The Truth About Celia Frost (5 page)

Frankie made a big show of knocking on the door and ringing the bell. As he expected, there was no answer. He went through the alleyway a few doors down. From here he could gain access to the
back of the house, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t arouse suspicion in his uniform. The yard gate was no obstacle, as it was already hanging off its hinges. Approaching the house, he
peered into the back room and then the tiny kitchen. Again, they were poorly furnished and showed no signs of life. A wheelie bin, with the number of the house daubed on it, stood in the yard. He
looked around to check he wasn’t being watched and then opened the lid, preparing to sift through the contents. Even though it was a dirty job, it often produced great results. He knew that
every day people threw out bills, letters, bank statements, expired membership cards – all kinds of things that were a goldmine of personal information and could let someone like him into
their lives in a second. However, today he wasn’t in luck. The bin had recently been emptied and all that remained was the lingering stench of rotting rubbish.

He returned to the car and phoned the number printed on the
To Let
sign.

“Hello,” a man answered.

“Oh hi,” Frankie said. “Are you dealing with the property to let on Central Street?”

“Yeah, I’m the landlord.”

“Good,” Frankie said. “I’m interested in renting the house. Is it still available?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” the landlord replied eagerly. “It’s a great little house; very homely. It’s only been vacant a couple of weeks. It’ll probably get snapped
up.”

“Why did the last tenants leave then? Not problems with the neighbours was it? Because I’ve been through that before,” Frankie said, injecting his voice with anxiety.

The landlord snorted. “No! Nothing like that. Must have been money troubles. They did a flit out of the blue – still owe me a month’s rent.”

“Oh, bad luck mate.” Frankie feigned sympathy. “Could I see round the house then? Say at...five o’clock today?”

“Sure, no problem. I’ll meet you there, Mr...?”

“Mr. Hughes. Paul Hughes. I’ll see you later then.”

In light of these developments, Frankie’s next step was to call the mobile number that was on the hospital report. If Janice Frost answered, then he was ready with his
usual patter about how she’d won a big cash prize in a draw that she may not even remember entering and how he just needed to confirm her details before sending the cheque out to her. Frankie
always found that the thought of winning money caught even the most cautious people off guard and before they’d had time to think it through, they’d already told him all he needed to
know. However, when he rang the number, the line was dead.

“This case is going to be more legwork than is good for me,” he sighed, rubbing his round belly.

He pulled himself and the parcel out of the car again and went knocking at the houses on either side of the empty property. There was no reply from the house on the left but, on the other side,
a woman answered.

“Sorry to disturb you, madam, but I’ve got a parcel for Janice Frost at the address next door. You don’t know how I can get hold of her, do you?”

“I haven’t got a clue. One morning they were here, next minute they were gone.” The woman began to shut the door.

“Is there anyone on the street who might know how to contact her?” Frankie asked hurriedly.

“Shouldn’t think so. The woman wasn’t a mixer. Very quiet, although the kid used to play her music too loud sometimes, but I never complained. I felt sorry for her. The mother
never let her go out. I thought it was cruel.” And with that the door was closed on him.

Frankie was beginning to think that the neighbour had been right. He’d knocked on ten houses up and down the street and gained no information, apart from the odd comment
about how the Frosts had only been on the street a few months and how the mother might have said hello but never wanted to chat.

Frankie decided to try just one more. He’d spotted an old lady in the house directly opposite, looking out from her front room. To his surprise, as he approached her door, she beckoned him
in.

“Just give it a push, dear. I always leave it on the latch; saves me having to get up,” she called out cheerily.

Frankie pushed the door, which opened straight into the room.

“Come and sit down. Have a rest. I’ve been watching you going up and down the street. You must be exhausted in this heat. Do you want a glass of water?”

Frankie sat down and patted his glistening face with his hanky.

“That’s very kind but no thanks,” he said, trying to make his gravelly voice as unthreatening as possible. “I’m not having much luck. I’m trying to deliver
this parcel to a Janice Frost, but the address is empty.”

“Well, yes, it will be, dear. I saw them. They were in such a hurry. Laden down with bags. Poor Celia looked very upset. A taxi arrived and off they went.”

“Do you remember what taxi firm it was?” Frankie asked, thinking quickly.

“Of course. It was A2B Cabs. I use them myself. Their office is only on Mount Road.”

“And when was this exactly?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks ago now. It was a Friday. I remember as it’s the day I get my hair done and I wasn’t too pleased because Doreen – that’s my hairdresser
– well I don’t know what she was thinking of, she made me look like a dog’s dinner. I keep washing it but I still think it looks a mess,” she said, patting her lavender
hair.

“No, it looks lovely. Really suits you,” Frankie said with a sickly smile.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you, young man.” The old lady giggled like a schoolgirl.

“Did you know the Frosts then?”

“Only Celia. Such a lovely girl! I don’t know what could have happened to make them run off like that.”

“Have you got any idea where they might have gone? Do they have friends or relatives around here?” Frankie asked. “Because I’d really like to get this parcel to
them.”

“No. I don’t know much about them. Celia never used to talk about herself really. She’d pop over after school sometimes, do a bit of shopping for me at the corner store before
her mum got back from work. Her mum didn’t like her going out, you see. She was meant to stay in the house until Janice came home. I’d often see her looking out the window at the other
kids playing in the street; I tell you, it used to break my heart. She didn’t seem to have any friends who called round. She’s a striking-looking girl – so tall and pale, with all
this orange hair – but you know how cruel other kids can be. And then, of course, she had this illness.”

“What kind of illness?” Frankie asked.

“I’m not sure,” the old woman replied. “She didn’t talk about it, but when I told her that she should be getting out like other teenagers, she just said she
couldn’t, that she had this disorder and her mum was worried about her hurting herself.”

“Where did her mum work? Maybe they could give me her new address,” Frankie asked.

“Well...I don’t know. She had cleaning jobs all over town. The poor woman always looked worn out. It must be hard for these single mums.”

“Any boyfriends who’d know?”

“Not that Celia ever mentioned. I never saw anyone go over their doorstep. It was always just the two of them.”

Frankie pulled the photo out of his pocket. “Is this Janice Frost?” he asked tentatively.

The old woman peered closely at the grainy image. “Oh, well. I can’t be absolutely sure. This photo isn’t very clear and the girl here looks a lot younger than Celia’s
mum, but it could be her... Yes,” she said after some consideration. “Put a good few years on her, make her face thinner, more lined, and it could well be her.”

On hearing this, Frankie’s adrenalin started pumping.

“But why have
you
got a photo of her?” the old lady asked curiously.

“The person sending the parcel gave it to us,” he answered without hesitation. “They were anxious that it got delivered to the right person. I think it’s something very
precious. Family mementoes or something.”

“Oh, what a shame she won’t get it.”

“I’m not giving up yet. Could I leave my mobile number? Then if Celia ever gets in touch with you, perhaps you could let me know and I could get this parcel to her mum.”
Frankie wrote his first name and number on a card.

“Yes, of course. What a good idea. I must say, it’s lovely to meet someone who’s so dedicated to their job.”

“I like to do my best, Mrs...?” Frankie said.

“It’s Mary. Call me Mary.”

“Well, Mary, you’ve been so helpful,” Frankie said, getting up to leave, “but if you don’t mind me saying, in future you shouldn’t leave your door on the
latch. There are some very unsavoury people out there who could take advantage of a nice lady like you.”

A buoyant Frankie returned to the street at five o’clock. He’d kept his courier uniform on in case Mary was looking out of her window. He didn’t want her to
get suspicious, and hopefully, if she saw him going into the house, she’d think he was still on his quest to deliver the parcel. The landlord arrived promptly and looked Frankie up and
down.

“I’ve just knocked off work,” Frankie told him.

They entered the front room, which was chilly despite the heat of the day. A depressing aroma of damp and bleach permeated the shabby place. The landlord took him through, confidently describing
the abode as if it were luxury accommodation. But Frankie was happy for him to prattle on as he scanned every room for clues.

“You can look as hard as you like,” the landlord said proudly. “You won’t find any dirt here. The previous tenants may have done a runner but they always kept the place
spotless.”

But Frankie had spotted something as they entered the second bedroom. Under the bed was a hairbrush and entwined around the bristles were springy strands of orange hair. He needed to distract
the landlord.

“Is that the doorbell?” Frankie frowned.

“I didn’t hear anything,” the landlord replied.

“No...listen. It’s just gone again.”

“Really? Well, I best go down and check then.”

As soon as the landlord had left the room Frankie quickly pulled his gloves on and got a specimen bag out of his pocket. He carefully picked up the brush and placed it in the bag, sealed it and
hid it in his jacket. The landlord came up the stairs, puffing.

“There was no one there,” he said. “Do you want to see the bathroom? It’s fully carpeted!”

Frankie walked straight past him. “I don’t think I’ll bother. This house just isn’t doing it for me,” he said, heading for the front door.

Back at his car, Frankie changed his jacket, inputted the taxi firm’s details into his satnav and drove to A2B. Once there, he slipped the radio operator forty pounds to
put the question out to all the drivers.

“Who did a pick-up from 14 Central Street on Friday the 23rd? It was a woman and a ginger girl. They had lots of bags with them,” the operator asked. The radio waves were silent.

“Tell them that there’s forty quid in it for the driver. That should help jog their memories,” Frankie said. Within seconds of hearing this additional information, a driver
responded.

“Yeah, it was me. It was an odd pick-up. The girl seemed really upset. I took them to the coach station in town.”

Frankie felt like he was on a roll and went straight to the coach station, where he knocked on the door of the drivers’ staffroom. Armed with the photo of Janice, he began his story of how
he’d come home one evening to find that his wife had left with their daughter.

“My Celia was distraught. She didn’t want to go. I even found a note she left, pleading with me to come and find her. She’s a girl you’d remember; fourteen, tall with
orange hair. It was the evening of Friday the 23rd. All I know is that they came here, and I really need to know where they were heading. She won’t let Celia get in touch with me; she’s
using her to get at me. I need to find them. Doesn’t my daughter have the right to decide for herself who she wants to be with?” Frankie said, in angst-ridden mode.

He was greeted by a lot of sympathetic noises from the room full of male coach drivers. Some of them knew what it was like to have their kids taken from them by estranged wives, and the sight of
this bruiser of a man, obviously ripped apart by it, moved them.

“Listen, don’t worry, mate,” one driver said, slapping Frankie on the back. “You leave that photo with me. There’s loads more drivers out on the road who might have
taken them. Leave us your number and I’ll ask around.”

“You’re a real gent,” Frankie said, managing a brave smile.

Celia stood on the balcony of the latest shell that she had to call home. A smiling Janice came out to join her. Janice loved the vertigo-inducing balcony of their
twentieth-floor flat. She’d sit at the rickety table, drinking tea and humming some Rat Pack tune, as her cigarette smoke rose into the blue, cloudless sky. From her crow’s nest she
could observe hundreds of other balconies. Many were cluttered with bikes, prams, clothes horses and pot plants. A few even housed colourful, exotic birds, who twittered manically in their tiny
gilded cages. Janice enjoyed these secret snapshots into people’s lives, as they flittered in and out of view, hanging out washing, calming crying babies, having blazing rows. But for Celia,
being able to see these people and knowing that they were all strangers only made her feel more alone. However, the balcony was her only escape from the stifling temperature of their flat, whose
radiators, despite being turned off, belched out heat day and night. When Janice had complained to the Bluebell Tower Two caretaker, he’d just shrugged and said that all the flats had the
same problem.