Frankie (26 page)

‘If you harm my son,' she stated quite plainly, ‘I
will
kill you.'

Frankie slammed the phone down and frantically looked around her. There were no other phone booths immediately in sight – should she continue down the road, or head up to the riverside walkway in order to find another one and make the call? Whatever, she had to stay focused; she had to push away the sense of desperation that was rising from the pit of her stomach; she had to stay calm. For Jasper's sake.

But then, as she was preparing to leave, something made her jump: the phone was ringing. Frankie stared at it, then looked around her. There was no one there, nobody who seemed to be waiting for a call. Tentatively she picked it up. ‘Hello,' she said nervously.

‘Francesca?' It was a man's voice again, but a different one this time, one Frankie did not recognize.

‘Who's this?'

‘You need to listen to me very carefully, Francesca.' The man spoke quickly, almost breathlessly. ‘My name is Sean Carter. I'm a police officer. I was listening to the conversation you just had.'

Frankie shook her head, even though there was no one there to see her do it. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Elaine Osbourne is dead, Francesca.' She closed her eyes. Deep down, she had known that was the case. ‘I think she was killed by the same person who murdered
her son and your friend June Baird. My colleagues think that person is you.'

‘I didn't kill them.' There was a plea in Frankie's voice.

‘I know you didn't, Francesca. But I can only help you if you listen carefully to what I have to say. Do you understand?'

‘Go on.' This was all happening too quickly for Frankie. As Carter had been speaking, her eyes had been darting all around her, catching the gaze of the early morning passers-by. Whenever someone returned her look, she felt an uncomfortable prickle of suspicion. Time was running out – all she wanted to do was hang up and find another phone to make her call, to check Jasper was still safe; but what this police officer was saying demanded to be heard.

‘Calls to Elaine Osbourne's house are being diverted to the man you've just spoken to; but our technology allows us to listen in to any calls made to Elaine, and they know this. That's why he's given you a new number to call him at, a secure line that we won't be able to tap in to or trace.'

‘But why do I need to call from a different phone myself?'

‘Because they know we'll have traced this number and could listen in – if you use a different phone box, we won't be able to.'

‘They've got my son,' Frankie said numbly, as if ignoring everything Carter had told her. ‘I have to go and get him. I'm sorry.'

‘Wait!' Carter spoke sharply. ‘These men want something from you. As soon as they have it, they will kill you and your son. They've already killed four people
that I know about. Trust me, they won't think twice about it.'

‘Don't be stupid,' Frankie told him impatiently. ‘I don't
have
anything.'

‘Yes, you do, Francesca. Listen to me. Nineteen months ago you attacked a woman on Chelsea Bridge.'

Frankie remained silent.

‘When that happened, you stole a small silver locket from around her neck.' He paused. ‘Do you still have it?'

Frankie touched her hand to her neck: the locket was there against her skin, as it always was. But it was worthless, not even good for a few quid in a pawnbroker's shop. ‘What are you talking about?' Francesca asked disparagingly.

‘Have you still got it?' Carter was insistent.

‘Yes.'

She heard the police officer exhale heavily. ‘That's what they want. It's more than just a locket, Francesca. It's an electronic device that contains enough information to put some powerful people in prison for a very long time. They'll do anything to get it back. You have to help me make sure that never happens. Do you think you can do that for me, Francesca?'

Frankie's face was a picture of paranoid confusion. What was this guy talking about? None of it was even beginning to make sense, and she was overcome by her long-held mistrust of policemen. They'd never helped her before – why would they want to help her now? ‘How do I know you're telling the truth?' she asked curtly.

‘Take out the locket,' Carter urged her. ‘Hold the clasp in for three seconds.'

Frankie did what she was told. The small USB storage device clicked out.

‘Do you believe me now?'

Frankie gazed in astonishment at the locket and said nothing.

‘Do you believe me, Francesca?' Carter repeated his question.

‘It doesn't matter,' Frankie replied. ‘They have my son. That's all I care about.'

‘I told you,' Carter was sounding desperate now, ‘they will kill you if you go to them.'

Frankie remained silent. ‘What do you want me to do?' she asked after a while.

‘Make the call. Find out where they want you to go, then call me back by dialling this number. Do you have a pen?'

‘Yes.' Frankie found herself writing a second number onto the palm of her hand.

‘I can arrange for armed officers to be on the scene within minutes.'

‘What about my son?'

‘We'll do everything we can to ensure that he's not harmed.'

Again Frankie shook her head. ‘That's not good enough. I don't trust men with guns – the more there are, the more likely it is Jasper will get hurt. I won't do it.'

‘Francesca, I promise. We can protect you and your son.'

‘I don't think you can. I don't think you want to, either. How did these people find me in the first place?'

‘Your fingerprints were discovered at the flower shop where you work.'

‘Who by?'

Carter hesitated, almost as if he knew where Frankie was going with this. ‘The police,' he replied grudgingly.

‘Then if what you are saying is true, someone in the police must have passed this information on.'

‘Francesca, I swear to you. The only people who know about this conversation are you and me.'

Frankie's mind was in turmoil. Half of her knew he was right – she had seen the look in the eyes of the man who had killed Keith. Grim and determined. The very thought of seeing him again filled her with fear, but there was really nothing else she could do. She slammed the phone down and ran off, looking for somewhere else to call her son's captor before time ran out.

‘Francesca! Francesca, are you there?'

Carter held the phone to his ear, but there was no reply. She had hung up on him. ‘Fuck!' he spat, before looking across the room at Mark Taylor and the team of three people at computers he was standing over. ‘Was that long enough?' he asked. ‘Did you get the trace?'

One of the men nodded. ‘We got it. York Road, pay phone.'

‘Is she going to play ball?' Taylor asked Carter abruptly.

The question hung in the air for a few moments, before Carter finally shook his head. ‘No,' he said quietly. ‘I don't think she is.'

‘I'm on it, then.' Taylor spoke with sudden efficiency as he walked to the door. ‘I'll get the nearest squad cars in the area to pick her up.'

As Taylor left, Carter slumped down in his chair. He sat there for several seconds before slamming his fist down hard on the table. ‘Damn it,' he whispered under
his breath, then jumped up and followed his colleague out of the door. ‘Mark!' he called. ‘Mark! Wait! It's too late – she'll be gone. If she sees squad cars coming after her, she'll never trust us …'

But he knew he'd had his chance. After the call from Cole the night before, he'd gone direct to Meeken, who explained the case to the Met commissioner and had it transferred back to London under Taylor, with input from Carter and the SFO. He had tried to talk her round, and she'd chosen not to help. Taylor wouldn't wait. He wouldn't have done so either, in his position.

Minutes later, four police cars screamed up to the phone booth Frankie had used, their blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. The officers jumped out, but there was nobody there. They looked up and down the road, still practically deserted because of the early hour, and saw nobody fitting the girl's description. One of them tapped a button on his radio, which hissed into life. ‘No sign of her,' he said.

A pause, and then Taylor's voice came over the airwaves. ‘Roger that.'

Frankie strode purposefully across the concourse of Waterloo Station and headed towards the row of public telephones. She glanced up at the enormous clock hanging from the ceiling: a quarter past six. No wonder the place was so empty. A few down-and-outs were sleeping in bundles in out-of-the-way corners, lucky not to have been moved on, but Frankie scarcely noticed them. Her brain churned over the conversation she had just had with the police officer, Sean Carter. She hated to admit it to herself, but there was something about him that she
trusted – and trust wasn't something that came easily to Frankie. It had seemed to her that beneath everything there had been concern in his voice – what she didn't know was whether it was concern for her, or concern for something else. His own agenda. She couldn't say how dispensable he was going to find her – or her son.

None of the phones was being used. Frankie chose one at the end, inserted one of her few remaining coins and dialled the number. It was answered immediately. ‘What took you so long?' It was the same thickly accented voice, but this time it sounded suspicious.

‘You said ten minutes. I want to know that Jasper is OK.'

‘You are not in a position to make demands, Miss Mills.'

Frankie snapped. ‘Listen to me, you piece of shit,' she whispered down the phone line. ‘If you don't give me some indication that my son is all right, I'm going straight to the police – I don't give a fuck what the consequences are for me.'

There was a pause. ‘That would be most unwise of you,' the voice said flatly. ‘But under the circumstances I will grant you this one concession. After that, you do precisely what I tell you to.' Frankie heard a rustling at the other end of the phone, and then the voice spoke again, slightly distant this time, as though he was talking to somebody else. ‘Hit the child,' he said simply.

‘No!' Frankie shouted down the phone, but it was too late. Instantly she heard the sound of Jasper's voice, wailing in sudden surprise and pain. ‘Jasper!' she breathed. ‘Sweetheart …'

But Jasper's voice was relegated to the distance again,
as the man's voice came back on the line. ‘I will not tolerate any more delays. You of all people understand what I am prepared to do – have I made myself perfectly clear?'

Frankie said nothing. The words wouldn't come.

‘As I told your partner minutes before I fired a bullet into his skull,' the man insisted impatiently, ‘I do not like to repeat my questions. Have I made myself perfectly clear?'

‘Yes,' Frankie replied in a small voice.

‘Good. Where are you now?'

‘Waterloo Station.'

‘You will make your way to Aldgate East. Once there, turn down Commercial Road. Half a kilometre on your left you will see an Indian clothes shop with no name and a metal grille over the window. Next to it is a green door with three bells. It is unnumbered. You will ring the bottom bell five times and wait. Now, repeat those instructions to me.'

Frankie did as she was told, stutteringly repeating the salient points of the man's directions. In the background she could still hear Jasper's crying.

‘Good,' the man sounded satisfied. His voice went distant again as he spoke to somebody else in the room. ‘Shut the child up,' he said irritably. Frankie listened intently as Jasper's crying became quieter – it sounded as though he was being removed from the room. ‘You will be watched as you leave Aldgate East. If anyone is following you, your son will be killed. If anyone else arrives at the address, your son will be killed. If you take longer than one hour from now, your son will be killed. Am I clear?'

‘Yes, but …'

‘No buts. Am I clear?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good. You have exactly one hour.' The line clicked as he hung up.

Frankie slammed the phone down in fury. Her body ached to hold Jasper in her arms, and she felt the hopelessness of her situation with the sharpness of a knife edge. That man, whoever he was, had mistreated her son, ordered his henchman to hit him without a second thought. He had killed Keith and his mother. He had killed June. Would he really shoot a small child? She had to get there. She had to do what she could to rescue him.

If only Keith were there. Then she wouldn't feel so helpless and alone.

Instantly the image of Keith, bound to the chair, with a look of uncontrollable fear in his eyes, sprang into her mind. She knew that whenever she thought of him, that horrific image would come to mind. Who was this man who reckoned he could do these things, give and take life like some malign god? Frankie had been running from people who wanted to interfere with her all her life – her stepfather, the pushers on the street, Bob Strut. Damn it, there was no way this lowlife was going to harm her child. There was no way she was going to let him be damaged in the way she had been for half her life.

Frankie had been backed into a corner; but as people had found out to their cost before now, that was when she was at her most dangerous.

She could do what the man said; or she could call the police. Or maybe there was a third option. Maybe she was not as helpless as everyone thought. An idea began
to take shape in her head. It was risky, but not nearly so risky as doing nothing. Resolutely she picked up the phone, opened the palm of her left hand and dialled the number Carter had given her.

Frankie didn't have to wait – Carter sounded breathless when he picked up the phone. ‘Francesca? Is that you?'

‘I don't have long,' she replied in a deadpan voice.

‘Have you spoken to him?'