Frankie (24 page)

Johnson was silent for a while. Andy knew he was considering his options, so he decided to press him further.

‘Mark my words,' he continued. ‘At this moment there are eight or ten people just like me, trying to find out as much as they can about your stepdaughter. They'll be talking to her school, her old friends – anyone and everyone they can find.'

Andy left it at that, and gave Johnson the space to think. Finally he spoke. ‘OK,' he said quietly. ‘I'll meet you. Not with Harriet, and not here. And this is off the record – I don't want anyone to know I've spoken to you.'

‘What?' asked Andy, confused. He could see his exclusive slipping away. ‘If the rest of the press don't know you've spoken to me, they'll continue to hound you. And if it's a question of money, we can sort something out –'

‘Don't be idiotic,' Johnson interrupted. ‘I'm not interested in your money. And I don't care about the rest of the press. I'm doing this to keep you personally off our backs. As soon as I've spoken to you, I'm taking Harriet away somewhere until this has all blown over. So I repeat: this is off the record. Do you understand?'

‘Perfectly,' said Andy, backing down. ‘Where would you like to meet?'

An hour later, he found himself pulling into Clacket Lane service station, just past junction six of the M25. It wasn't so unusual for him to have meetings at places like this – people tended to think they were more conspicuous than was actually the case, so they often wanted to meet somewhere out of the way where they felt they wouldn't be recognized. Truth be told, they could probably have met in the village pub over a quiet pint and nobody would be any the wiser, but Andy was happy for Johnson to arrange the meet for wherever he felt most comfortable. He'd get more out of him that way. He got out of the car and made his way over to the service area.

Johnson was sitting in Burger King, as he said he would be, wearing an old brown leather jacket and a plain white
shirt. He was a pretty unprepossessing-looking man, Andy thought, with his grey moustache and slightly dumpy body, nursing a polystyrene cup full of undrinkably hot coffee. Andy took a seat opposite and proffered his hand with a smile. ‘Andy Summers,' he said in a friendly voice. ‘Pleased to meet you.'

Johnson nodded briefly but did not shake Andy's hand. The journalist swiftly let it fall to his side, then carried on as if nothing had happened. ‘Can I get you anything?' He gestured vaguely at the food counter.

‘No, thank you.' He looked down at his cup of coffee.

‘Fine,' replied Andy. ‘Anyway, thank you for agreeing to meet me.'

‘I'm only doing this to keep you away from my wife. She's been through enough as it is, and she's hysterical. But if my name appears anywhere in your article, I will deny ever having met you.'

‘I understand completely where you're coming from, Mr Johnson. When did you learn this latest news about Francesca?'

‘First thing this morning.'

‘Who from?'

‘Avon and Somerset Constabulary.'

‘And you'll be helping them with their inquiries?'

‘Of
course
I'll be helping them with their inquiries,' Johnson snapped. ‘I'm a serving police officer, I'm not going to let …' He suddenly stopped himself and looked away, his brow slightly furrowed and his face cross. Had it not been such a difficult situation, Andy might have thought he was play-acting.

He knew he'd have to play this delicately. This guy was
under stress, and was clearly not good at concealing it. It was a fine line between getting him to open up and having him storm away and reveal nothing. ‘Go on, Mr Johnson,' he said lightly.

Johnson stared at Andy. ‘You have to understand that Francesca was always a difficult child,' he said.

‘Difficult in what way?'

‘Manipulative. Duplicitous. Even as a kid. She drove her mother and me to distraction with her lying and her deceitfulness. After she killed that man in London, you said she'd gone off the rails. The truth is, she'd gone off the rails a long time before that.'

Andy sat there making shorthand notes on a pad. He nodded his head in understanding, but secretly he was surprised at Johnson's frankness. He had manipulated enough people in his time to realize when he was being manipulated himself, and he had the distinct impression that was what was happening now – Johnson was speaking the words as if he had already rehearsed them well. But sometimes he didn't mind, especially if what he was being told was good stuff. ‘Did the police give you any idea about who the latest killings were?'

The side of Johnson's face twitched slightly, and he hesitated before answering. ‘A man she was living with, and a lady she worked for. Shot them in the head.' He looked away.

‘Did she steal anything?'

‘They didn't say.'

‘You don't seem convinced, Mr Johnson,' Andy suggested quietly. ‘What's your gut feeling about her motive?'

‘Who knows why people do what they do, Mr Summers?' Johnson replied. ‘I'm only telling you this because I don't want any more people to get hurt. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've said all I want to say. I trust you'll remember what I said about mentioning my name.' He stood up and nodded his head in a curt gesture of farewell.

Just as he was turning to leave, Andy spoke up again, determined to get one more question in. ‘Mr Johnson, are you sure Francesca hasn't got in touch with you? Not once? In nearly six years?'

Johnson stared him down. ‘Not once since she left. Trust me, we won't be hearing from her.'

‘What makes you so sure?'

But Johnson didn't reply. He simply put his hand in his pocket, removed his car key and walked away, disappearing into the swarm of hungry people.

Andy tapped his pencil on the sticky table. All his journalist's instincts told him that there was more to this than Johnson was letting on, and he was intrigued to know what. Why was he implicating his stepdaughter even further? Why was he so adamant about keeping his own name out of this? Johnson's amateur deception had been perfectly transparent to an old pro like Andy Summers, and something told him he should be directing his investigative prowess towards the stepfather as well as the daughter.

And yet, the story he was constructing in his head was undeniably good. Francesca Mills, the tearaway child, goes on the run from the police after killing a man. She evades capture for nearly two years, then kills her partner and her employer in a murder spree that seems to elude explanation. Now she's on the run again – who knows
when she'll strike next? A perfect story – one that could run for days if not weeks. No doubt there was more dirt to be dug by investigating the Johnsons' home life, but that would have to wait until he was further down the line.

He looked at his watch: two o'clock. If he left for the office now, he'd be back in time to file it for the early editions.

The night was coming to an end, finally.

The daytimes weren't so bad – at least they were warm and she didn't have to spend the whole time making sure Jasper was comfortable; and there was distraction on the streets in the form of the endless performers. It didn't take Frankie's mind off her situation, of course, but at least Jasper could be transfixed by the jugglers and other street entertainers – a few moments of contentment for him and respite for her. It was exhausting carrying both a baby and the two carrier bags in which she held everything she needed to feed and change him. But the two nights she had spent sleeping rough since the shootings had been the worst she had ever encountered. For most of the time Jasper had refused to settle, and who could blame him? He was used to a cot and warm blankets, not the scant comforts his mother could offer him now.

The previous night she had been up to her old tricks, stealing clothes from the bin liners left outside charity shops. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had been aware of the indignity of going back to this way of living, but she had to do what she could for herself and her son, and if that meant going back to stealing, so be it. She had
found a couple of old jumpers for herself, but baby clothes were harder to come by. In the end she had torn an old sheet in half and used it to swaddle him and protect him from the night chill; but it was amazing how quickly the grime of the street had dirtied his clothes and his skin. Like his mother, Jasper had started to look uncared for and unkempt.

She had spent the nights away from the centre of town. During the day it was busy enough for her to be unseen, and somehow she was more comfortable there – she didn't allow herself to go past June's shop, but it felt good to know it was nearby. But at night, after the evening crowds had died away and the streets had emptied, she felt vulnerable. It wasn't just the occasional policeman that made her edgy, it was the other vagrants, winos and drug addicts who congregated there after dark. Two years ago she would have sought out their company, taking what comfort she could from the outcast, sometimes aggressive community. But that was a different lifetime, and she would do anything before she took Jasper into that arena.

And so she had hunted out an alleyway on the outskirts of town. An old sofa had been discarded there – it had a musty, rotting smell that suggested it had been there some time. In places the stuffing was gone, and the springs pushed through; but it was more comfortable than sitting on the pavement. At times, when Jasper's crying had got too loud, she'd had to move away, fearful of waking the occupants of the nearby houses; but for most of the night she sat there in the silent darkness, holding her son close, her emotions numb.

She hadn't slept for forty-eight hours. She hadn't eaten.
The small amount of money that remained in her pocket she had been rationing, spending it only on what Jasper needed and ignoring her own requirements. But that money was fast dwindling, and she had no way of replenishing it. Begging was certainly out of the question – if she was seen doing that, the police would recognize her immediately. That would be the end of it – she would probably never see Jasper again. As the sky grew brighter, so the realization grew in Frankie's brain that she couldn't go on like this. When the money ran out, how could she feed her son? How could she keep him clean? Even if she managed to keep him alive, what would the future hold? Suddenly, unbidden, she remembered Mary. Young and desperate. She had known next to nothing about her history, but she knew instinctively that she came from a damaged home, the product of parents who couldn't and wouldn't look after her. Frankie shuddered to think what had become of her.

Then, in a moment of sudden clarity, she realized that what she saw in Mary, others had surely seen in her. And now, history was on the verge of repeating itself. She looked down at her son, and touched his dirty cheek lightly. There was no way she was going to allow that to happen.

This couldn't continue. She knew what she had to do.

Gathering up her things, she swaddled the sleepy Jasper and walked out of the alleyway and into the street. There was only one other option now, one other place she could go where she knew Jasper would be safe and cared for. It wouldn't be for long, she promised herself; just long enough to get back up into London and sort out this situation the only way she knew how: by herself.

She turned and made her way towards the station, determined to leave Bath behind her for ever.

It held nothing for her now.

Frankie's train pulled into Croydon just after midday – she'd had to wait at Bath station for a couple of hours as she could only afford the cheap ticket with what was left of her money, and she had also had to wait half an hour at Reading to change trains. Now she was practically penniless, but it was OK: she knew the way from the station, having travelled it with Keith a number of times. It was devastating to be back here without him, but she tried to push that thought from her mind.

The leafy street of Victorian terraced houses in which Keith's mother lived was not far from the station, and Frankie was there ten minutes after she arrived. She had walked briskly, her head lowered as she tried not to be noticed or recognized; but once she was outside the house she simply stood there on the other side of the road, out of sight behind a large recycling bin, looking, scanning, making sure no one else was around. She could see the lounge curtains were drawn and she waited to check if there was anyone else in the house. There was no movement.

Although she'd had the conversation a hundred times in her head on the way up, she had no idea how she would be received here. Keith's mum had never been her greatest fan, and no doubt she would know her son was dead by now – she suspected she would not be greeted
with open arms. She took a deep breath, walked across the road and up to the house, then knocked on the door.

Frankie hardly recognized Keith's mother: she was a tall woman, with dyed blonde hair and a proud face, but today she looked bedraggled and haggard, and her eyes showed the signs of constant weeping. Once the door was open, she looked at Frankie with a mixture of horror and contempt. Frankie just stood there, holding Jasper tightly and not knowing what to say. ‘I'm so sorry, Elaine,' she finally managed to whisper hoarsely.

Elaine took a step backwards, saying nothing.

‘I need your help, Elaine,' Frankie continued. ‘Please. You must know I didn't have anything to do with Keith's death.' Her voice wavered as she spoke: it was the first time she had acknowledged out loud that he was dead, and the words cut into her like a shard of glass.

‘What have you done, Frankie?' She was still recoiling from the young woman on her doorstep, but her eyes kept flickering towards the child in her arms.

‘Please, can I come in? I need help with Jasper …'

Frankie stepped tentatively over the threshold, and was encouraged when Elaine didn't stop her. ‘Close the door,' the older woman told her as she turned and walked down the mosaic tiles of the hallway into the sitting room.

Frankie followed. It was a small room, just as she remembered. The only difference was the mess – Elaine was normally impeccably tidy, but since her son's death two nights before, she had clearly let her standards drop. The only source of light came from the sun, which shone through a small gap in the drawn curtains. On the coffee table in front of the sofa was a pile of photograph albums,
all of them sprawled open. Frankie caught her breath as she glanced down at them: they were pictures of Keith as a child. There was no mistaking those soft brown eyes or the way the smile danced around his lips even when he was a child. At the corner of one of the pages there was a photograph of him as a baby: had she not known better, Frankie might have mistaken it for Jasper.

Elaine took a seat on the sofa. She was still eyeing Frankie with a lack of trust, but her fear was overcome by a stronger emotion. ‘May I hold Jasper, please?' she asked in a strained voice.

Gently, Frankie unwrapped her son from the sheet in which he was swaddled and handed him over to his grandmother. Normally Elaine's eyes would soften when she saw her grandson, but this time they filled with tears. She held him close to her breast. ‘He's so like Keith,' was all she managed to say before she found herself overcome with sorrow.

‘I didn't kill him,' Frankie repeated herself. ‘You do believe me, don't you?'

‘That's not what the police think.' She handed Frankie the newspaper that was lying next to her. Frankie took it and looked aghast at the front page. It was her – the picture Keith had taken the day she had found out she was pregnant. She didn't need to read the article, the headline said it all:
KILLER ON THE RUN
! ‘You've been on every news bulletin for the last few hours,' Elaine told her. ‘I'm surprised no one's recognized you yet.' She stared hard at her son's ex-partner. ‘You can't blame me for not knowing what to think.'

‘I know what it looks like, Elaine, but please believe me. I saw Keith moments before he was killed. If I hadn't
run away when I did, the man who did it would have killed me and Jasper too.'

Elaine said nothing.

‘He told me to run, Elaine,' she insisted, her voice now full of tears. ‘It was the last thing he ever said.' She put her face in her hands and allowed the desperation that had been building up inside her to finally release itself. Huge sobs racked her body, punctuated only when she drew breath.

At the sound of his mother's tears, Jasper started crying too. Elaine stood up and removed him from the room, only returning when both mother and son had regained their composure. She stood framed in the doorway as she gently rocked her grandson in her arms. ‘You're going to have to go to the police, Frankie,' she said shortly. ‘You do realize that, don't you?'

Frankie shook her head dismissively. ‘I can't,' she said as Elaine walked into the room and laid the gurgling Jasper on the sofa.

‘Why not?'

‘I just can't,' she said aggressively, before realizing she had overstepped the mark. Elaine's lips tightened and she looked away. ‘I'm sorry, Elaine,' Frankie continued, more subdued now. ‘I know it looks bad, but if I go to the police now, they will never believe that I am innocent. I
will
go to jail, and Jasper
will
be taken into care. I'll never see him again – and nor will you.'

The two women stood there in silence, gazing at the small child who lay there with no conception of what was going on around him.

‘I think I know who did this, Elaine. I need to go to London to find them. To put a stop to this. Then I'll go to the police, I promise. It will only be for a few days,
but if I take Jasper with me, they will kill us both.' Her eyes looked down to the floor. ‘And if
they
don't, the way I have to live will.'

‘What do you mean?'

Frankie hesitated. She had never told anyone in her new life about her past, not even Keith, and especially not his mother, who had never quite managed to approve of her. But she needed her help. She needed to explain why she couldn't take Jasper with her. ‘Before I met Keith,' she said in a quiet, trembling voice, ‘I lived on the streets.' Frankie glanced up at Elaine – a look of realization crossed the older woman's face as if things suddenly made a great deal more sense. ‘While I was there, there was a fight. A man was forcing a young girl to do –' she winced slightly at the memory of it and glanced down at her son – ‘things she didn't want to do. I intervened and the man died.'

Elaine gazed at her in shock. ‘You killed him?' she whispered.

‘If I hadn't, he would have killed us both,' Frankie stated firmly. ‘I don't regret it for a minute, and I would do the same again. But the police know it was me – that's why I can't go to them.' Elaine could not disguise the look of contempt on her face. ‘Don't judge me, Elaine.' Frankie's voice wavered dangerously. ‘You don't know what it was like.'

The two women looked at each other, their eyes flashing in silent confrontation.

‘I'm sorry, Elaine,' Frankie finally backed down. ‘I know how difficult this is for you, especially now. But you have to understand: if you don't help me now, that's the world I will have to take Jasper back to.'

Elaine stared at Frankie as she considered the news she had just been told. ‘I'm supposed to call the police the moment you try and get in touch,' she said quietly.

‘Please, Elaine. Don't do that. You're the only person I could come to. I've nowhere else to go, and I need someone to look after Jasper, just for a little while, until I sort everything out.'

‘What about your own parents? Keith told me you'd never even spoken to him about them. Are they dead?'

‘My father is. My mother is still alive, but I can't go to her.'

‘Why not?'

‘I just can't. Please try and understand, Elaine.'

‘I can't pretend that I do,' she replied flatly, then paused. ‘But I'll do what I can, for Jasper if no one else.'

Frankie closed her eyes as relief crashed over her. ‘Thank you, Elaine.'

‘But it had better not be for long.' She looked down at the photographs on the table in front of her, and picked up an old black and white picture. It showed her as a much younger woman, sitting on a carpet with Keith and a small teddy bear. Her eyes lingered on it. ‘A child shouldn't be without its mother.'

‘I know, Elaine,' Frankie replied. ‘Trust me, I know. I'm going to find the men who did this to Keith, deal with them, and then come back. I promise.'

Elaine nodded. The tension between the two was still there, but it was softening. ‘Jasper needs a bath,' she said.

Frankie agreed. ‘I know. It's been a while.'

‘What if the police call?'

‘Are you expecting them to?'

‘No, but …' Elaine left it hanging.

Frankie turned to her son and picked him up. ‘There's nothing else I can do,' she whispered to herself. ‘I will be back, whatever happens.'

As she spoke, Jasper gazed up at her, his clear eyes seeming to pierce her very consciousness. She put his soft cheek against hers and whispered very gently in his ear, ‘Mummy will be back soon. I promise.' Frankie knew that she was doing the right thing, but now that it came to it, she found it almost impossible to let him go. He felt so warm in her arms, so tiny, and the bond of love between them seemed impenetrable. But she knew she had to do this, to separate from each other for a while, no matter how brutally it ripped her apart to do so. ‘I love you,' she whispered, then laid him back down on the sofa.

Frankie looked at her son one last time, then turned her back on him, her set jaw barely disguising her despair at what she was doing.

Elaine was fishing in her purse; she took out a few banknotes and handed them to her. ‘It's all I have,' she said shortly. Frankie started to open her mouth, but Elaine interrupted her before she could speak. ‘You can leave from the back,' she said urgently. ‘You know how nosy people can be. The garden gate leads on to an alleyway that will take you round to the main road.'

Frankie nodded. She wanted to embrace Elaine, to thank her for what she was doing, but she knew it wouldn't be appropriate. Without looking back she moved quickly down the hallway towards the kitchen. The back door was open, so she strolled across the grass that covered the small garden and unbolted the large wooden gate at the bottom. She sprinted down the
alleyway, stumbling occasionally but managing to keep to her feet, then peered round the corner when she reached the end. A couple of men were loitering on the other side of the road, but she was too far away to make out their faces, which meant they were too far away to see Frankie clearly, so she took a deep breath and walked swiftly in the other direction, holding her head low so as not to be recognized.

The further she walked from Elaine's house and the more distance she put between herself and Jasper, the more she thought her heart would burst. She could not afford to make an exhibition of herself, so she did her best to restrain her emotions, but she felt like a corked bottle ready to explode. It was the first time she had been without her son since he had been born, and it was as though she had left a little part of herself behind.

By evening, Frankie was back in London, her body aching for Jasper, just as it was aching for Keith.

The money Elaine had given her had been enough for a train ticket, some food and a pair of dark glasses, which she had bought in a shop in Croydon in an attempt to disguise herself from curious members of the public who might have seen her face in the papers. There was now only a handful of change left in her pocket as she sat on the edge of Waterloo Bridge, watching the setting sun turn the water a burning, vibrant red, waiting for night to fall.

Night-time was when the people she needed to speak to congregated. Strut's associates. The men she was going to have to face up to if she wanted her life back.

As the sun set and dusk fell, she removed her sunglasses,
thinking that they were likely to bring attention to her rather than act as a disguise; but she didn't move from her position. After all, she had nowhere to go. Not yet. She just gazed at the skyline that she knew so well from tramping over the bridge day in, day out. How well she recognized it, and yet how alien it seemed, a stark reminder of those dark days of a previous lifetime.

Sitting there, absorbed in her thoughts, she suddenly became aware of something on the periphery of her vision. It was twenty metres or so away, towards the north side of the bridge, that a young couple were looking at her and whispering surreptitiously to themselves. Frankie remained absolutely still but continued to watch out of the corner of her eye. The man had a newspaper in his hand: the two of them looked at the front page, back at her, and then muttered something to themselves again.

Frankie knew in that instant that she had been recognized.

She had expected herself to panic if this happened, but instead a calmness descended upon her as she slowly pushed herself away from the side of the bridge and started walking south, away from the couple. Her pace was steady, measured – she didn't want them to know she had seen them – but she felt herself tense. Time seemed to happen in slow motion, but in fact she had walked only a few paces when she heard a voice behind her. ‘Hey!' it shouted. ‘Wait!'