Frankie (10 page)

The men looked at him almost contemptuously. ‘Tell you what, Detective Inspector,' the squad leader said gently but meaningfully, ‘why don't you take the lead, and if she looks like she's pulling a gun, you can read out her rights? How does that sound?' There was no laughter from his grim-faced colleagues as they piled out of the van.

‘I mean it!' he whispered hoarsely after them, before jumping out of the van himself. ‘Wait here,' he redundantly told the officer driving the van.

Without speaking they continued down the driveway on foot. The ground was covered in frozen snow and crunched beneath them, even though they tried to be as light-footed as possible. As they turned a corner, the house came into view.

Taylor had expected it to be something rather grand, sitting there in its solitary splendour, but when he saw it he realized it was in fact a pretty poor-looking place, ramshackle and run-down. The front of the house had once been rendered white, but the render was now greying and breaking away; an old black Transit van was parked at the front; the garden showed no sign of having been cared for, and resembled a scrap yard more than anything else. It was fully dark now, except for the shine of the snow, and most of the lights on the upper floor of the house seemed to be switched off. On the ground floor, however, a few were switched on, and the light from one of the rooms illuminated a small heap of rubble that was piled up against the wall. The gentle babble of a television
was vaguely discernible in the background. Taylor felt himself become a bit less edgy when he realized that his target was probably just watching TV.

Silently the team took up its positions: two at the front door, one at the back and the fourth member covering the driveway they had just come down. Taylor stood in the shadow of the Transit van, watching everything from his vantage point but hidden out of harm's way in case anything went wrong. He watched in the darkness as one of the armed officers at the front door gently tried to open it – it swung open without difficulty. Taylor began to move towards the house, trying his best to be as skilful as his colleagues but looking more like a target himself. With care, the two armed officers gingerly entered, then one of them reappeared at the doorway a few moments later, giving a thumbs-up sign to Taylor: the first room was secured and empty. Taylor approached the door and peered inside.

The kitchen was sparse: an old Formica table, a sink and a stand-alone oven that had seen better days. The whole place looked as though it could do with knocking down. On the back of a chair a beaten-up jacket had been flung carelessly, and from behind a door on the other side of the room the noise of the television was even more distinct. The two armed officers took their positions on either side of the door, lightly gripping their MP5K semi-automatic machine guns. One of them raised three fingers of his right hand and started a silent countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.

They burst through the door and suddenly started
screaming: ‘Armed police! Get onto the floor! Get onto the floor now!' There was a pause, and then a desperate clattering as their target fell to the ground. ‘Put your hands behind your back!'

Taylor stayed in the kitchen, listening as the officers restrained the suspect with handcuffs. Then he took a deep breath and walked in. ‘Are you Francesca Mills?' he asked as he entered the room.

And then he stopped still.

Sprawled on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back, was a man. He was tallish, but fat, and he wore nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a greying white vest. There was an awkward silence as the armed officers, their brows sweating, looked to Taylor for instructions; but Taylor didn't know what to say. ‘Who the hell are you?' he managed finally, spitting out the words with genuine venom.

The man didn't answer. He couldn't – he was lying on the floor trembling with the fear that can only be inspired by two grim-faced gunmen brandishing machine guns. Taylor looked around: an old-fashioned mobile phone lay on the coffee table. ‘Is that your phone?' he shouted at the man.

Again, no reply.

‘I said, is that your phone?'

‘No!' For such a big man his voice was surprisingly high-pitched.

‘Who gave it to you? Where is she?'

‘I found it,' the man gasped. ‘Last night. In a taxi.'

Taylor stared at him blankly for a few seconds, then turned on his heel and strode out of the room. ‘Let him go,' he said curtly as he left, putting his hand in his pocket
to take out his own phone. He wanted to call Carter – Sean
fucking
Carter – and explain to him in very minute detail what an idiot he thought he was.

Bob Strut was as alive as he ever was
.

Frankie saw his sneer, and the coldness of his eyes. She saw his burly fist gripping the wicked-looking knife with which he had attacked her
.

And then she saw him lying on the ground, the bottle embedded deeply in his neck. The blood that poured from the wound was more copious now – it seemed to run out like water from a hose. It swamped her boots and stuck her feet to the ground. She tried to run, but found she couldn't move. Suddenly Strut opened his eyes and looked straight at her. He grinned, a horrible grin but one that seemed to suit his face, and then he started whispering. Frankie strained her ears, desperately trying to hear what he was saying, but the rasping sound was being drowned out by a scream. She turned her head, expecting to see Mary in a state of hysterics, but Mary was nowhere to be seen. Instead, dressed in a smart woollen skirt and a matching cardigan, her hands covering her ears as if to drown out her screams, was Frankie's mother. Again she tried to run, but the blood swimming around her feet was stronger than any glue, and she found herself rooted to the spot. She turned round again to see Strut standing up. He walked towards her, oblivious to the screaming, and hit her round the side of the face. Frankie felt herself falling to the ground, and braced herself for the whack on the hard concrete
.

But instead of concrete she felt herself lying against something soft. It was a mattress, and she found herself at home, as she so often did. The duvet that covered her was warm, the pillow plump
,
and by her side was a small white teddy bear, her constant companion since before she could remember. She lay there wide awake, as though she was waiting for something, before she heard the door to her bedroom creak open. She closed her eyes and held her teddy a little tighter, lying with the improbable stillness that only a child pretending to be asleep can achieve, as she listened to the footsteps entering her room. Gradually, as slowly as she could manage, she untightened her eyes so that they were still closed but she could half see through her long eyelashes. A figure stood there, silhouetted in front of the curtains. He knew she was awake. And she knew she couldn't fool him. ‘No one will believe you, Francesca,' he whispered as he walked towards the bed and bent down to her
…

Frankie awoke with a start, damp from sweating even though it was still cold. Her face was protected from the concrete of the shop doorstep by a dirty tea towel that she had managed to pilfer from a cafe the day before; her body was protected from the elements by a thin, ragged blanket – holey in places – that she had found discarded by some waste bins near the station when she had arrived two nights previously. For a few moments she didn't move, disorientated by the unfamiliar surroundings and the uncomfortable feeling the dream had left her with.

It was still dark as she sat up, but the steely tinge to the sky told her that morning was not far away. Almost involuntarily Frankie reached up and touched her crudely cut hair. It felt strange still, as if she was somehow naked, but at the same time it gave her comfort to know that she must look so different to how she appeared two days ago. She knew she had to move before the owner of the shop – a newsagent's – arrived to find her blocking his
entrance. The last thing she needed was an irate member of the public calling the police to get her moved on. Her blanket wrapped around her, she fumbled in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the remainder of the money. In her half-awake state she thought she could feel a chunky two-pound coin, but her eyes narrowed in annoyance when she discovered it was just the locket she had taken from the woman on Chelsea Bridge. It was pretty enough, but useless to her at the moment – she'd convert it to money when the time was right – so she stuffed it back in her pocket and counted out her real money. Just a few pounds – barely enough to buy herself something to eat for breakfast. She was well used to surviving on one meal a day, however meagre it was, but she knew she had to think about how she was going to manage when the money ran out. She had been on the streets of Bath for thirty-six hours now, but she had been wandering around in a daze, keeping out of people's way. She had noticed other vagrants, of course, but had been too distracted to follow them, to find out where they stayed and, more importantly, where they begged. Today, all that would have to change. She couldn't afford to be distracted any more.

Slowly she pushed herself to her feet, picking up the plastic bag that held the remains of her bandages. All of a sudden she felt dizzy – the cold had clearly got to her more than she thought – and she put her hand against the wall to steady herself. ‘Shit!' she muttered, wincing as a shock of pain stung through her hand. She staggered down the road, the blanket still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, looking for a cafe. She wanted somewhere that wasn't too full, as she was paranoid people would
recognize her, and she wanted to make sure they were desperate enough for customers that she wouldn't be asked to leave the moment she walked through the door. She decided to head away from the centre of town, towards the run-down areas on the outskirts where she felt more at home.

As she walked, she came across a pretty bed and breakfast that was just beyond Bath Abbey and opposite the Roman Baths. She stood staring at the ashlar stone facade, and welled up inside: it was the place she used to visit as a child, where she spent long weekends with her mother and father. The last time she had been here was just after her father had died, and they had come to get away from it all. Frankie remembered being impressed by the grand architecture and the quaint shops surrounding it. They always stayed on the second floor. It had great views of the busy town, and as night fell she would always sit by the window and watch the people below: some would be dressed for dinner or the theatre, while others just strolled around watching the street entertainment. She remembered the twin double beds with their soft, white sheets and warm quilts, the floral design on the curtains, the television that hung excitingly on the wall and which her mum had allowed her to watch in bed, and the tea tray with its stash of chocolate biscuits wrapped in cellophane. How different her previous trips to the city had been from this one. Now the buildings looked colder, the streets dirtier – but then she hadn't been paying much attention to the streets any other time.

As dawn started to break, she found herself outside a cafe opposite a building site. Part of a small parade of shops on the west side of town that led to the countryside
and the motorway beyond, its front windows were steamed up enough for her to find it difficult to see inside. She peered through the glass as best she could – just making out a few plastic tables and brightly coloured seats that were secured to the floor. Four or five people were in there – all of them builders filling up on big plates of food before the day ahead, happily gossiping as their cigarettes smouldered in tinfoil ashtrays. The woman at the counter was smoking too, standing guard over her enormous metal urn. It was as unappealing as a place could be; but it would be warm, and the food would be hot and cheap. Frankie pushed the door open and walked inside.

She could feel all eyes on her as she walked up to the counter. The woman looked her up and down, her face a picture of mistrust that bordered on contempt. She didn't speak to Frankie as she stood there reading the menu scrawled in chalk on a blackboard behind the counter; she just stared meaningfully as she prepared to take her order. ‘I'll have the full breakfast,' Frankie spoke quickly, ‘and some tea.'

‘Three eighty-five.' The woman stated the price almost as if it was a challenge. Frankie pulled a handful of coins out of her pocket and counted it out to the nearest penny. As she did so, the woman continued to stare at her, her expression making her feelings perfectly plain: I don't like tramps, she seemed to say. If you'd come here an hour later, during the breakfast rush, you'd have been turfed out, for sure. Frankie laid the money on the counter, then went to find herself a seat, ignoring the stares of the builders who turned and continued their conversations as Frankie went to sit down.

‘Oi!' The woman shouted at her above the noise of the radio in the background.

Frankie turned quickly, shocked by the note of accusation in her voice. ‘Yes?' she replied as mildly as she could.

‘It's not the Ritz.' The woman scowled as she filled a mug with hot water from the urn. ‘You can take your tea now.' She held out the mug full of hot, white water, a teabag floating insipidly on the top.

By the time her food arrived, Frankie had already finished the tea. Hot and sweet, it had revived her and brought some feeling back into her numb fingers. Before she left home she had never been able to stomach sugar in her tea, but now she liked her hot drinks as treacly as she could make them – she found it comforting, almost nannying, and it gave her a burst of energy that she imagined helped her through the day. She was counting out her last few coins to determine if she had enough for another cup when her plate of food arrived. Eggs and bacon were swimming in a sweat of grease, surrounded by a puddle of beans and halves of hot toast. Frankie fell upon it hungrily, devouring it as though it would be her last. It was gone in a matter of minutes. She walked to the counter and ordered more tea.

As she was returning to her seat with her drink, she noticed a tabloid newspaper lying unread on one of the tables. She picked it up and sat down to read it. She flicked through the pages, uninterested in the seedy revelations of celebrities whose names meant nothing to her, or the self-important pronouncements of politicians whose policies were next to meaningless to someone in her position. Frankie liked to look through a newspaper when she found one, even if it was a few days old. She always saw
them as a way of keeping in touch with that side of her life that had long since passed; but if she was honest with herself, the very act of reading stories about people who had homes to go to made her feel increasingly detached from them. She had got through the first four pages when her eyes were instantly drawn to an article at the top of the next page. She took a sharp intake of breath, and suddenly it didn't seem so warm in the cafe after all.

The girl in the picture was her.

She looked around. The people in the cafe were ignoring her now, and the stern-faced woman behind the counter was serving someone else – a regular, by the way she was talking to him. Frankie tried to read the article, but her eyes simply jumped from word to word, not taking in much of what it said – though she read it closely enough to establish that at least her name was not mentioned. She gazed at the image of herself, unnerved by the look of impassive determination that marked her face as she ran. Thank God I changed my hair, she thought to herself.

As she read, her paranoia was combined with a wave of panic that made her whole body shudder. She looked at the picture more closely – her features might have changed, but it was perfectly clear what she was wearing. Don't be stupid, she told herself. Plenty of people wear clothes similar to that, if not the same. But none of them were on the run. None of them had killed a man. She had to find herself some new clothes.

As calmly as she could, she folded up the newspaper, put it under her arm and stood up, leaving her tea on the table. As she headed for the door, she heard the serving woman's voice again, just as harsh. ‘Hey, you can't take that.'

‘What?' she asked, genuinely confused.

‘The paper! Go on, put it down and get out.'

Everyone was looking at her again. She returned their stares with nervous defiance, slung the paper down on a table and left.

Frankie had been wanting to find herself a new set of clothes ever since she arrived. She might have known Bath as a child, but she certainly didn't know where to go to find hostels to shelter from the night-time cold, even though it was a lot smaller than London, or if the homeless people congregated in special places where they burned fires in old metal dustbins to ward off the chill. Now she had even more reason to change what she was wearing. But clothes were hard to come by on the street. They were cheap enough in charity shops, but even the few pounds needed to buy a warm jumper were more likely to be spent on food or booze – or something stronger to dull the pain. Sometimes the charitable organizations that dished out hot meals also had bags of second-hand clothing, but not often. And in any case, Frankie was new to town and did not know where – or even if – such places existed. She was going to have to find another way to change her appearance even further.

She crossed the road and sat on a low wall opposite the parade of shops. She didn't know what time it was but the other shops were preparing to open up so, at a guess, it would be about eight o'clock. There was a newsagent's, a dry-cleaner's next to a laundrette with a gaudy orange front, and a Cancer Research charity shop. Frankie sat there wondering what she could do, her blanket once more wrapped around her as she watched the customers come and go in their dribs and drabs. She
knew that, usually, the bags left outside charity shops were a good source of used clothes, but today there were none; and although she had heard people say that laundrettes could offer rich pickings, it required guts to steal right from under people's noses. But the panic she had felt in London was rising again, and she could think of nothing except how to continue her transformation.

From her vantage point she could see that there were five or six people sitting in the laundrette. On one side of the room were the washing machines, on the other side the huge tumble-dryers. The punters sat reading magazines, or staring into space, oblivious of the time passing or of each other. Frankie eyed them closely, her face stony: she knew what she was waiting for. Eventually a middle-aged woman fished her wet laundry from a washing machine and carried it across the room to the dryer. She was a big woman, her skin black and her clothes brightly coloured – hardly the sort of thing that Frankie would choose in order to melt into the background, but she was not in a position to be picky. The woman slipped a few coins into the machine, then waddled out of the door and into the cafe.