably tortured, then shot in the head.'

Carter closed his eyes as the image of Rosemary rose in his mind, her body broken and contorted, the small bruise-like wound of the bullet that had ended her life festering on her forehead; the bruising round her wrists that showed she had been tied painfully tight; the broken fingers and the torture injuries along the side of her body – the deaths sounded almost identical. Everything was slotting into place: whoever killed Rosemary Gibson killed
these two people. He didn't even have to see the bodies to deduce that. It was how these people worked. And he knew one other thing beyond doubt: Francesca Mills had not killed Rosemary, and she was not responsible for these killings either; but he had no way of knowing whether she was now in the killers' possession or not. If she was, it was only a matter of time before she showed up dead; if she wasn't, they would be directing all their energies into finding her, and she would be on the run, frightened and panicking. They were bound to catch up with her sooner or later. Either way, the outlook was extremely bleak – both for her and for the case.

He knew how the police worked – he'd been part of the system for long enough. There was no way this DI was going to alter the course of his investigation on the say-so of a faceless call from the SFO. Why would he? If he wanted that to happen, Carter would need to go in above his head, but he wasn't sure that was the right call. The safest place for Francesca Mills, if she was still alive, was in police custody, and the best people for that were local boys with local knowledge; there was really nothing to be gained from getting permission to stomp all over their territory. He would do everything he could from his end, but at the moment he wasn't sure what that would or could be. He knew one thing for definite, though: he had to make sure he was first to hear if they caught up with her. ‘I'm sure you'll do everything you need to,' he said reasonably. ‘But could I ask that you let me know the moment you think you're near to an arrest? There's more riding on this than I can explain over the phone. These murders are too similar to one I've been investigating – one that I know Francesca Mills didn't commit. I
won't tread on your toes, but I might be able to help you make the right conviction.'

‘If you say so.' Cole still sounded dubious, but Carter had the impression he could trust him.

‘What's your game plan?'

‘We're going to release information to the press, try and get her face on the front page of every newspaper.'

‘You know they'll be all over this like vultures over rotting meat. Are you sure that's what you want?'

‘We've really no other way of finding her, and it seems unlikely that she's going to stick around in Bath – she has a small child, and that will just draw attention to her. She'll want to get away.'

Carter thought about that. ‘I wouldn't be so sure,' he said. ‘She's lived on the streets for years, and she's managed to elude both the police and –' how could he put it? – ‘other parties for all this time. She's good at melting into the background, being anonymous. Sometimes it's easier to hide in the most obvious places, so it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that she's still in Bath.'

‘If you're right, and she's not responsible for these murders, I'd tend to agree with you,' Cole replied. ‘Whoever she is, she's made a life here. I'm no psychologist, but I guess she probably wouldn't want to leave. But I have to be honest with you, DI Carter. I
don't
think you're right. I think Francesca Mills killed these two people in the most brutal way imaginable. All the evidence points to her and if I find her, I'm going to arrest her for murder. I don't know how it stands in London, maybe you're used to all this, but I can tell you that when word of this gets out, the community down here will be in shock – we have to be seen to be doing the right thing.'

‘I understand that,' Carter replied, half to himself. ‘But it just doesn't make sense that she would kill people she had been working and living with, people who protected her.'

‘Sometimes people just flip. Pressures of life. Betrayal. Jealousy. You must have seen it happen before, just like I have. And we know what this woman is capable of – her past shows it.'

Carter felt frustration welling up in him once more, but he could sense that this was a good man, just doing what he thought was right. And he needed him onside. ‘All I ask is that you keep me in the loop. Agreed?'

‘Whatever you say, DI Carter. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a lot to do.'

Andy Summers read the press release slowly, and then for a second time: he wanted to make sure he had understood it all correctly, but really there was little room for doubt. It was perfectly concise.

P
OLICE ARE APPEALING FOR INFORMATION FOLLOWING THE DEATHS OF A MAN AND A WOMAN LAST NIGHT
. O
NE OCCURRED IN CENTRAL
B
ATH, THE OTHER IN THE
A
LEXANDRA
P
ARK AREA ON THE WEST SIDE OF THE CITY
. T
HE DEATHS ARE BEING TREATED AS SUSPICIOUS, AND IT IS THOUGHT THAT THEY MAY BE RELATED
. P
OLICE ARE ANXIOUS TO SPEAK TO A YOUNG WOMAN BY THE NAME OF
F
RANCESCA
M
ILLS, WHO IT IS THOUGHT MAY BE ABLE TO HELP THEM WITH THEIR INQUIRIES
. T
HE PUBLIC ARE ADVISED NOT TO APPROACH HER IF THEY SEE HER, AS SHE IS BELIEVED TO BE ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
.

A picture of the young woman in question was attached, and Andy recognized it instantly: he had plastered the girl all over the paper a couple of years ago. She looked different now, of course. In fact, she was startlingly different. The picture he had seen before showed a gaunt, frightened, malnourished waif; now her hair was darker, her face had filled out, her skin was less blemished, and although her large eyes still suggested a wariness, there was something softer about them. She looked beautiful.

Andy had been in the business long enough to know that it made the story all the more appealing.

All the papers would run with it, he knew that much. It had been a decent story before – now, with two more killings under her belt, the elusive Francesca Mills was on her way to becoming a serial killer. It was front-page news, and he wanted to make sure that he got the whole story. He knew he still had the mother's number somewhere – a conversation with her would beef up his story no end – so he flicked through the little green notebook in which he scrawled down his contacts. It took a while for him to find the number he wanted – he couldn't remember the name after all this time, but he hoped it would just jump out at him when he saw it. Eventually it did, scrawled in his small, spidery writing at the bottom of a page: Harriet Johnson. He dialled the number.

It took a while to be answered, and when it was Andy was momentarily wrong-footed by the sound of a man's voice. ‘William Johnson.'

‘May I speak to Mrs Johnson, please?' Andy could sound terribly well-heeled when he wanted to.

‘She's not here, I'm afraid. May I ask who's calling?' Johnson sounded businesslike, slightly suspicious.

‘My name is Andy Summers. I'm a reporter – I spoke to Mrs Johnson some time ago now about your daughter, Francesca …'

‘I see.'

‘I'm sure you're aware of the recent developments.'

‘We are.' Johnson was giving nothing away.

‘I understand it is a very difficult time for you at the moment,' Andy continued smoothly, but I wonder if you are able to shed any light on what's happened.'

‘We've told the police everything we know. No doubt if they want to release any of that information, they'll do so.'

Andy realized he was going to have to be more persuasive. ‘I seem to remember that you're on the force yourself,' he said conversationally.

‘That's right.'

‘Then you know how it works. Within a few hours you are going to have every crime reporter in the country camped out on your doorstep. They won't leave you or your wife alone until you give them something. Why don't I come around now and you can give me your side of the story? Say what you have to say in your own words, and then we'll leave you alone. This way you control what's written, and you protect your wife from all this – it must be very hard on her at the moment.'