Frankie (27 page)

‘Yes.'

‘Where is he?'

‘I'm not going to tell you.'

‘Francesca, you have to believe me – if you go and see him, you
will not
walk out of there alive.'

‘It's a risk I'm prepared to take.'

‘It's too much of a risk –' Carter sounded desperate.

‘That's my decision,' Frankie interrupted him. ‘But maybe we can help each other. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you – I don't like policemen. I don't trust them. What I'm about to do is for the sake of my son, but how do I know you're not going to take me into custody and put Jasper into care? How do I know I can trust you?'

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, almost as if Carter was deciding what to say. When he finally spoke, it was slowly and with precision. ‘Francesca, listen to me. I know more about you than you think. I know why you ran away from home. I know about your stepfather. I know what he did to you.'

Frankie took a sharp intake of breath, and a hot flush of shame crept up from her neck; but her face remained expressionless. She said nothing.

‘I believe you, Francesca,' Carter continued, quietly
persistent. ‘I know you're not a murderer, and I know you've been through more than anyone should ever have to go through.'

‘How did you find out?'

‘I spoke to your teachers. They told me everything, and it all makes sense. I promise you, Francesca, I will do everything in my power to help you when this is all over. But you have to tell me where these men are, and you have to promise me that you will not take that locket to them.'

The locket. It was the cause of everything. Frankie gently put her fingers to it. She wanted to rip it off her neck and throw it away, but she knew it was the only bargaining tool she had.

‘I'm not going to promise you anything.' She sounded almost businesslike, not wanting to allow the emotional advantage of this smooth-talking police officer to get to her. ‘We're going to do this my way, or not at all. Do you understand?'

Carter hesitated. ‘Go on,' he said tentatively.

‘Before I hang up, I'm going to tell you where I am. Don't bother sending anyone to pick me up because I won't be here long enough for them to catch me. I'm meeting the men who have my son within the hour. After that, I'm going to persuade them to come back here with me. If you're on site, you can arrest them. I don't give a damn about your precious necklace. As far as I'm concerned, they can have it.'

‘Francesca, there's no way they are going to come with you. They'll kill you, and I can't let that happen. You've been through too much to lose everything now. I want to help you, Francesca, I really do. We can sort everything
out but you have to trust me, this isn't the best way –'

‘I've got something they want,' Frankie snapped, but her aggressiveness belied her true feelings. There was something about this man that she trusted. ‘That puts me in control. It's
my
son, we'll do it
my
way. It's the only way I'm prepared to do this.'

The ultimatum hung in the air, before Carter replied. ‘OK,' he said grudgingly. ‘Where are you?'

Frankie breathed deeply before answering. ‘Waterloo Station. Main concourse.' She put the phone down in its cradle.

When she turned round, she saw the station had filled up slightly. It was not busy by any means, but the tubes must have started up and a few early morning commuters were walking hurriedly across the previously empty expanse of the station concourse. Frankie pulled her dark glasses out of her pocket and put them on, not wanting to be recognized in the way she had been last night, and stepped purposefully away.

She knew she didn't have enough money to buy a tube ticket; she'd have to get some somehow – any way she could. A glance up at the station clock told her that it was twenty-five past six. Fifty minutes. She'd have to hurry.

But there was something else she needed to do first …

Sean Carter gently replaced the phone. Taylor was in the room with him, and had not taken his eyes off his face while he had been speaking to Francesca Mills. ‘Well?' he asked the SFO officer.

‘We need to move fast,' Carter told him.

‘Where is she?'

‘Waterloo Station. How quickly can armed officers get there?'

‘Ten minutes, tops.'

‘Good. We need every entrance covered, but make sure they stay out of sight. Issue all the shooters with the most recent picture of Francesca, but make sure they don't move in on her until whoever she's with is well inside the station. We don't want them making a run for it and escaping the perimeter.'

‘And what about us?'

‘We'll be on site, on the concourse. Hopefully we'll have the advantage – she doesn't know what we look like, but we should be able to recognize her and arrest whoever she's with before anything happens when she gets there.' He turned to leave the room.

‘
If
she gets there,' Taylor muttered, following him out.

The huge clock read six-thirty as Frankie walked briskly out of the ladies' washrooms and up the steps to the station concourse. She had slicked her hair back with water, and still wore her dark glasses, though if she had worried about standing out she needn't have done: the whole place was buzzing much more than it had been when she had walked down to the ladies' five minutes previously and surrendered a twenty-pence piece to gain entry – it left only one more twenty-pence piece in her trouser pocket. The station announcer was booming a message over the tannoy system in huge, echoing tones, but Frankie didn't take in a word he said – the only sound she was aware of was that of her own heavy breathing as she walked across the concourse, not to the tube station but to the far end by the final overground train platform.

She had no money. There were only two ways she could make the tube journey: by trying to dodge her ticket, or by stealing the cash she needed. Both were risky, but there were no other options – there wasn't time to walk to where Jasper was being held, so she had to make the choice. She knew from her days on the streets that it was possible to get onto the tube without a ticket by jostling through the barriers with a fare-paying passenger. But a big station like this would be packed with attendants during the rush hour, all of them keeping a close eye on the barriers. Sometimes there were even teams of transport police hiding round corners, ready to check everyone's ticket. A half-hour delay with them could mean the difference between life and death for her son.

No, she told herself. Much better to go the other route. People never expected to be robbed first thing in the morning while hurrying to work, so their guard would be down. She could swipe a bag and lose herself before anyone even knew what was happening. At least, that was what she kept telling herself.

A small queue of commuters had formed at the two cash machines tucked away at the end of the station. They were men, mostly, all blending into one with their grey suits and almost identical briefcases, staring ahead and resolutely paying no attention to the hungry-looking tramp in his mid-forties who sat ever optimistically by the machine, mechanically asking each one to spare some change before they walked away tucking a wad of notes into their wallets.

As Frankie loitered, she eyed up her potential targets. She didn't have the time to be too fussy, but equally she would be foolish to choose someone who could
overpower her easily. She decided on a man who was third in line. He was older than the rest, more slight of frame – Frankie hated herself for thinking it, but the kindly look on his face suggested that he would be an easier target than the others. Less suspecting. In an instant she thought of June. What would her friend think if she knew what Frankie was about to do? Would she judge her? Or would she understand that she was just doing what she had to? Frankie would never know.

The minutes passed interminably as she waited for the old man to take his turn – her eyes flickered between him and the huge clock face. She felt a strand of her slicked-back hair tumble onto her forehead, and she absent-mindedly flicked it back. Eventually he took his turn, removed the notes from the machine and walked away, placing his wallet in his right-hand coat pocket. Frankie fell in behind him as he walked away from the cash machines and towards a stall in the middle of the station. She stood behind him as he ordered a drink and then, as he removed the wallet from his pocket, she grabbed it. Before the man knew who had taken it, she had turned and was running towards the exit.

As she ran, she heard a voice behind her. ‘Stop that woman!' it called. Frankie looked over her shoulder; the heavy frames of her dark glasses obscured her view somewhat, but it seemed to her that there were no more than a couple of people in pursuit. They were still shouting, but the crowds didn't want to know – it was far easier not to get involved.

Frankie was a good way ahead of them as she tore through the main entrance of the station. At the top of the flight of stone steps that led down to the road, though,
she stopped. Ripping off her shades and her jacket, she took up position by the wall, where she sat down, ruffled her hair forwards and put out the palms of her hands. There was nothing more anonymous than a beggar on the streets of London, and for once Frankie was glad to be able to use it to her advantage. Her pursuers ran straight past her – a younger man first, then the man she had robbed, trailing behind slightly – and down the steps to where two policemen in yellow jackets were standing. Frankie watched as the younger man talked animatedly to them – she couldn't hear what he was saying, but he was clearly explaining the nature of the attack – and pointed with a broad sweep of the arm in the direction away from the station.

Very slowly, and with an outward calm that belied her inner panic and thumping heart, Frankie stood up. Her jacket was in her arms, and underneath it she clutched the wallet firmly as she slipped unnoticed back into the station. Although every cell in her body screamed out to her to run, she maintained her slow pace as she walked across the concourse towards the escalators that led down to the tube station. As she did so, she glanced up at the clock.

Six-forty.

The escalators were only a few metres away, but it seemed as though it was taking an age to reach them. Frankie allowed herself to quicken her pace slightly and finally arrived at the top of the moving stairs.

She stepped onto them, and disappeared from sight.

Three minutes past seven.

Frankie emerged from Aldgate East station into the fringes of east London. The dark glasses had been replaced, the denim jacket put back on, and once she had removed the cash, the wallet had been surreptitiously discarded on the platform of Waterloo underground station. She felt bad for the old man, but there was nothing else she could have done.

A calm had descended upon her now, an unyielding sense of purpose. Sitting on the train she had ignored the strange looks her dark glasses and still-wet hair were attracting, instead just stared straight ahead, her body rocking in time with the movement of the train. And now, as she looked around her to get her bearings, she felt a similar sense of tranquillity. She
was
going to collect her son. She
was
going to make everything right again.

A glance at the local map in the tube station had told her where she had to walk – it wasn't an area she knew that well – and she had hurried up the steps to street level to be met by a roar of traffic that startled her for some reason. She had been up most of the night, in the relative quiet, and it was strange to see London transformed into its familiar, busy self. She crossed the road and headed in the direction she had been instructed, walking the opposite way to most of the other people on the pavement.

Frankie knew she was probably being followed – the
man on the phone had told her as much. It was a horrible feeling, and she felt that at the very least she wanted to know who her pursuers were. Out of the blue she stopped still, then moved to stand with her back to the nearest shop window, and looked carefully around. Almost nobody had taken any notice of her, but on the other side of the road she saw a man also standing still, making no pretence of the fact that he was staring directly at her. ‘Why would he pretend?' Frankie muttered to herself. They wanted her to know that she was being followed. She looked left and right. Another man was there on the same side of the road as her, watching and waiting. She could see this guy's features more clearly: he looked commonplace in his jeans and a black T-shirt. He was wearing a Bluetooth mobile phone earpiece attachment and seemed to be talking quietly into it, but he was too far away for Frankie to be able to make out what he was saying. She returned his look with a stare filled with poison, then turned and continued on her way.

As Frankie made her way past the hotchpotch of rundown ethnic clothes stores, fast-food outlets and minimarts that made up Commercial Road, she tried to keep her mind focused on the plan ahead. Eventually she found what she had come there for. The shop front was covered by a big metal grille, just as she had been told it would be, and unlike every other shop she had passed, it had no name. The grille was clamped down at the bottom by a series of sturdy-looking padlocks, and through the gaps Frankie could see a display of colourful saris and long rolls of cream-coloured silks. The men were still following her, but had stopped a short distance away when she had reached her destination, simply standing there watching
her examine her surroundings. The one closest to her still appeared to be talking into his phone – clearly warning someone that she had arrived. She peered closer into the shop window. There were no lights on inside, no sign of occupancy, and the display itself, on closer examination, seemed to be covered in a layer of dust and neglect. Whoever was holding Jasper, she could tell, was not on the ground floor.

To her left, the green door she had been told about was old and dirty, its paint peeling off to reveal a grey undercoat that was itself blistered. None of the three bells along its side was marked with any name; Frankie allowed herself a few seconds to let her fingers linger over the bottom bell before she pressed.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She paused, took a deep breath, and …

Five.

The final ring was longer than the others. Determined. She took her finger off the bell and waited.

For a full minute nothing happened. Frankie glanced nervously at the men watching her – they were busy looking around them, clearly checking that they hadn't missed anyone who might have been following her. She was just about to ring again when the door quietly clicked open. Frankie waited for it to be opened wide, but it remained ajar just a couple of inches so she gently pushed it.

Inside was a dark, narrow hallway leading to a flight of stairs. The light from outside flooded in, silhouetting
Frankie in the door frame; but the stairs themselves remained in darkness. Frankie peered up them, but it took a while for her eyes to adapt to the change in light, and it was only after a few moments that she realized there was a figure standing at the top. ‘Close the door,' he said abruptly.

Frankie did as she was told and the entire hallway was plunged into darkness. She removed her sunglasses and put them in her pocket. As she stood there, she could still hear the morning rush-hour traffic outside, only muted now; and then her eyes blinked as a light was switched on. It was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling by a long flex, and although it was dull, it momentarily stung Frankie's eyes. When she had got used to the light, she looked up the stairs again. The figure had disappeared, but at the top was an open door. Frankie felt her fists clenching – what good that would do she had no idea – and slowly she climbed the stairs, which creaked noisily beneath her feet.

The room into which she walked was sparsely furnished. Against the right-hand wall was a table with two modern-looking telephones attached by a jumble of wires to a grey metallic box. Next to them was a computer screen; Frankie glanced at it and saw a series of real-time images of the outside of the shop, as well as various points between there and the tube station and a black metal staircase that she assumed to be the back exit. A man sat in front of it, watching it closely – he didn't turn round to acknowledge Frankie's presence, he just stared at the screen.

In the far right-hand corner was another door, and just next to it an old brown sofa. On the floor was a threadbare
rug covering the boards. Standing on the rug was the blond-haired man she had last seen in her kitchen, holding a gun to Keith's head. He was holding a gun now, too, only this time it was directed at her.

Frankie didn't want the emotion to show on her face, but she couldn't help it. She looked at the man with undisguised hate; he returned it with a cool, emotionless gaze. ‘Where's my son?' Frankie spoke the words flatly.

The blond man shook his head. ‘Not yet,' he told her. He turned his head to the man at the computer. ‘Anything?'

‘No, Andreas,' he replied. ‘She wasn't followed.'

‘Good.' He turned back to Frankie. ‘You have something that doesn't belong to you. A necklace. Give it to me and I will let you have your child.'

Frankie stared straight into Andreas's piercing blue eyes. She lifted her chin boldly. This is it, she told herself. Take control now, or you'll never leave this place. ‘I don't have it,' she stated firmly.

Andreas smiled, an unpleasant, patronizing smile, and he raised his gun so that it was pointing exactly at Frankie's head. ‘You're lying,' he said. ‘If you lie to me again, your son will live the last thirty seconds of his life as an orphan. Your partner told me that you wear this necklace all the time. Give it to me.'

‘I told you, I don't have it,' she repeated, clearly and concisely.

Andreas nodded slowly, and he clicked the safety catch of his revolver.

‘But I know where it is.'

Frankie heard her breath shaking as she stared at the gun barrel Andreas was pointing at her.

‘What do you mean?' he breathed.

‘I know what it is you want. I've known about the necklace ever since I first found it.' She hoped the lie did not register too plainly on her face, but Andreas was as inscrutable as ever, giving nothing away.

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Then you'd better kill me. But I've left a message with a friend explaining exactly where it is. If they don't hear from me within two hours, they will go straight to the police.' Her eyes tightened, and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You don't think I'd be stupid enough to bring it here, do you?' she hissed.

Andreas remained perfectly still, but Frankie noticed a bead of sweat appearing on his forehead. ‘Where is it?'

‘I'm not telling you anything until I see Jasper.' The ultimatum crackled across the room, and for once Frankie saw a flicker of emotion pass across Andreas's face: anger and indecision. He clearly hadn't expected her to bite back. He lowered the gun and called to someone in the other room. ‘Bring out the child.'

Frankie heard a chair scraping, and then another man came into the room. In his hands was a bundle, which he carried clumsily and inexpertly. He looked for guidance to Andreas, who nodded in Frankie's direction, then delivered Jasper into her arms.

The moment he did so, she let out a gasp of relief and walked quickly over to the sofa where she sat down with her sleeping son in her arms, then looked at his face: it was dirty and unkempt, and there was even what appeared to be the beginning of a bruise on the side of his face – she turned to Andreas, aghast, but he was expressionless once more. Gently Frankie unfolded the coarse brown blanket in which her son was wrapped to see that he was
naked apart from a full nappy that had clearly not been changed for some time. His body was dirty, his eyes raw from crying. ‘Oh my God,' she whispered hoarsely. ‘What have you done to my child?' She desperately started to try and clean him up with an unsoiled corner of the blanket. As the rough cloth rubbed abrasively against his skin, he woke abruptly and started crying. Frankie recognized the sound immediately. ‘He's hungry,' she said accusingly.

His gun still in his hand, Andreas walked up to them. He pressed the gun against Jasper's head. ‘Where is it?' he repeated, speaking over the sound of Jasper's crying.

‘Get me something clean to wrap my little boy in.'

Andreas shook his head. ‘Not until you tell me where it is.'

‘Waterloo Station.' She moved Jasper away from the gun.

‘Where at Waterloo Station?'

‘I'm not telling you until we're there. Now get me a clean blanket.'

Andreas gestured at his accomplice to do as she said, and he disappeared into another room. ‘If you think you are leaving here before we have the necklace, you are very much mistaken, Miss Mills.'

The other man walked in with a blanket. Frankie took it, wrapped Jasper up and laid him on the sofa. Then she stood up, pulled herself to her full height and stepped inches away from Andreas. ‘What do you think I've got to lose?' she asked him. ‘I had three people in the whole world, and you killed two of them. I know perfectly well that if I wait here while you send somebody to retrieve the locket, I'll be dead before they return. I'm saying
nothing until I'm in the middle of the station, with Jasper, in full view of everybody.' She sat down again and cuddled her little boy.

Andreas's breathing was heavy as he stood towering above the young woman and child in his custody. Frankie looked up at him to see an expression of indecision in his face, as though he were judging what to do with her. She remembered the sight of Keith's body, horribly wounded and tortured. Perhaps this man was deciding whether to deal with her in the same way. She did not know if she could withstand such pain in the way that Keith had done, but she couldn't give him the chance to find out. She returned his look with a gaze so steely and determined that it made Andreas's eyes momentarily flicker away. I won't crack, the unspoken conversation between them seemed to say. Whatever you do to me, I won't crack.

The man at the computer had turned away from the screen and was looking up at his boss. ‘It's a trick, Andreas. Too dangerous.'

‘Shut up,' Andreas snapped at him, suddenly overcome by his temper. ‘You're supposed to be watching the cameras. Do your job.'

‘There's no one following her, Andreas. Use your head. If you go to Waterloo with her, the police will be waiting.'

‘I told you to shut up,' the blond man half screamed.

‘Andreas –' The man started to argue, but in a flash Andreas had lifted his gun and fired it. It made a hushed thudding sound as he fired a bullet directly at the man's head. In an instant, one half of his face disintegrated and he was thrown backwards onto his screen, which tipped over as the man slumped slowly to the floor.

Frankie averted her eyes and held Jasper close to her.

‘Jesus, Andreas, what the fuck do you think you're doing?' the man who had fetched Jasper's blanket asked.

‘Shut up, Ryan, or you'll be next.' Andreas muttered the words under his breath. He turned back to Frankie. ‘If this is a trap, and the police are waiting for us, you will both die before they have the chance to take me. Do you understand?'

‘Why would the police be waiting for us?' Frankie still had her head turned away from the horrific sight of the dead body next to her, and she could feel her limbs trembling with the shock of what she had witnessed. ‘What have they ever done for me? They think I'm a murderer – the moment they find me they'll chuck me in a cell and take my son away.' She turned to look at him; his face was a picture of cynicism. ‘Look,' Frankie continued, trying to sound as dismissive as she could in the circumstances. ‘I don't give a shit about your precious fucking locket. You can have it, as far as I'm concerned. I just want to make sure my son is safe, away from the police and away from bastards like you.' She spat the expletive as viciously as she could.

Andreas stared at her, as though trying to determine if she was telling the truth. Nobody spoke; it was an ominous, heavy silence, broken finally by the blond man. ‘We will go there by car,' he said. ‘Ryan, you will drive. You,' he waved his gun at Frankie, ‘will sit next to him. I will sit in the back with the child. If there is any suggestion that we are being followed, I will kill him.'