Frankie (6 page)

As the final whistle for the train blew the electric door of the carriage hissed open and two men in suits staggered in and took the seats opposite Frankie, dumping a four-pack of beer on the table. One of them belched as he opened his can of lager and fixed her with a stare and a grin. Frankie looked out of the window, but she could not ignore the fact that this guy was doing his best to make her feel uncomfortable. ‘Fancy a beer, darling?' He slurred the words lazily.

Frankie's face hardened as she avoided his gaze, so the man brushed his foot along the length of her leg as he took a swig from his can, his eyes still on her. Instantly, violently, she kicked it away. ‘Don't fucking touch me,' she hissed.

The man put his beer down slowly. He seemed shocked by Frankie's vehemence and by the wild look in her eyes, but his companion was either too drunk to see the warning signs, or he didn't care. ‘Calm down,' he said as if he were talking to a small child. ‘He only offered you a drink, love. What's the fucking matter with you?' They sniggered to each other.

Frankie drew a slow breath as she fought off the urge to lose it with them. That's what she would have done under different circumstances – go crazy, shriek and shout, protect herself by making them avoid the mad, maybe violent, woman they'd had the misfortune to stumble upon. But she knew she couldn't make a scene, so she bottled it up, grabbed her chemist's bag and headed for the toilet, lurching slightly as the train jerked into motion.

The toilet cubicle was cramped but clean enough, apart from the usual scratched graffiti on the mirror. Frankie locked the door, then filled the sink with water. She gave herself a long, hard look in the mirror – something she didn't have the opportunity to do very often, and which she didn't like doing even when she could. She never liked what she saw. Looking down, she slowly picked away at the knot she had made on her makeshift bandage before unwrapping it as carefully as the jostling train would allow. She winced with pain as she eased the material away from her palm – the clotted blood had stuck the bandage to the wound in places, and it started to bleed as she pulled it away.

Soon enough she had treated the cut as the pharmacist had instructed her. It still hurt, of course, but somehow the pain was less persistent. She gulped down a couple of painkillers, then took the scissors out of the pharmacist's bag. It took a while to open the plastic packet – clearly she could not use her bad hand, so she ripped at the tough packaging with her teeth, pulling the scissors out with difficulty. Removing the scarf from round her head, she gingerly held her ponytail up with her bandaged hand, then cut through it just above the dirty hairband that tied it together. The rest of her hair, greasy and matted, stayed
almost in shape, so she ruffled her hair forward and did her best to chop it into some sort of fringe before wrapping all the cut hair up in the scarf. She looked awful, no doubt; but at least she had started to look different to the girl the police would be looking for. Next she opened the box of hair dye and read the back of the sachet. Seconds later she was wetting her dirty hair under the tap and massaging the thick goo into it. She had twenty minutes to wait for it to do its work, so she sat on the toilet, leaned her back against the wall and closed her eyes as her body rocked gently in time with the train.

Suddenly she jumped as there was a heavy knock on the door. Shit, she thought. The place looked like an operating theatre, with bloody bandages and red stains around the metal sink. She ignored the knock, hoping it was just someone wanting to use the toilet, but then it came again. ‘What?' she shouted aggressively.

‘Tickets.' A muffled voice sounded on the other side of the door.

‘I can't,' she replied feebly. ‘I'm being sick.'

‘Sorry, madam, I have to see your ticket, please.'

‘Shit,' Frankie muttered under her breath. She took her ticket from her back pocket, opened the door a couple of centimetres and squeezed it through. The ticket collector took it, punched it, then handed it back. ‘You all right, love?' he asked.

‘Just travel sick,' Frankie answered, not entirely untruthfully, before slamming the door shut.

Fifteen minutes later she walked out. She glanced at the two men who had been giving her trouble but they were fast asleep, with their chins resting firmly on their chests. They would hardly have recognized her anyway:
her hair was jet black, still wet and boyishly slicked back; the bruise on her face from where Strut had hit her was covered over with foundation. She walked away from them into the adjacent carriage, still feeling that all eyes were on her, but quietly confident now that, for the first time that evening, she was in control.

‘Turn left here and it's about halfway down on the right.' Rosemary and Carter had hardly spoken on the journey from the office to Rosemary's house in north London. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, it was just that there wasn't much to say. As Carter slowed down, Rosemary pointed ahead a bit redundantly. ‘Just by this lamp post,' she told him. ‘The one with the green door.'

‘Are you going to be OK?' Carter asked.

‘Yes … yes,' she stuttered slightly, as if she wasn't used to men asking her questions like that. ‘I'll be fine. I'll just have a hot bath and go to bed. I'll be right as rain in the morning. Oh …' She put her hand to her mouth.

‘What's wrong?'

‘My keys. They were in my bag.'

‘Does anyone have a spare?'

‘Yes, my neighbours. But it's terribly late …'

Carter smiled. She was such a good woman – how the hell had she got mixed up in all of this? ‘Well, it's either that,' he gave her a cheeky look, ‘or sleep on my couch. And I don't think you'll find that particularly comfortable.'

Rosemary looked momentarily horrified at his inappropriate comment before she realized he was joking. ‘No …' she did her best to laugh, ‘no, I suppose you're right.' She opened the car door.

‘I'll give you a call at work tomorrow,' Carter called as she walked away from the car. ‘Check you're all right.'

She walked up the stone steps leading to her neighbours' house, taking care not to trip on her broken shoe as she did so. Timidly she pressed on the bell, a short, sharp burst that she half hoped wouldn't wake anyone. She felt the bitter cold as she stood there waiting – Carter had kept her jacket, so there was only her blouse and vest to protect her from the elements. She hugged herself to keep warm. After a short time, the hall light came on, the door opened and Veronica, her neighbour, appeared at the doorway, a little bleary-eyed. ‘Rosemary!' she said in surprise. ‘What on earth's the matter?'

Rosemary and Veronica got on well enough, the way neighbours who must accept each other's presence even if they would never have chosen to live next to each other often do, but Rosemary always found her a little nosy for her taste. ‘I'm so sorry to wake you, Veronica,' she said. ‘I'm afraid I've left my keys at work. Could you let me have my spare pair?'

Veronica looked Rosemary up and down. Ruffled hair, no jacket – it was obvious what she was thinking. She looked over Rosemary's shoulder and saw Carter's car, its hazard lights blinking, then raised one eyebrow slightly as she turned inside to fetch the keys, without inviting Rosemary to step inside into the warm. As she returned, she noticed that Carter was still there. ‘Friend of yours?' she asked delicately.

‘Oh … just a work colleague,' Rosemary lied. ‘He was kind enough to drive me home.'

‘I see.' Veronica clearly didn't believe her.

‘Thank you very much, Veronica,' she said in a
measured voice. ‘I'm terribly sorry to have woken you. Good night.' She turned and walked back down the steps, not looking back at her neighbour who stood at the open doorway for a little longer than either politeness or the weather should have allowed. Rosemary waved her keys at Carter, who waited until she had opened the front gate to her house before driving off into the night.

As she walked down the pathway, an automatic light switched itself on. It seemed brighter than usual because of the way it reflected off the snow – indeed the snow itself seemed to glow like some kind of luminous blanket covering her garden, spoiled only by the footprints leading up to her door.

Rosemary stopped halfway up the path. Why were there footprints in the snow? Nobody ever called on her at this time of night. She stood still and followed them with her eyes, as if the person who had made them were walking up to the porch, knocking on the door, waiting a moment, then walking back down.

Something was not right.

She spun round, hoping that she might still be able to catch Carter's car in the street, but let out a small, almost inaudible scream as she saw a man she did not recognize standing at her gate. Without taking his eyes off Rosemary, he silently opened the gate, walked inside, then shut it behind him. ‘Rosemary Gibson?' he asked quietly, in an accent that she could not quite put her finger on. Eastern European – the Baltics, maybe. Whatever it was, it was neither threatening nor comforting. He was a tall, thin man in early middle age with a drawn, gaunt face and blond hair. The yellow light from the street lamp behind him cast his face in shadow. Rosemary said nothing as he
lifted his head slightly and smiled broadly at her, an action that was quite at odds with the rest of his demeanour.

She turned quickly to the house, wondering if she had time to let herself in before he came any closer, and was horrified to see what looked like the light of a torch flashing on the other side of the frosted coloured glass that decorated the top half of the door. ‘Who's in my house?' she whispered desperately.

The man was now upon her. He grabbed her arm and pushed her up towards the door, then tapped a distinctive knock. The light in the house went out and the door opened almost immediately. Rosemary found herself being shoved roughly inside; she fell to the floor as the door softly clicked shut. The blond man bent down to her level and calmly pointed a gun in her face. ‘Have you ever heard of an AAC Pilot silencer, Mrs Gibson?'

Terrified, Rosemary shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the gun.

‘It means,' he continued in his emotionless voice, ‘that if I shoot you now, the only people to hear it will be me and my friend. No one will suspect anything until the bottles of milk start piling up outside your front door. Do you understand?'

Rosemary was too scared even to nod her head. The man tapped her roughly on the cheek with the barrel of the gun. ‘Do you understand?' he repeated more harshly.

‘Yes,' she whimpered.

‘Good. Where is it?'

‘What?' In her panic she was genuinely wrong-footed by his question.

His voice remained steady. ‘I'm not a man to repeat myself, Mrs Gibson,' he said calmly. ‘I'm only going to
ask you one more time. You have something that doesn't belong to you. I want to know where it is.'

‘Please,' Rosemary cried, gasping for breath. ‘I haven't got it.'

The man sighed almost regretfully, stood up and aimed the gun at her head again.

‘I promise I haven't got it!' she squealed. ‘I promise!'

The two men looked at each other inquiringly. The silent one gestured towards the door, and the man with the gun nodded his head in agreement.

‘OK,' he said, more quietly now. ‘Here's what's going to happen. Outside your gate, to the left, there's a red estate car. We're all going to walk there nice and quietly. If you so much as speak, I'll shoot you. If you make any sudden movements, I'll shoot you. If you try and run away, I'll shoot you. Have I made myself perfectly clear?'

Rosemary nodded her head.

‘Once we're there, you and I will sit in the back seat and have a nice little chat. My friend here will do the driving.'

She stared at him, numb with terror.

‘And Mrs Gibson,' he was practically breathing the words now, ‘make no mistake. I've killed more people than I can count. One more won't make any difference.'

Mark Taylor's alarm clock went off at five-thirty every morning. Even on his days off he stuck to this routine, but only because of the pleasure he derived from being able to turn the bloody thing off and go back to sleep. How long he got to listen to the gentle babble of the Radio 2 DJ before hauling himself out of bed on work days depended entirely on his wife's mood – and this morning she was clearly in the mood for sleeping. ‘Turn it off,' she mumbled drowsily before turning over, taking three-quarters of the covers as she did so. Taylor sighed as his semi-naked body went from warm and cosy to chilled and exposed in a matter of seconds. He hadn't slept well – one whisky too many, as usual. His wife had been trying to stop him drinking spirits for years now, but he always had an excuse. ‘It's been a long day, I'm fucking cold and I've just had to deal with a dead pimp. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like another drink,' he'd told her as he poured himself his fourth large Scotch. Now his head was bleary. Slowly he sat up on the side of the bed and switched the radio off.

Thirty minutes later he was showered, shaved and in the car, listening to the breakfast show on the radio. ‘How the hell can anyone be so happy at this time of the morning?' he muttered to himself. It took him only half an hour to make the journey from his home in Croydon into the station at London Bridge before the rush hour
began – leave it any later, though, and it would be a nightmare – so it was well before seven o'clock when he was walking into his office, mug of coffee in one hand and in the other a plastic bag carrying the cheese sandwiches his wife had made the night before. He sat down in his chair, took a sip, and started to browse through a report from the previous evening.

As he read, Sergeant Steve Irvin walked in and sat down opposite him. ‘You're a bit keen, aren't you?' Taylor asked without looking up. ‘Haven't you got a home to go to?'

‘On my way, sir. Just wanted to update you on the Newington Park incident before I left.'

Taylor had grown to like Irvin in his own way since they had started working together eighteen months previously. He was a good worker, and keen to learn – a fact Taylor found hard to accept, as he privately knew Irvin was likely to go further in the force than he ever could.

‘We couldn't get anyone to give a reliable statement,' the sergeant continued. ‘They were all either drunk, high or not sane enough to rely on –'

‘Not bloody surprised,' Taylor interrupted.

‘I've just got off the phone to the hospital where the girl was taken.'

‘What do we know about her?'

‘Not much. Says her name is Mary. We haven't been able to confirm that, but she seems to have some history of domestic abuse. She's still in shock, but stable – medically speaking, at least. Also, these have just come through.' He pulled four pieces of paper from his file and handed them to his boss. They were A4-sized photographs, blurry and indistinct, but as Taylor flicked through
them one particular image leaped out: a girl with long blonde hair running along a road with park railings on one side.

‘What are these?' Taylor asked.

‘There's a disused warehouse on the west side of the park …'

‘Yeah, thanks, Steve. I've been here long enough that I know Newington Park.'

Steve brushed off the sarcasm – he was well used to it now from Taylor. ‘The security company that looks after the building has CCTV watching the road because of vandalism. I managed to pull last night's security video – it's the best we have for the time of the murder.'

‘Have you got the tape?'

Irvin nodded. ‘Here, sir.' Taylor gestured at the TV and video recorder that stood in the corner of the office, so the sergeant walked over, inserted the tape into the machine and fast-forwarded to the relevant section.

Taylor watched closely as the blonde-haired woman ran down the road. He couldn't believe that was his killer – she was barely older than his own daughter, and there was hardly anything to her. How could she have inflicted so much damage on the tough old corpse he saw last night? ‘Has anyone shown the picture to the girl?'

‘No, sir, not yet. I only managed to get hold of the tape an hour ago.'

Taylor stood up. ‘OK, what hospital is she at?'

‘St Thomas', sir. But …'

‘What?' Taylor turned to face Irvin, one eyebrow raised.

‘Don't you think you should wait for social services to see her first, sir?'

‘What, wait for them to give her a big cuddle and a
chocolate milkshake? Of course I fucking don't.' He grabbed his coat and walked out.

Mary was recovering at the state-of-the-art Evelina Children's Hospital at St Thomas'. It was the first time Taylor had been in the new building, and even he was impressed as he looked up at the seven floors of glass as he entered. It didn't feel like a hospital at all – more like a hotel especially for children. He walked in and made inquiries at reception as to her whereabouts. Because she was being watched over by the police, she had been placed in a family room on the first floor, the Arctic Level. Each floor was themed on the natural world so that children would feel relaxed and happy. This place really did have everything a sick child would need – even its own school. It was probably the most luxurious place the wretch he had seen last night had ever experienced, Taylor mused to himself as he made his way up to see her.

Lizzy, the female officer, had finished her shift and the male officer who had replaced her was sitting on a chair outside the door, reading a copy of the
Sun
, which he quickly folded up and put away when he saw Taylor approach. ‘Is she awake?' the DI asked him without any greeting or formality.

‘I think so, sir. A nurse took some breakfast in about half an hour ago.'

‘Has she said anything?'

‘No, sir.'

Taylor knocked, and when there was still no answer he opened the door and walked straight in.

Mary was sitting up in bed wearing pink pyjamas supplied by the hospital, a tray on her lap holding her breakfast things – every last scrap of food had been devoured.
Her clothes had been washed and pressed and were neatly hanging in the open wardrobe opposite the bed. Taylor looked at Mary. She seemed much more like a thirteen-year-old girl now that she had been washed and her hair combed. The girl didn't even acknowledge his presence; she just stared straight ahead, zombie-like. More than anything else she looked vulnerable.

Taylor stood by the door. ‘Can you hear me, Mary?' Her eyes didn't move. ‘My name's Detective Inspector Taylor. I need to ask you about the events at Newington Park last night.' He took a few steps closer to the bed. ‘Do you want to tell me your surname, Mary?'

Almost imperceptibly, Mary shook her head.

Taylor was trying the softly-softly approach. Make friends with her. Make her realize that he was on her side. But experience had taught him that that way of doing things rarely bore fruit: street kids don't trust coppers, it was as simple as that. He knew they'd be far more likely to believe that he'd be willing to chuck them in a cell before handing them over to social services, who would inevitably send them back to where they came from – be it their parents, foster parents or a children's home. So they invariably responded to a rougher hand, and over the years that had become Taylor's default position. He remained silent for a few moments before speaking again. ‘Do you know what will happen if you waste my time?' he asked, affecting a bored tone in his voice. ‘Young offenders' institution. Nasty place. You get fucked over three times before breakfast. Think I'd rather be sniffing glue round Elephant and Castle.'

Mary turned to look at him. Her big, frightened eyes made him feel suddenly uncomfortable, and he wished
he hadn't said what he'd just said. He held up the CCTV picture in front of her. ‘Come on, Mary. You can help us. Do you recognize this woman?' He tried to smile at her, but it was a false smile and Mary – with the insight of a child – knew it.

She looked impassively at the picture, and then the stony-faced front she had been putting up dissolved once more, just as it had in front of the nice police officer last night. ‘He had a knife,' she wept into her hands.

‘Why don't you tell me what happened?'

But Mary was too distraught to speak again. Taylor stood uncomfortably as huge sobs racked the body of the waif of a girl in front of him. He'd been too heavy-handed – she was no good to him in this state. ‘Look,' he said, trying to be reasonable once more. ‘If this was the girl who did it, I'll find out one way or another. You might as well tell me now, and then I'll leave you alone. OK?'

‘She was just trying to help me,' Mary cried. ‘It wasn't her fault!'

‘What's her name, Mary?'

But the girl just returned his question with a bloodshot stare. ‘I don't know,' she lied unconvincingly.

Suddenly the door opened and a young woman carrying a briefcase walked in. She was dressed in an inexpensive black two-piece suit and her hair was tied tightly back. She took in the scene before turning to Taylor with an angry look. ‘What's going on?' she asked. ‘Who are you?'

‘Detective Inspector Mark Taylor, CID,' he replied abruptly. ‘And who the hell are you?'

The woman fished an ID card out of her pocket. ‘Susan Williamson, social services. This girl is a minor. What are you doing interviewing her without me present?'

‘I wasn't interviewing her, we were just having a little chat. Weren't we, Mary?'

Mary didn't answer.

The social worker pursed her lips at him. ‘May I have a word outside, Detective?'

‘Sure,' Taylor shrugged. Mary's eyes followed him as he left the room. ‘We'll continue this later, Mary.'

Once they were both outside and the door was shut, the social worker turned to Taylor with a fierce look in her eyes. ‘I don't have to tell you that you've broken just about every regulation in the book, Detective,' she fumed.

Taylor raised an eyebrow at her. ‘And I'm sure I don't have to tell you that somewhere out there I've got an unhinged vagrant on the loose with a penchant for sticking bottles into people's necks. This girl knows who she is.'

‘Do you intend to arrest her?'

‘Of course I don't intend to arrest her. She hasn't done anything.'

They stared at each other for a few seconds before the social worker let out an explosive breath of air. ‘This is outrageous,' she muttered, then turned on her heel and walked back into the room.

As the door shut, Taylor turned to the officer outside. ‘You could have told me she was coming,' he grumbled, before walking away and leaving the officer behind him shaking his head in confusion.

Andrew Meeken was director of the Investigations and Prosecutions Department at the SFO. He was a mild-mannered man who shunned the spotlight and was favourite to replace the current director of the SFO when
he stepped down in two years' time. His head was buried in his morning briefings when there was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,' he called.

Sean Carter put his head round the door. ‘Sir, can I have a word, please?'

Meeken raised his head as Carter walked into the office. ‘Of course, Sean. Have a seat.' He always believed in calling people by their first name – respect for your fellow man and all that. ‘How are you settling in?'

‘Fine, sir. I have a request on a case I'm dealing with. I need the assistance of the Met.'

‘Anything particular?'

‘I need help tracking someone down.'

‘OK, Sean, I'll have a word with the director. He'll be speaking with the commissioner soon – I'll come back to you.'

Meeken was not the kind of man to hold his officers up. Forty-five minutes later, as Carter was sitting at his desk finishing a bacon roll, he got the call: Carter had the authority from the director of the SFO and the police commissioner himself. He dialled a number immediately.

‘New Scotland Yard, good morning.'

‘Put me through to DCI Jameson, please,' he asked.

‘One minute, please.'

Carter knew he was going to have to do a bit of fast talking here. Jameson hadn't been at all pleased when he had been transferred to the SFO, but the order had gone above his head. They needed a good DI to help them bring criminal convictions, and Carter had been an obvious choice. He'd jumped at the chance, of course – more money, and an opportunity to climb a different greasy pole to his colleagues. ‘Change is as good as a rest,' he'd
told his friends at the time. Jameson had complained that he was understaffed enough as it was, but the powers on high had overruled him. With typical police bureaucracy, though, he had orders to go through Jameson if he needed to use any of the Met's resources, and he knew the DCI would make him jump through hoops to get what he wanted.

‘Jameson.' His rough voice came abruptly on the line.

‘Morning, sir,' Carter said, trying to keep his voice as level as possible. ‘It's Sean Carter.'

Jameson sighed. ‘What is it, Sean? I'm very busy.'

‘I'm sure you are, sir,' he replied. ‘It won't take long. I need your approval to get something checked with forensics, and to put a trace on a mobile phone.'

‘Yes, so I've been told. Authorized by the commissioner himself. We
are
going places, aren't we, Sean?'

‘It's important, sir.' Carter tried to deflect his sarcasm.

‘Why? Someone embezzling paper clips from the Home Office?'

Carter stayed silent. He was used to wisecracks like that.

‘Come on, Sean. What is it?'

‘I'm afraid I can't tell you, sir. Are you going to authorize what I need?' He knew he didn't really have to ask, but he also knew that the worst way to piss off a DCI was to threaten to go above his head.