Frankie (3 page)

To do that, she needed money. And fast.

Still running, Frankie turned a corner and headed west. She kept a lookout for a shop that would be easy to break into, but most of them had metal shutters fastened tightly over their windows, and in any case she doubted their tills would be full. Had she been in a richer area, she might have taken the risk of breaking into a couple of expensive-looking cars and rooting around for the small change the owners often kept in the front for parking – that little trick had seen her out of more than one hungry evening before now. But she needed Mercedes and BMWs to earn her money that way, not the clapped-out rust-buckets parked up round here.

After thirty minutes of half-walking, half-running, she figured she was far enough away to think about crossing the river. She took a right-hand turn and started weaving her way up towards Chelsea Bridge.

It started to snow again as the lights of the bridge came into view, but she wasn't cold: the running, spurred on by the adrenaline pumping through her body, had taken care of that. The imposing towers of Battersea Power Station were lost in the flurries of snowflakes. It was pretty, but Frankie did not have time to take in the scenery. She knew that she was going to have to be driven to another act of desperation tonight if she was going to disappear. She didn't want to do it, but she couldn't think of any other way.

She ducked into a dimly lit side street and stopped to catch her breath in the arches that ran under the railway line. Her hand was still bleeding, and she knew she needed the use of it for what she had in mind. There was no way she could risk going to a hospital to get a clean bandage,
so she took off her overcoat, ripped a strip of material from one of the two dirty T-shirts she was wearing, then tied it tightly around her hand. It still hurt, but at least she could use it.

As she was pulling her coat back on, she saw two police officers in their bright yellow jackets walking past the end of the street. She pressed her back against the wall of the arch and waited for them to pass. The fight had been forty-five minutes ago, and in a different part of the city, but she couldn't take any chances. The police might already have a description, in which case they would all be keeping a lookout for her. She silently gave thanks that the clothes she was wearing – the only ones she had – were black.

Frankie stayed hidden for a couple of minutes after the police officers had passed before gingerly walking back out to the main road. Chelsea Bridge was illuminated in front of her, but the snow was falling more heavily now and she couldn't see the other side. She stood watching as people occasionally appeared like ghosts out of the blizzard – couples, mostly, on their way home from an evening out, huddled together as they walked to protect themselves from the elements.

She let them pass. There was no way she could take on two people. Not in her state. Come to think of it, she didn't know if she could take on a single person – she had never done this before.

A thin layer of snow had settled on her clothes before a suitable candidate appeared. She could just make her out, standing on her own halfway across the bridge. She was not well dressed for the weather: a sensible jacket and skirt, with just a checked scarf to keep out the cold.
Her handbag was slung over her shoulder, and she was stamping her feet on the ground, trying to keep herself warm as she looked around as if waiting to meet someone.

Frankie strode up to her and walked past, peering through the snow to the other side of the bridge to check that nobody was coming. It was difficult to see, but the coast seemed clear. She doubled back. The woman was looking the other way, so she quietly approached her from behind and grabbed the handbag.

The woman slipped, fell with a scream and landed on her back. Her handbag was still hooked to her arm, so Frankie knelt down and tugged it hard, breaking the strap. As she pulled, the woman's scarf unfurled slightly, and Frankie noticed she was wearing a necklace. She grabbed the chain and yanked it off, pulling the scarf with it. Her victim cried in pain as the metal bit into her neck, but by that time Frankie was already standing up. She barely looked at the chunky silver locket at the end of the chain before stuffing it into the pocket of her jeans. It might be worth something to someone.

Suddenly she saw figures running towards her from the north side of the bridge. Shit, she thought. I've taken too long. Clutching the handbag and the scarf, she turned and ran. Have-a-go heroes – was there one or two? Or maybe more? She didn't know how the hell they had seen what she'd done – they hadn't been in sight when she grabbed the bag – but she didn't have time to worry about it. They were bearing down on her. She just had to get away.

Manslaughter and assault: the police would have a field day with her if she was caught.

As if summoned by that thought, she heard the familiar
sound of sirens, and looking over her shoulder she could make out the telltale blue glow somewhere on the other side of the bridge. There were two options: run across the road and scale the railings over into Battersea Park, or try to lose herself back under the arches.

It was a split-second decision. Battersea Park would be too exposed – there was nowhere to hide – and the railings were sharp; so she would have to take her chances under the arches. She ran with all her strength and turned back into the side street.

She heard footsteps running behind her. A voice shouted ‘Stop!' as Frankie disappeared once more into the shadows, her eyes welling up with tears of panic.

Working late wasn't something that was high on Detective Inspector Mark Taylor's agenda. Nor, for that matter, was paperwork. But it never seemed to get done during the day, so tonight was going to be a late one whether he liked it or not. He took a gulp of tea from a brightly coloured mug – a Christmas present from his daughter three years ago – then pulled a face when he realized it was stone cold. Perhaps he should go and find himself a fresh cup. Then again, maybe he should just push on through. The sooner he got all this crap out of his in-tray, the sooner he could get home and have a proper drink. The one good thing was that people left him alone at this hour – they knew they were likely to get their heads bitten off if they didn't.

Suddenly there was a knock and the duty sergeant stuck his head round the door. ‘Sorry to disturb, sir.'

‘What is it? I'm leaving in ten minutes.'

‘Incident in Newington Park, sir. Looks like a fatality.'

Taylor sighed. That was the rest of his evening mapped out. He stood up and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. ‘What sort of incident?'

‘A fight of some sort, sir. None of the witnesses are being very forthcoming.'

‘I bet they're not.' Mark Taylor knew Newington Park well. It was a hang-out for the dregs of society, a place they went when they had been moved on from everywhere
else. He'd lost count of the number of times he had suggested to his boss that they crack down and clean the place up, but the DCI had other plans. ‘Much better to have them all in one place, where we can keep an eye on them' was his constant refrain, though Taylor suspected there was more to his line than that. Moving these people on was a nasty business, but after twenty years in the force Taylor knew there was no room in the job for bleeding hearts, and these homeless scumbags were his pet hate. ‘I'll be down in a minute,' he said without much enthusiasm. ‘After I've called the wife.'

He didn't speak to the constable who drove him to the scene; he just stared out of the window at the incessant snow until the car pulled up at the park. Already there were three police cars and an ambulance, their flashing lights silently illuminating the bare trees and the confused down-and-outs. A handful of officers were talking to the few people that had remained in the park, the lapels of their coats pulled up against the elements, notebooks in their hands. Slightly apart, two female officers were comforting a weeping girl.

Taylor slammed the door of the unmarked police car and strode through the park, making a beeline for the cordoned-off area where the body was still lying. The forensics team was already on the scene – four of them in white boiler suits inspecting the body, taking pictures and collecting evidence. They seemed to be interested in everything – cigarette butts that might hold a DNA clue, empty cans that carried incriminating fingerprints, footprints surrounding the body and, of course, the broken glass. Taylor recognized Dr Michael Simms, who was crouched over the body removing hair strands. He
walked up to the body and took a closer look. He knew the victim immediately. It was a gruesome sight, but his face didn't flicker. Twenty years in the Met and he'd seen worse.

‘Any idea who it is?' Simms asked him, still working on the body.

‘Yeah,' Taylor replied casually. ‘Bob Strut. Dealer, pimp, general lowlife.'

‘Well, he met his match tonight.' Simms stood up to face Taylor. ‘You can see that the bottle pierced the jugular here.' Both men looked at the broken bottle embedded deep in Strut's neck. ‘I'd say he was smashed over the head with the bottle from behind, then had his throat cut. All fairly obvious.'

‘OK, Michael. Thanks.' It was always reassuring to have Simms along – he'd been a forensic pathologist for as long as anyone could remember, and was well known for his ability to unravel the most complex crime scenes. By the look of things, this wasn't one of them.

A young sergeant approached as Taylor was taking in the scene. ‘What have you got, Steve?' the DI asked him.

The sergeant shook his head. ‘Not much, I'm afraid, sir. No one will give us a name. They definitely know, but I think they're just too scared to say.'

‘Too scared to spend time talking to Old Bill, more like,' Taylor replied, scarcely masking the contempt in his voice. ‘Don't waste your time with them. I know who he is.'

The sergeant looked at him quizzically.

‘Bob Strut,' Taylor explained. ‘He's been working this patch for years, on and off. Nasty fucker. Make sure his file's on my desk first thing in the morning, will you?'

‘Yes, sir.' The sergeant pointed at the weeping girl being
comforted by the two women police officers. ‘Looks like she was involved in some way.'

‘Did she do it?'

‘I don't think so, sir. She's not making much sense, but from what we can work out it seems he was giving her a hard time and someone stepped in.'

‘Either brave or stupid,' Taylor muttered.

‘One more thing you should know, sir.'

‘What?'

‘I can't be sure, but looking at her I'd say she was definitely under age.'

Taylor sighed. ‘How old?'

‘Thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Certainly no older.'

That was all he needed. A dead pimp and a witness who was not only as unreliable as they came, but also a minor. ‘OK. You'd better call social services.'

‘I've already done that, sir. They can't get anyone out until the morning.'

‘Then get someone to take her to hospital, and have an officer put outside her room – I don't want her disappearing.' He gestured vaguely at the few remaining vagrants in the park. ‘And take as many statements from this shower as you can. I want them on my desk first thing.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good. Now if you lot can manage without me, I'm going home.'

Sean Carter stood on the cobbled street and looked left and right. ‘For fuck's sake,' he chastised himself. He'd had her in his sights all the way from the bridge, but as soon as he had turned the corner at the far end of the side
street, she had disappeared. All he could see was a long parade of dark, steel arches that supported the railway line. She could be under any – or none – of them.

Suddenly he thought he heard the sound of running footsteps, but the acoustics of the echoing arches meant that there was no way for him to tell which way they came from. And then a train rumbled past, drowning out the sound. He cursed himself for coming out alone – all his instincts had been to bring someone with him, but there really hadn't been anyone he could rely on. And in any case he hadn't expected this to happen. There was nothing for it. He could spend hours looking for her here, and she probably knew her way around much better than he did – in fact, she was probably already long gone. He'd better get back to the bridge and check Rosemary was OK. She was more important to him right now. He turned and jogged up to the main road.

‘Rosemary!' Carter called her name as he ran back onto Chelsea Bridge. She was still there, not knowing quite what to do, her normally neat hair dishevelled, the low, sensible heel of her right shoe broken off. A few bystanders had surrounded her, checking she was all right and offering what assistance they could. ‘It's OK,' he told them briskly as he approached. ‘She's with me.'

The bystanders looked dubiously at this out-of-breath man, casually dressed in smart jeans, brown leather jacket and new white sneakers. He hardly cut the sort of figure you would expect to be acquainted with someone as tweedy as Rosemary. ‘Is he your friend?' one of them asked.

Rosemary nodded her head, her lips tight, all the while looking daggers at Carter. ‘Thank you for your help …
very kind …' she stuttered, before moving towards the man, hobbling slightly because of her broken shoe. ‘You said you'd be here on time,' she whispered accusingly as they walked away.

‘I know,' he panted, out of breath from the chase. ‘But I had to check you weren't being followed.'

‘You weren't checking very hard!' she hissed. ‘Couldn't you bring someone with you?'

Carter seemed to ignore her outburst. ‘Are you hurt?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘No, I don't think so. Just shaken up.' She breathed deeply to regain her composure, but couldn't help shivering from the cold.

‘Did you get the information?'

‘I did, but …'

‘What?'

Rosemary stopped and turned to look at the man. ‘Whoever it was that attacked me stole my locket, Sean. I'm sorry.'

Sean Carter looked blankly at her, then closed his eyes. ‘Shit,' he breathed.

‘I'm so sorry, Sean.' Rosemary looked worried. ‘I'm sure I wasn't followed. I did everything you told me to make sure –'

‘Come on,' he interrupted her. ‘Let's get out of the cold. My car's just up here.' Carter took her by the arm and marched her to the south side of the bridge, where a saloon car was parked on the road, its hazard lights blinking. Carter pressed a button on his key fob and unlocked the car. He opened the door for Rosemary before taking his place at the driving seat, doing a tight U-turn and speeding over the bridge and along the Embankment.

They hardly spoke in the car, and twenty minutes later
they were pulling into Gray's Inn Road and then down Elm Street. ‘What is this place?' Rosemary asked as Carter stopped the car.

‘My office,' he replied. ‘We can talk here, and you can get cleaned up.'

The security guard at reception clearly recognized Carter and waved him through with a friendly smile. The two of them entered a lift, got out on the fourth floor and then walked down a long corridor. There didn't seem to be anyone about, which was unsurprising given the lateness of the hour. Carter stopped outside an unmarked door. ‘This is my office. The ladies' is down there on the right,' he pointed down a corridor leading off the room, ‘if you want to sort yourself out.'

‘Thank you,' said Rosemary, her hand involuntarily touching her ruffled hair. ‘I think I will, if you'll excuse me.' Her voice was steadier now, and its primness had returned. She began to make her way out of the room.

‘Hang on a minute.' Suddenly Carter was right behind her. He put his hand on her shoulder.

‘What's wrong?' Rosemary moved away. She didn't like people touching her.

‘Are you sure you're not hurt? You haven't cut yourself?'

‘No. I don't think so.'

‘Well, there's blood on your jacket.' Rosemary looked over her shoulder and saw a dark, sticky smear that made her feel slightly nauseous. ‘You'd better take it off and give it to me. I'll need to get it checked.'

Rosemary frowned, but did as she was told, then hurried down the corridor to the bathroom. She returned five minutes later, putting her head nervously round the
office door. Carter was sitting upright at his desk, a look of intense confusion on his face. ‘Sit down,' he told Rosemary after a few moments.

Silently she took a seat opposite him.

‘I'm only going to ask you this question once, and it's very important you tell me the truth. Can you do that?'

Rosemary nodded mutely.

‘Did you tell anyone – and I mean
anyone
– that you were meeting me on Chelsea Bridge?'

‘No.'

‘A close friend? A boyfriend?'

Rosemary blushed and looked at her feet.

‘It's important, Rosemary.'

‘I promise I haven't told a soul.' Her voice started wavering, and she buried her face in her hands, weeping silently as the events of the last hour caught up with her. Carter looked away. He could deal with most things the job threw at him, but he never quite knew how to handle crying women. Maybe he had been a bit harsh with her – she had, after all, gone through a lot this evening. ‘I just want to go home now, please,' she sobbed.

‘Come on, Rosemary,' he said awkwardly. ‘Don't cry on me. I just had to ask you, that's all.'

She looked directly at him, her eyes red. ‘I promise you, Sean, I haven't told anyone. How on earth did they know where to find me? I'm sure I wasn't followed.'

Carter shook his head. His instinct told him she was telling the truth. ‘I don't think they did. I think it was just a random attack. That girl came at you from the south side of the river. If they'd been following you, they'd have come from the north. There's no reason to believe they're on to us.'

That had always been the biggest worry. If Rosemary had been caught copying the information he needed, then he would have been able to step in and protect her. But if her bosses had any suspicion of what she was planning to do, they'd have buried the information even deeper, and it would be impossible to get hold of it.

The two of them sat in silence for a minute. Finally Rosemary spoke. ‘I'm going to have to try again, aren't I?'

Carter seemed reluctant. ‘I don't know. I think it's too dangerous. I might have to find someone else.'

‘There isn't anybody else,' Rosemary almost snapped. They had been working on this for months now. Carter had been the first person she had dealt with when she alerted the Serious Fraud Office to the anomalies she had noticed in the bank's accounts, and they had been working hard since then to try and find out what was going on. He was hardly the kind of person she would have expected to be working for the SFO – normally she'd have thought they would be more the pen-pushing type. People like her, in fact. She felt uneasy in his company, more timid than usual, but she knew she had to stand up to him now if she wanted to remain involved in this thing that she had started. She'd gone this far. There was no way she was going to let another person take her place. ‘There isn't anyone else,' she repeated. ‘Not that you can trust, anyhow.'

Carter did his best to keep the emotion from his face, but he knew she was right. It could take weeks to find someone else to train up, and by that time the window of opportunity might very well be closed. This wasn't the sort of thing you could easily get a second crack at. He just hoped he hadn't screwed the whole thing up. ‘I'll
think about it,' he told her, a bit ungraciously. ‘But don't do anything for a few days.'