Frankie (16 page)

‘And what evidence do you have?'

Carter winced involuntarily – he hadn't been looking forward to answering that question. ‘An employee of the
bank approached me. She noticed irregularities in the accounting.'

‘I see.' Baker sat a bit further back in his chair. ‘I think I'm right in saying that you have been investigating this case to the exclusion of everything else – including the others in your team. Am I right?'

Carter shifted in his seat.

‘It's not good enough. We need to see more convictions from you if I'm to justify your presence at the SFO. Our resources are limited, as you know. We work in teams here, and there isn't room for people who aren't prepared to do that.' Carter looked away. He had to admit that he wasn't good at working with his team, the accountants – or number-crunchers as he preferred to call them – and the lawyers and IT professionals who combined to make up any normal investigation. He had been dealing with the Lenham, Borwick and Hargreaves file alone, and the director clearly didn't approve. ‘I don't believe this investigation will lead anywhere, so I would like you to start concentrating on your other cases.'

Carter couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘This could be the most important conviction your agency has ever made,' he told his boss.

Baker smiled indulgently. ‘I've heard that so many times before –' he started to say, but he was interrupted by Carter, whose thin patience had now given way to angry frustration.

‘Look,' he fumed, raising his voice a little so that the director appeared rather taken aback. ‘I have pictures of the Secretary of State for Defence meeting with the head of this bank.'

‘So what?' Baker replied, angry now. ‘There's no law against that.'

‘Perhaps not. But there is a law against people being shot in the head. The person who located evidence of the fraud and downloaded it onto a storage device is now dead; the evidence itself has been stolen. You
need
to let me find it. If you close the case now, these people will get away with fraud
and
murder.'

As he spoke, though, he saw Baker's face remain unemotional. The director was silent for a few moments, allowing Carter's accusations to hang in the air while he considered how to respond. Then he spoke quietly. ‘The last time I looked,
I
was the director of the SFO, and
I
will decide what I
need
to do. Does what you're telling me really sound very likely? I've been in this job a lot longer than you have, and I've seen this happen before.'

‘Seen
what
happen?'

‘Officers become so eager to tie up a case that they will start clutching at straws. We don't have the time or resources to allow you to keep chasing shadows like this.'

‘But someone has died –' Carter started to say, but Baker interrupted him by firmly raising his right hand.

‘You're not with the Met now,' he said firmly, his voice uncharacteristically loud. ‘If there's a murder investigation to be made, let them make it. No doubt they will ask you for your input.'

‘But I can't prove who did it –'

‘Exactly. That is why I'm not granting the Section 2,' Baker said, interrupting him for a second time, before composing himself somewhat. ‘I'd like you to take a holiday. When you come back – refreshed and with a
clear head, I hope – the case will be closed and you will continue the other investigations within your team.'

Carter went to open his mouth to protest but Baker got there before anything came out. ‘That is my final word on the matter.' He looked sternly at him.

As Carter got up to leave Baker was already buzzing through to his secretary. ‘Show DI Carter out, would you?' he asked politely.

Before Sean knew it, he was walking down the corridor, avoiding the glances of the people he passed, not wanting to be caught in conversation. How the hell had he just allowed that to happen? Surely the director of the SFO, if he had given the investigation any scrutiny at all, would know how important it was? Carter stormed into his office and stood staring out of the window and into the drab office on the other side of the road. A few more flurries of snow had started to fall, and his mood felt as wintry as the weather.

Maybe he did need a holiday. There was always something about the approach to Christmas that made him feel a bit gloomy. The prospect of another festive season with his well-meaning parents and siblings alike asking him when he was going to ‘settle down'. They had this notion of him as a carefree womanizer, and he didn't have the heart or the inclination to tell them the truth – that his romantic interludes were few and far between and that when they did occur they were short and not particularly sweet. None of the women in his life seemed to understand that in his line of work you couldn't just let everything drop because you had to go to the cinema. He would try to explain it but, the older he got, the more he found his explanations fell on deaf ears. The result? A
succession of evenings in a bachelor pad that contained everything he could possibly want except the one thing he craved above all else: companionship. Sometimes he dreaded going home.

He thought of Mark Taylor. Maybe he had it right. Get the job done, then home to the wife and kid as quickly as possible. Satisfaction of a sort, but then Taylor didn't seem to be thriving on it.

Damn it, though – this was all smoke and mirrors. What was Baker thinking? It was a big case. An important case. Why was he being pulled from it without a more convincing explanation? There had to be more to it than the director was telling him. ‘Politics,' he muttered to himself as though it were a forbidden word, before grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and walking out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

Frankie and June shut up shop at six o'clock on the nose. The older lady pottered a bit ineffectually while Frankie brought the stock in from outside and arranged it neatly on shelves in the shop. It had been a busy day, according to June; to Frankie it had seemed frantic – a far cry from the mind-numbing boredom of wandering the streets – and once she had used the front two pages of the newspaper to wrap up and discard some leaf trimmings, she had enjoyed every minute of it. She had even forgotten to worry about where she was going to sleep that night. But as her new employer flipped the sign in the window from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
, the events of the day suddenly seemed little more than a mirage.

When everything was cleared up, June went to the till and removed three slightly crumpled ten-pound notes.
She flattened them out in her hand before giving them to Frankie. ‘There you go, dearie,' she said with a smile. ‘I'm sorry it's not more.'

Frankie shook her head mutely. ‘Thank you,' was all she could think of to say, but it seemed so inadequate.

‘Now then,' June continued, ‘before you go on your way, I want to have another look at that hand of yours.'

The wound looked so much better today, mainly because it was clean, and June kept uncharacteristically quiet as she dabbed at it once more with antiseptic, and replaced the bandage with a clean one. Only as she was finishing did the gentle babble of her voice start up again. ‘So what will you be doing tonight, my dear?' she asked lightly.

Frankie was stumped. She couldn't tell the truth, obviously, but what could she say that would sound convincing? What did normal people do in the evening when they had time off and a bit of money in their back pockets? ‘Go to the pub,' she ventured unconfidently.

‘Meeting a young man, I'll be bound,' she suggested archly.

Frankie blushed even as she shook her head. Young men weren't something that were picked up on her radar – not in the way that June meant. They were something to be avoided, more often than not. Even if she felt differently now, she knew that they would be put off by her gaunt face and greasy hair, by the bags under her eyes and her dirty skin. And it would all be a pipe dream, anyway …

June watched Frankie closely as a look of confusion crossed the young woman's face. ‘Well, if you're not meeting anyone in particular,' she said self-deprecatingly, ‘perhaps I could come along myself.'

Frankie looked at her in surprise. ‘Of course, June.' She smiled. ‘I'd like that.'

‘Oh splendid!' June clapped her hands in a strangely childlike way. ‘Why don't we go upstairs to the flat and have something to eat?'

June's flat was neat and homely, the food she cooked warm and comforting. She watched Frankie pensively as the young woman wolfed the food down as if she hadn't eaten in a month, too intent to say a word, while she herself picked demurely at her own plate. ‘You were hungry,' she noted with understatement as her companion finished off.

Frankie nodded.

‘Ah well, I don't seem to have much of an appetite myself tonight. Shall we go?' She stood up and grabbed her coat from a peg, pretending not to notice the look Frankie gave the plate of uneaten food she had left. ‘Come along then, dearie,' she said brightly. ‘I don't want to be late tonight, not like you young things, out till I don't know what hour.'

As this unlikely couple walked into the nearest pub, Frankie breathed in the dense, beery fug. She felt nervous. Normally she would be asked to leave any pub she set foot inside, but tonight was different. The pale blue headscarf and clean jumper made her look less like a down-and-out, and the fact that she was with such a respectable-looking lady meant that nobody gave her a second glance. ‘Now then, you find a seat,' June said in an orderly tone of voice that made it clear she was as much a stranger here as Frankie, ‘and I'll get us both a drink. What would you like?'

‘Vodka,' Frankie replied almost automatically as she looked round for a table.

June gave her an odd look. ‘Vodka and what?' But her companion had already walked off to sit down.

A few minutes later she joined her, carrying a glass of wine and one of vodka, ice and lemon, with a separate mixer bottle of tonic. Frankie looked uncomfortably at the drink in front of her, unsure quite what to do, then poured a splash of tonic into the glass and drank the vodka down in two gulps, before June had even taken a sip of her wine. ‘You're a fast drinker,' the older woman noted.

Frankie looked embarrassed. ‘I'm sorry,' she muttered, before adding weakly, ‘I was just thirsty.'

June took a sip of her drink. ‘Tell me where you're staying again,' she asked, as if making light conversation.

‘With friends.' Frankie knew she sounded sullen, but she didn't want to be drawn into this conversation again.

‘I see.' There was an awkward silence. ‘Don't you think you should call them to say you're going to be home a bit later?'

‘No, it's OK,' Frankie stumbled on her words slightly. ‘They won't be worried.'

‘I see.' June did not sound convinced.

They sat in silence for a minute or two. Frankie drained the water that had melted from her ice, and June nursed her glass of wine unenthusiastically. Finally she spoke. ‘You're not really staying with friends, are you, Frankie?'

‘I am,' she replied. ‘I just …'

June raised her hand to silence her. ‘I think you're sleeping rough,' she said simply. ‘Tell me the truth. I might be old but I'm not stupid.'

Frankie fiddled with her glass, unable to look her in the eye. If she told the truth, June might want nothing to do
with her; but how long did she think she could keep this up? How long before June noticed her coming in to work every day in the same clothes that grew dirtier each time she wore them? How long before she got into a fight and came in with her face bruised and purple? How long before she simply let something slip? Slowly she nodded her head, then turned her wide eyes to look at June.

The older lady's face appeared almost relieved, as if this had been bothering her for a while and now everything was making sense. ‘Why don't you go home? To your mother?' she asked softly.

For the first time since she ran away, Frankie considered telling someone, but something stopped her. How could June possibly understand what she had gone through? Some things are beyond other people's comprehension. And anyway, it was still too traumatic for her to talk about. She had done everything she could to put the past out of her head; speaking about it would just undo the good work she had done. ‘I just can't,' she said a bit more forcefully than she intended. She instantly regretted her vigour as June lowered her eyes. ‘I'm sorry, June,' she said quietly. ‘I can't talk about it. Look, if you want me to stop working at your shop, I'll understand.'

June shook her head. ‘No, dearie,' she declined. ‘I don't want you to do that.' She took another sip of her drink. ‘There's a spare room in the flat,' she said after a moment. ‘It's not much to speak of, just a box room really, but there's a bed there. You'd be welcome to it, if you like.'

‘June, you don't have to …'

But she was holding up her hand to silence her again. ‘I had a daughter,' she said. ‘She was about your age when she died in a car accident.'

Frankie noticed June's jaw lock as she did her best to stop the emotion from showing in her face. ‘I'm sorry –' she started to say, but was cut short again.

‘You remind me of her in so many ways.' June took Frankie's chin in her hand. ‘People aren't meant to be on the street, Frankie. And they aren't meant to be alone. Please – you'll be doing me a favour. You can move out to your own place when you get yourself sorted.'

Frankie remained silent. She wasn't used to such charity, and didn't know how to react to it.

‘Come on.' June spoke for her as she pushed her glass of wine away. ‘Let's go home.' The two women stood up and left the pub.

They walked in silence as they followed the route back to the flower shop and, although it wasn't far, it took them a while to get there because June walked slowly. The shop was in sight when they heard voices shouting behind them. Frankie turned to see two girls running towards her. Why were they calling them? What did they want? She felt her hackles rising. It wasn't until they were close that she realized who they were: the junkies who had stolen her begging money a couple of days ago. They stopped a couple of metres away from her and June, their breath steaming in the air, their eyes alive and hungry. ‘We told you to fuck off out of it,' one of them said, her voice tense with what sounded like excitement. She eyed June with a sneer.