Frankie (14 page)

‘Are you sure it's her, Yvonne?' Maybe there had been a mistake.

‘Yes. The fingerprint match has just come in.'

‘How did you have her fingerprints?'

‘She was burgled three years ago. Presumably her prints were taken then just to eliminate her.'

‘OK,' he sighed. ‘Thanks for letting me know. I'll go to the hospital now – do me a favour and ring ahead to tell them I'm coming. I'll be in touch.'

It took at least an hour to struggle through the evening traffic to Hammersmith, and Carter grew increasingly infuriated as the time passed, slamming his hand on the
steering wheel every time he got cut up, and beeping his horn at any sluggish driver who crossed his path. Eventually, though, he screamed into the small car park and found one of the few spaces available. Minutes later he was being escorted down a sterile corridor to the post-mortem room. The hospital porter stopped outside a door. ‘This is it,' he said.

Carter nodded his thanks and knocked on the door. A woman dressed in white opened it. ‘Sean Carter, Serious Fraud Office. I believe you're expecting me.'

‘Come in, Sean,' the woman told him soberly. ‘You'd better put this on.' She handed him a surgical mask.

He walked into the room. A large white curtain cordoned off half of it, and there was one other person in there, a man standing at the sink washing his hands with a thick antiseptic gel – clearly the pathologist. ‘I'll be with you in just one moment, Mr Carter,' he said over his shoulder. He finished washing his hands, dried them and then turned to Sean. ‘Unpleasant, I'm afraid,' he said shortly.

‘What happened to her, Doctor?'

The pathologist glanced at the curtain. ‘How comfortable are you with dead bodies, Detective?'

‘It's fine, Doctor. There's not much I haven't seen.'

The pathologist nodded, then threw open the curtain.

The naked female body lying on the table was unrecognizable. An incision, roughly sewn up, had been made from either shoulder, around her grey breasts and down the length of her abdomen; her pale, grey head was a mess. ‘Jesus, Rosemary.' He turned to the pathologist. ‘What happened to her?'

‘Cause of death: bullet wound to the head.' He pointed
to the swollen hole in her forehead. ‘Exit wound here on the forehead, entry wound at the back of the head. She was shot from behind at point-blank range. See here.' He pointed to the markings around the entry wound. ‘Resin marks. The gun was no more than three inches away.'

‘Time of death?'

‘Difficult to say. We can usually estimate from the decrease in body temperature, but I suspect she'd been in the water for over three hours. At a guess I would say she's been dead eight to ten hours. Once I get the water temperature back, I'll have a closer idea.'

Carter pointed at the arms lying crookedly by her side. ‘Why are her arms like that?'

‘They were tied behind her back when she came in. I had to snap them to her side due to the onset of rigor mortis.' He pointed at the black marks around her swollen wrists. ‘Severe bruising here indicates to me that she was tied up for some considerable period of time, and the ropes were tight when she came in. These three fingers here have been broken, and there's severe bruising along both sides of her abdomen, which caused internal bleeding – it would have killed her anyway if she hadn't died from the gun wound. But why they did that to her before they shot her, I can only speculate.'

But Carter knew. ‘She's been tortured,' he muttered.

The pathologist nodded. ‘That would seem the most probable cause. Stomach was practically empty, so she hadn't eaten for at least twenty-four hours before she died. Blood samples have been taken, but it's obvious she was under considerable duress just before death.'

Carter knew from experience that the blood samples would show traces of endorphins – the levels would
indicate just how frightened she was before her death, but they both knew she had died in extreme pain. By the looks of what they'd done, she was most probably grateful for the bullet. ‘Thank you, Doctor,' he said grimly. ‘I've seen everything I need to.'

Outside the room, he stood leaning against the wall, knocked his head back and drew a deep breath. He was shaking, not from the horror of seeing the body – he was hardened to sights like that – but out of rage and frustration. Who the hell had done this to her? He knew that the information they had found was important, but he never imagined anyone would go to these kinds of lengths to stop it falling into unwelcome hands. And poor Rosemary. What kind of ordeal had she undergone? She was a middle-aged accountant, for Christ's sake. She had a neat little house and an elderly mother who relied on her. How could someone so unassuming – so
worthy
, damn it – end up like that? ‘I'm sorry,' he whispered to the dead woman, hoping that she would hear him in a heaven he didn't believe in. ‘I promise I'll find these people.'

But to do that he needed the evidence that Rosemary had died for, and only one person knew its whereabouts. Her name was Francesca Mills, and God only knew where she was now.

The next day dawned bright and cold. The people of Bath almost had a spring in their step as they made their chilly way to work, warmly wrapped in hats and scarves. The unseasonable early snow had held off for the past two days, and the dirty sludge had disappeared from the streets. The early Christmas decorations did not seem quite so out of place in Bath as they did in London, nor did the strains of carols coming out of the shops seem so premature.

But Frankie felt far from Christmassy. She had spent another night in a shop doorway and was cold, stiff, tired and hungry. In theory she was looking again for somewhere to beg – somewhere she wouldn't be moved on by police or junkies – but in reality she was walking aimlessly, just trying to keep moving as a buffer against the cold. Occasionally she would stand in the doorway of the department stores, feeling the waft of warm air blow against her as customers came in and out, but she would move on as soon as she saw a manager or security guard inside the shop walking towards her with a purposeful look on their face. By midday, the hunger pangs were as bad as ever, and her pockets were still empty of loose change.

She walked down a quaint little street that she hadn't been down before, full of tiny shops selling fancy goods – paintings, fabrics, jewellery. As Frankie wandered down,
wondering if this might be a good place to stop and beg, she found herself outside a tiny flower shop. She gazed at it, suddenly captivated by the display outside. Small zinc-coloured buckets adorned the frontage, filled with flowers that could survive the winter chill, and there were little pots filled with delicate snowdrops and fragrant narcissi. She brushed her fingers against the soft, velvety blooms, caressing them with a subtlety that felt unnatural to her cold-bitten, calloused, sore hands. There had always been winter narcissi in her mother's garden. As a child she had learned how to recognize them – the six tiny petals with a small cup nestled in the centre – along with so many other flowers. Her mother was an avid gardener, and by the time Frankie was ten she could reel off the names of all the plants in the garden. She held a small narcissus flower between two fingers; she hadn't thought of this little bloom for years.

Another plant caught her eye. It was not much to look at – a green shrub in a large pot, with vibrant, glowing orange berries – but for Frankie it was like bumping into an old acquaintance she had not seen for many years. Her eyes wide open, a flicker of a smile played across her face as she remembered its name: Stinking Iris. And it did stink, too, if you squeezed the berries between your fingers. She leaned over to have a closer look.

But as she did so, she became aware of a figure in the doorway. She looked up guiltily, immediately conscious of how she must look – a woman clearly with no money handling all these precious plants. She stopped in her tracks. ‘I'm sorry,' she muttered, the wind suddenly gone from her billowing sails. Her eyes flickered between the plant and the woman. She appeared to be in her early
sixties, and was small but impossibly neat in a clean white apron. Her face was lined, and her mouth unsmiling – but there was a wary laughter behind her eyes that startled Frankie somewhat. She wasn't used to strangers looking at her like that. The woman glanced down at the plant that had caught Frankie's eye. ‘
Iris foetidissima
,' she said in a gentle southern accent.

Frankie was so surprised that she had not been asked to move on that she didn't know what to say for a few moments. Finally, though, she found her tongue. ‘My mother always called it Stinking Iris. It used to make me laugh.'

‘I prefer to use its common name,' the woman said, a little prim but not unfriendly. ‘Gladwyn Iris. Though some people
do
call it Stinking Iris, and I must admit,' she lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘that they can get a bit fragrant if you're not careful with them.'

A smile danced across her face, and Frankie smiled back. ‘Now then, young lady,' she continued in her soft, lilting voice. ‘Will you be buying any flowers off me today?'

Frankie lowered her eyes, suddenly embarrassed by the question. ‘N-no …' she stammered. ‘No, I don't have any money. I'm sorry.' She turned to leave.

As she walked away she heard the woman's voice behind her. ‘Excuse me, dearie,' she called. Frankie stopped and looked back at her. ‘It's perishing cold. You look as if you could use a hot drink. Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea?'

Frankie was momentarily stunned. It was the first time she could remember anyone outside of the soup kitchens offering her a gesture of kindness – the first time, in fact,
that anyone had offered her anything without wanting something in return. Her instinct was to walk away, to keep the hard, defensive shell around her that she had developed in order to survive; but something in the woman's look softened her. She seemed kind and trustworthy. ‘Thank you,' she replied simply, and walked back up to the shop.

‘It's not very often that you find a youngster like yourself who can identify
Iris foetidissima
,' the woman said brightly as they walked inside. ‘Not that I have it in very often. It's not that popular, to be honest. But most of my customers wouldn't know a daffodil from a dandelion – they just want a bunch of something pretty to brighten up the house or to give to their wives to say sorry. Oh but I mustn't be so cynical!' She smiled to herself and turned to look at Frankie, who was gazing round the shop in wonder. It was a fairly ordinary florist's shop, if the truth were to be told, but she had not been in such a place for so long that to her it was a genuine riot of colour. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes as the heady scent of the pollen hit her senses. ‘Have a seat, dearie.' The woman indicated two wicker chairs with well-worn cream cushions in front of a small glass table, and Frankie sat down as the woman walked behind the little counter that had nothing but a till, a roll of Sellotape, several coloured ribbons on roll-holders screwed to the wall, some scissors and a neat pile of wrapping paper. Behind the counter was a small table with a kettle and some tea-making things. The woman switched the kettle on and then came to sit down.

Frankie felt suddenly uncomfortable. The woman's kindly face and the clear look of pity in her eyes made her
feel awkward – she didn't want pity, and she responded poorly to it. She tried to break the silence, to think of something to say, but her mind was blank, confused; she felt she wanted to stand up, give her apologies and walk out.

‘My name's June,' the woman said in an attempt to break the difficult silence.

‘Frankie,' she replied quietly.

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,' said June, with impeccable manners. ‘Now tell me, Frankie, what on earth happened to your hand?'

Frankie looked down at the bandage. ‘I fell,' she said. ‘There was some broken glass on the floor and I cut my hand.'

‘You should take it to the hospital, young lady.'

‘I did,' Frankie lied as June got up to make the tea. ‘But I could do with another bandage.'

‘Sugar?' June asked, seemingly ignoring Frankie's request.

‘Yes,' replied Frankie. ‘I mean, yes, please,' she added quietly.

‘How many? Oh I'll tell you what, I'll just put it on the table and you can help yourself. Now I have a first-aid kit back here somewhere.' June placed the tea things on the table before walking into a room beyond the main shop and coming back a minute later with a large Tupperware box. ‘I'm forever cutting myself on thorns and the like,' she said cheerfully as she sat down and indicated that Frankie should give her her hand. Before she knew it the older woman was untying the clumsy knot and unwrapping the dirty cloth. ‘My mother was a nurse,' June chatted away. ‘When we were children and
we used to play doctors and nurses with our dollies, she would never let us get away with bandaging them up badly. She was a stickler for … oh, my!'

Frankie looked at the palm of her hand. The wound was dreadful still, deep and suppurating, and the filth of the street had seeped in.

‘You fell over, you say?' June raised an eyebrow. Frankie didn't reply, so the older woman removed a bottle of antiseptic lotion and a wodge of cotton wool that she soaked and then dabbed on the hand. She worked as carefully as she could, but the stinging still brought tears to Frankie's eyes. When it was clean, June took a piece of surgical gauze from the box, laid it on the wound, then wrapped a clean bandage gently but firmly round the hand and tied it with a good knot. Her hands looked frail, but they were surprisingly strong. ‘There we go, dearie,' she said as she packed up her first-aid kit.

‘Thank you.' Frankie avoided her gaze, embarrassed that she had accepted help from this kind lady.

‘So did your mother teach you a lot about flowers?' Frankie nodded. ‘As much as she could. It seems a long time ago now.'

‘She sounds like a fine woman.' June spoke the words lightly and did not notice the tightening around Frankie's eyes as she did so. The younger woman didn't reply. ‘Does she live here in Bath?'

Frankie shook her head. ‘No,' she said shortly. She didn't want to continue this conversation. How could she possibly explain the truth about her mother to this sweet lady? ‘I haven't seen my mother for a while,' she said in a tone of voice that she hoped would end the matter. ‘I … I'm living here with friends …' She wasn't sure how
convincing she sounded. ‘Look, I don't want to sound rude, but why are you doing this?'

‘What?'

‘Don't tell me you invite all your customers in for tea.'

‘You're not a customer,' June said pointedly. She picked up her cup of tea and looked at Frankie as she sipped it slowly. Her wrinkled brow was slightly furrowed, almost as if she was deciding whether to ask something or not. Finally she spoke. ‘I could do with some help about the shop.' She looked around a bit apologetically. ‘Oh I know it doesn't seem very busy, but I'm not as young as I was, and an extra pair of hands would be very useful – even if one of them is bandaged up!'

Frankie looked at her, her eyes wide.

‘I was just about to put this sign in the window.' She showed Frankie a small card:
SHOP HELP REQUIRED: APPLY WITHIN
. ‘I wouldn't be able to pay you much, mind. Just pocket money, really. But you know about flowers, and …' Her voice trailed off. ‘Of course, you don't have to decide now.' She seemed somehow deflated, as if Frankie's silence was a tacit rejection.

‘No,' the younger woman said quickly. ‘It's very kind, it's just …' Suddenly she wanted to say so many things. That she had nowhere to live. That she had done terrible things. That she was wanted by the police. That she was grateful for the older lady's kindness. But she could not find the words.

Then an image of the two girls she had met on the street yesterday flashed into her head. Pocket money, June had said. Well, whatever it was, however much it seemed like pocket money to her, to Frankie it could mean the difference between dignity and destitution. And
besides, she felt a warmth in this woman – something she thought she might never again experience in her life.

She smiled, and the smile lit up her face. ‘Thank you,' she said, almost demurely. ‘I'd love to.'

June looked delighted. ‘Oh splendid!' she exclaimed. ‘Now then, I'm sure I have some chocolate biscuits about here somewhere. A cup of tea is nothing without a chocolate biscuit, don't you think?'

Sean Carter knocked on the heavy oak door of the Johnsons' Surrey house. There was no answer, so he knocked again. He didn't quite know what he hoped to achieve here, but speaking to Francesca Mills's mother and stepfather was the only lead he had. His chances of finding the girl were tiny, but he had to try. To find her, he needed to know where she was likely to go; and to do that, he needed to know something about her.

When there was still no reply, he took a step back and peered through the letter box to look for signs of anyone at home. There were lights on, and he could just make out the sound of a radio playing in a distant room.

‘What do you think you're doing?' A woman's voice called behind him. Carter stood up quickly and spun round.

‘Mrs Johnson?' The woman in front of him was holding a pair of secateurs and a large bunch of herbs.

‘Who are you?' She edged back.

Carter pulled his identification out of his wallet and approached her. ‘DI Sean Carter, Serious Fraud Office. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

‘What about?' Harriet's face was etched with concern.

‘It's about Francesca.'

She brushed past him on the way to the door. ‘I've already spoken to the police,' she said brusquely. ‘I've told them everything I can.'

‘I work for the SFO, Mrs Johnson. Please, it will only take a few minutes of your time, and it's very important. I think Francesca could be in trouble.'

Harriet raised an eyebrow at him. ‘I think, Mr Carter, that that is something of an understatement.' She wiped her feet. ‘I suppose you'd better come in.' Carter followed her lead by wiping his own feet before she led him through to the kitchen. ‘Sit down,' she offered as she placed the herbs and secateurs on the table. ‘I find gardening helps me take my mind off recent events, but there's little to do at this time of year – just preparation for spring.' She sounded slightly apologetic as she looked out to her garden.

Carter took a seat and Harriet sat opposite. ‘Mrs Johnson, I'm sure you've been through this already with the police, but I have to ask you again. Can you think of
anywhere
Francesca might be? Somewhere that meant something to her as a child. Friends. Family. Anything.'

Harriet put her head in her hands for a few moments and then looked back up at Carter. ‘Francesca disappeared four years ago, Mr Carter. Since then, I have thought about her every single day. Every day I have wondered where she could be. Do you really think I haven't thought about this?'