The Truth About Celia Frost (16 page)

“Hey! Get your dirty fingers out of my cooking.” A tall, broad woman appeared, clothed in a long, heavy white dress bordered with bright stitching and ornate crosses. Her hair was
swathed in a high white headscarf, which added to her stature, and Celia immediately got the impression that this woman was more than a match for her overgrown sons.

She puffed out her already round cheeks. “I hope you two have been good today,” she said to the huge men as if they were little boys. “Every day I pray that my boys are keeping
out of trouble.”

“How could you doubt us, Emama? You know what angels we are.” Abs and Yacob planted kisses on her cheeks.

“Emama, we’ve brought someone to meet you,” Yacob said, beckoning Celia out of the doorway, where she’d been shielded from the mother’s view.

“Hello,” Celia said shyly.

“Hello, darling. I’m Mrs. Giran.” The woman’s whole face smiled. “How do you know these terrible boys?”

“Oh no, Emama. This is Celia, Sol’s girlfriend,” said Abs mischievously.

Sol ran to defend himself. “They’re kidding, Mum. We’re just friends. Aren’t we, Celia?”

“Yeah, of course. We just hang out together,” she said, not knowing where to look.

Mrs. Giran rolled her exasperated eyes at her big sons and addressed Celia.

“Please ignore my silly boys. I’m still waiting for them to grow up,” she said. “It’s so lovely to meet one of Sol’s friends at last. He’s never brought
any of them home. I was beginning to think he was ashamed of his old Emama.”

“I love your house, Mrs. Giran,” Celia said quickly, to cover Sol’s embarrassment.

“Thank you, Celia. I’ve tried my best with it. It’s good that the boys are surrounded by memories of our homeland. As the years slip by, I worry that they will
forget.”

“No chance of that. Not with you going on about it all the time,” Yacob sighed.

“How can I not, with your father still there?” she replied, hurt by the remark.

“Sol told me about his dad. I’m really sorry,” Celia said.

“Don’t be, Celia. I’m going to find him one day and we’ll all be together again,” she said, brightening again. “What about your family?”

“Not much to say really,” Celia censored herself. “It’s just me and my mum. We live in Tower Two. We haven’t been there long.”

“And you and Sol – how did you meet? Are you in the same class at school?”

“Same year,” Celia said, trying to avoid lying.

“And how’s he getting on at school? He never tells me anything,” Mrs. Giran asked.

Sol shot a look of panic at Celia. “Mum,” he jumped in, “Celia has to get home now. She’s starving.”

“Why didn’t you say?” his mother exclaimed. “Celia, you must stay for dinner. It’s all ready and I’d love to chat. Why don’t you phone your mother and
check if it’s okay?”

Celia ignored Sol’s face, which was imploring her to go. She didn’t have to be asked twice. “Thanks. I’d love to,” she answered. “But I really don’t
need to phone my mum. She won’t mind.”

Frankie began to wonder how he was going to get back to his hotel. He was having trouble even remembering the name of it. He contemplated ordering another whiskey but saw the
barman eyeing him up with a look that said,
Don’t even think about it
.

He laid his head down on the beer-soaked bar. That felt better. The room wasn’t spinning so much now.

“I hate this case,” he muttered to himself. “Seeing her like that was like being handed the winning lottery ticket, then losing it.”

What more could he do? He’d already gone back to the American diner to ask whether they knew anything about the kids, but they’d never seen them before today. He’d even gone
and enquired in the sports shop, but they were a dozy lot who couldn’t even remember her coming in.

His head was throbbing from going over and over the conversation he’d heard; trying to remember every word, hoping that there’d be some clue. But what had he learned? That the girl
liked punk, that her mum was drinking too much, that the boy had dodgy brothers who worked in a pub. So what! There were hundreds of pubs in the city and he didn’t even know the boy’s
name. Then there was that bit about the boy saving her life and showing her the best place on earth. Well, you had to take that with a pinch of salt. Frankie knew how girls exaggerated. He reckoned
that the “best place on earth” could be any old dump she had some romantic idea about. And then they were going to swim, but so what? What should he do – hang around in all the
local leisure centres and get accused of being a pervert again? No! It was ridiculous. He could waste months chasing up one dead end lead after another.

His mobile rang and he fumbled around in his pockets for it. Nemo flashed up on the screen.

No way am I answering that
, Frankie thought to himself.
What am I going to tell her?
“Well, madam,” Frankie rehearsed, “I’ve got some good news and some bad
news. I’ve seen the girl, but I lost her and haven’t got a clue where she’s gone.”
Yes that was bound to go down well.

He waited until the phone stopped ringing and tried to negotiate climbing off the bar stool. It had been a lot easier getting on it, but now the floor kept moving. He’d had enough of this
case. It was affecting his health. For weeks now he’d been living off substandard cakes and fast food. He missed the delicious pastries from the bakery below his office; he missed his
favourite takeaways that he lived off when he was home. He was sick of the dingy hotel room with its lumpy mattress. He longed for his own bed in his bachelor pad. No one could ever describe
Frankie’s flat as homely, and it lacked a certain level of cleanliness, but it had all the necessities of life: his forty-inch plasma screen TV, his surround sound home cinema system, his
state-of-the-art music system, and enough computer games to keep him company for years. Thinking about home made Frankie even more melancholy and he came to a decision.

“I’m going to pack this case in,” he declared to himself while lurching to a nearby table. “That’s it. I’m going home. I don’t need this hassle.
I’ll pick up other cases, spy on a few cheating husbands; they always pay pretty well and aren’t half the work of this. So what if the client doesn’t like it? That’s her
problem. She can pay me what she owes and find some other sucker.”

The phone rang out from his pocket. He ignored it.
It’ll be her hassling me again. I’ll tell her my decision in the morning. I just need to lie down now.
But seconds later the
phone went yet again.
She’s not going to stop until I answer.
Frankie growled in irritation.

“What do you want?” he said grumpily, but the voice that replied was not the one he’d expected.

“Oh...hello,” came a frail, lilting voice. “Is that Frankie?”

Frankie hesitated. “Who wants to know?” he replied.

“It’s me, Mary,” said the voice.

Frankie’s mind was a blank. “Listen, love,” he slurred, “I don’t know how you got my number but I don’t know any Marys.”

“Well, you do sound different to how I remember. Do you deliver parcels by any chance?”

Frankie’s head hurt. What was this senile old woman going on about? “Parcels? You want me to deliver a parcel?”

“No
.
You
wanted to deliver a parcel...to Janice Frost; does that ring any bells?”

Frankie shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “Did you just say Janice Frost?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes dear, it’s me, Mary, their old neighbour. I’m sorry to call so late, but I’ve been searching and searching for the piece of paper you left your number on and
I’ve just found it. You’ll never guess where I’d put it.”

Mary paused to give him time to have a guess, but Frankie didn’t answer as he was frantically rifling through his befuddled brain, trying to recall the details of his encounter with the
woman. It was an occupational hazard trying to remember which lies he’d told to which people.

“Oh, can’t you guess?” Mary said, sounding a little disappointed. “Well, I’ll tell you then. I’d put it in the pocket of my dressing gown, but then I got a
new one the other week – it was an absolute bargain, I would have been a fool not to buy it. So anyway, I put my old dressing gown away in the wardrobe and of course completely forgot that
I’d put your piece of paper in there. Aren’t I a twit?” she ended cheerfully.

Mary’s waffling had given Frankie time to get his act together. “You’re no twit, Mary. Sorry I was a bit abrupt. I think I’m coming down with the flu,” he said, his
voice as rough as sandpaper.

“Oh, you poor dear. You sound dreadful. Well hopefully I can cheer you up,” Mary said.

“How can you do that?” Frankie said, dreading the thought that she might have just rung for a chat to fill her lonely evening.

“Have you delivered that precious parcel to Janice yet?” she asked.

“No. I’m still trying to find her,” he answered.

“Well then, you might want to write this down, because I’ve got her new address here,” Mary said proudly.

Frankie convinced himself that he must be in the middle of a cruel drunken dream. “Mary,” he whispered into the phone, “are you really there?”

Peals of laughter greeted his question. “Oh, you silly boy, of course I’m here.”

“But how have you got their address?” he said, still bewildered.

“Celia wrote to me. She was so upset at leaving like that and not getting a chance to say goodbye. I told you she was a lovely girl, didn’t I? Anyway, they’re living somewhere
called the Bluebell Estate; sounds nice, doesn’t it? Now, if you’re ready, I’ll give you their address.”

Frankie couldn’t control himself. He started to shake with laughter, tears streaming down his face.

“Frankie, what’s the matter? Are you laughing or crying?” Mary asked in alarm.

“Mary, I think I love you,” Frankie howled.

“Oh! That’s nice, dear,” replied a rather startled Mary. “Now just you make sure that you get that parcel to Janice. Won’t she get a lovely surprise?”

Early the next morning, despite a splitting hangover, Frankie Byrne woke in a triumphant mood. He phoned Nemo and proudly told her the news. She tried to maintain a
businesslike tone but couldn’t disguise the excitement in her voice. Frankie didn’t bother telling her that an old lady had phoned and just given him their address. Instead he
emphasized the painstaking lengths he’d gone to to get this result and how priceless his expertise was.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be well rewarded for your efforts,” Nemo replied. “But there is more to do yet. You need to move quickly to resolve this case.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll take photos of the targets for you. I’ll make one hundred per cent sure we have the right people.”

“I need more than that,” she said. “I want you to put them under surveillance. I need to be sure that they haven’t told anyone else about their situation.”

“What situation?” Frankie asked.

“I can’t divulge details,” she replied.

“So how will I know if they’re talking about it,” he asked, confused.

“You’ll know,” she said emphatically. “And remember, Mr. Byrne, whatever you may hear you must pass onto me, and only me, and then you must forget you ever heard it. Do I
make myself clear?”

“Yeah, sure – I know the score. I’ve dealt with cases like this before, you know,” he replied indignantly.

“No, Mr. Byrne. I doubt that you have ever dealt with a case like
this
before,” she said.

Frankie packed all his equipment into his car and drove out to the Bluebell Estate, which was dominated by the four ugly tower blocks. He parked close to the towers and,
pulling the peak of his baseball cap low to shield his face, he crossed the concrete square that lay in the middle of them, surreptitiously noting all the CCTV cameras that were trained on every
entrance. He assessed that Bluebell Tower Two would be easy enough to access, but with all the security cameras, he couldn’t risk breaking into the Frosts’ flat. He’d have to come
up with a convincing cover story to work his way in there and do what he had to do.

He needed to get a feel for the area and so he decided to pick his way through the estate.

What a dump
, he thought as he passed a burned-out car and yet another smashed-up phonebox. The maze of identical slit-windowed houses gave the estate the look of a massive prison
compound. This impression was reinforced by the pockets of people, young and old, who seemed to be aimlessly hanging around, killing time, as if they were inmates in an exercise yard.