Frankie (19 page)

But June interrupted before she could finish her sentence. ‘I'll be fine, dearie. You go out and have a nice evening. It's about time you did.'

‘But …'

June held up her hand in that way of hers. It always stopped Frankie short. ‘I'll be fine,' she repeated simply.

Frankie looked at the flowers – so delicate. And then she looked back up at Keith. ‘Thank you,' she smiled almost girlishly at him. ‘I'd love to.'

Frankie had not been in a restaurant for years. The occasional cafe, maybe, but nothing like this. The closest she had been was rifling through their bins in the streets of Soho in the small hours of the morning after the kitchens had cleared out, doing her best to hide if she found a morsel worth eating – there was always someone hungrier and more desperate than yourself to steal it away. She drank the red wine from the glass that Keith had poured her in big, nervous gulps as she looked at the menu without really taking in what it said. The restaurant itself was not busy – just a few couples murmuring quietly to each other – but it did not stop Frankie feeling out of
place, as if everyone was looking at her and wondering what this woman was doing here when she so obviously didn't belong. She tried to tell herself that those were thoughts from her past.

June had seemed more excited than Frankie about Keith's invitation – but Frankie was very good at keeping her emotions under wraps. The older lady hadn't been in a position to flap around as she might otherwise have done, but she made firm suggestions about what Frankie should wear, and while other young women might have been annoyed by such interfering, Frankie was grateful. She had no experience of these things. At June's suggestion she removed her headscarf, and at the last minute she took the locket she kept in her bedside table and allowed it to peek out from the top of her plain white blouse. ‘You look beautiful,' June had told her as she left, and Frankie had believed her.

Now, though, she just felt gawky. She didn't know how to act in front of this man whose kind self-confidence was so alien to her. Most of the men she had ever met were people to be avoided, people who wanted something from her that she wasn't prepared to give. But Keith seemed different. Polite. In control. She was grateful to him for the way he had taken charge when June had her stroke, but it was more than that. She felt she could trust him, and that wasn't an emotion that came easily to her.

Keith was studying the menu a little too intently, clearly unsure how to react to Frankie's awkward silence. ‘What would you like?' he asked brightly.

Frankie glanced at the menu. It meant nothing to her. ‘I don't know,' she told him honestly. ‘I'm afraid I don't come to restaurants very often.'

‘I'll order for you, then.' He caught the waiter's eye and ordered plates of pasta for them both.

Frankie finished her wine with another gulp, and he refilled her glass, politely pouring a dribble into his own to mask the fact that it was practically untouched. She felt the alcohol start to take effect, but it did not relax her; somehow it just made her feel more jumpy. She suddenly became acutely aware of the fact that she had hardly spoken. ‘So,' she asked to break the silence, ‘where do you live, Keith?'

‘Just outside Bath. But I work in the centre, for a firm of accountants.' He looked apologetic. ‘Not very exciting, I'm afraid. How long have you worked in the florist's?'

‘Not long. Just a few weeks.'

‘And before that?'

‘I lived in London.'

Keith's eyes lit up. ‘Why did you move here from London? Surely it's much more exciting up there.'

‘No,' Frankie said flatly. ‘It isn't.' She looked away.

‘Do you have family there?'

Frankie shook her head.

‘Friends?'

‘No,' she almost snapped. ‘Look, I'd rather not talk about London, OK?' She had already said more than she had intended to.

Keith looked curiously at her, a smile flickering across his face. ‘OK,' he replied tactfully. ‘I'm sorry. Small talk's not really your thing, is it?' Frankie made to respond, but he held up his hand to stop her. ‘It's all right,' he said, smiling a bit more now. ‘I can't stand it myself, to be honest.' He gave her a half wink then placed his hand over his mouth. ‘My lips are sealed,' he mumbled, the
words sounding comically muffled. A few of the diners around the restaurant gave him odd looks, but he ignored them and stubbornly kept his hand ostentatiously in front of his mouth.

Frankie felt a blush rising in her cheeks. ‘Keith!' she whispered, half amused, half embarrassed. ‘Stop it!' She leaned across the table and grabbed his arm, pulling his hand away from his mouth. Keith made some play of resisting her, and in the mock tussle that followed their hands became joined. Slowly Keith pulled her hand down onto the table, and for a few moments they sat like that, hand in hand, before Frankie awkwardly pulled hers away. She refused to look Keith in the face, but she knew he was still looking at her with those amused eyes.

‘I'm just a very private person,' Frankie said quietly, as if to apologize for her previous outburst.

‘That sounds very exciting,' Keith replied with the incessant playfulness that seemed to have grabbed hold of him. ‘I like a bit of mystery. Am I going to find out that you're not a florist at all? Maybe you're a Russian spy, deep undercover …'

‘Stop it, Keith.'

‘Or a terrifying femme fatale …'

‘
Keith!
'

‘I've got it! You're a murderer, on the run from the police, always one step ahead and never knowing from day to day when your past is going to catch up with you.' He raised his glass in a toast to his own wild imagination, a big grin on his face. His triumphant look became a little crestfallen when he heard the aggressiveness in Frankie's voice.

‘Shut up, Keith.' His words had suddenly brought home
to her the madness of her being there. As her eyes started to dart around a bit more, she still couldn't shake off the sensation that everyone was looking at her. She began to panic. What if she was recognized? What if June needed her back at home? What if Keith carried on asking her questions that she couldn't answer, for his own safety as well as hers? She liked him – she really did – but how could she possibly have kidded herself that this was a good idea? ‘Look, I'm sorry, Keith,' she heard herself saying. ‘I really am. It's nothing to do with you, you're very sweet, but I really shouldn't be here.' She felt her voice wavering as she stood up, fighting back the tears. She walked away from the table and left the restaurant.

Keith sat there for a few moments, his brow crumpled as he did his best to ignore the prying stares of his fellow diners. Suddenly he stood up, laid a few notes on the table, put on his coat and grabbed Frankie's, which she had left on the back of the chair. Then he chased after her.

She was already halfway up the street, walking quickly and purposefully away. He ran towards her, only calling out her name when he was a few metres away. She turned in surprise. Her arms were hugging her body to protect herself from the cold, and the light coating of mascara that June had persuaded her to wear had smeared around her eyes. ‘What the hell are you doing?' he asked, his good manners giving way to embarrassment. ‘You can't just walk away like that.'

‘Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Keith.'

They stood in silence for a moment, before Keith muttered an expletive under his breath and walked away.
But he hadn't got far before Frankie called him back. ‘I'm sorry,' she said quietly.

Keith stopped and then stood still, as if wondering what to do, as if wondering whether this strange, wild girl was worth the attention he was giving her. Finally he returned, holding out her coat for her and she put it on gratefully. Rather timidly, he put his arm lightly around her shoulders, but her body shrank away from his touch and he instantly removed his arm. ‘Can I at least walk you home?' he asked. Frankie nodded.

It took ten minutes to get back to the flower shop and they did not say a word to each other all that time. There didn't seem to be much to say. As they stood at the door to the florist's, Frankie looked at him. His soft, brown eyes seemed riddled with emotions: annoyance, confusion, embarrassment, kindness – or maybe she was reading too much into it. She knew she had behaved strangely, but it had all been too much for her. ‘Good night, mystery woman,' he said. They stood awkwardly together, and Frankie smiled apologetically, clutching her hands together in front of her. Keith leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. ‘You'd better go in,' he told her. ‘It's cold.'

But Frankie didn't go in. Instead she moved imperceptibly closer to him and, as she did so, he gingerly put one arm around her shoulders again. He felt her body go tense, but this time she didn't pull away. He moved his face in front of hers and she could feel his trembling breath warm against her skin.

As he kissed her lips, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly, like a lost girl in desperate need of love.

Eighteen Months Later

Morgan Tunney felt his shirt stick to his body, clammy and sweating in the June heat. It had been a relief to get into his car with its comfortable seats and air conditioning, but you wouldn't have known it to look at him. His face remained red and bothered, and he mopped his brow occasionally as his driver wove his way through the back-streets of Belgravia towards Piccadilly. ‘Get a move on,' Tunney said more than once, only to hear a cautious ‘Of course, sir' in reply. He was late, and he didn't want to give Sir Ainsley the opportunity to start the meeting without him. There were things he wanted to say.

As he approached the room, he knew Andreas had already arrived – his cropped-haired companion was standing outside, silent and steely as always. Tunney nodded at him as he opened the door and walked inside. As he did so, he could immediately sense a tension in the air. Cooper and Andreas were standing at either end of the room. Both men were extremely good at remaining expressionless, no matter what they were thinking, but the lack of any small talk was clearly significant: there may have been nothing being said, but there was clearly plenty left unsaid. ‘I'm sorry I'm late,' Tunney said gruffly. He squinted slightly as he walked into a stream of light that was flooding through one of the large windows,
illuminating little scraps of dust floating in the air. He stepped out of the way of the sun.

‘Please, Morgan,' Cooper almost purred, ‘don't mention it. Take a seat, won't you?'

Tunney shook his head. ‘I'd rather stand, thank you.' Cooper was the consummate politician, but the banker had no intention of being lulled by his impeccable manners. ‘What have you discussed?'

Cooper looked over at Andreas. ‘Nothing, yet. Andreas quite rightly suggested we wait for you.'

‘Good.' Tunney turned to the blond man. ‘I want my money back.'

Cooper and Andreas exchanged a glance. ‘I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr Tunney,' Andreas stated quite firmly.

‘Listen to me.' Tunney looked at both men with all the authority he could muster. ‘I paid two hundred and fifty thousand pounds over a year ago for you to find some runaway girl. A straightforward operation for someone of your reputation, I would have thought.' He pointed at Andreas. ‘You haven't come up with anything, so I want my money back.'

‘Morgan,' Cooper started to say. ‘I really think –'

But he was interrupted by Andreas. ‘Sir Ainsley, I'll deal with this.' He turned to Tunney, who had started to sweat again, more profusely this time. ‘It is true, Mr Tunney, that you have paid me two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and it is true that I have not yet located the girl in question. It is also, crucially, the case that nobody else has found her. It may be that she is dead. If so, I will be very sorry – not, you understand, out of misplaced sympathy, but because if she is you will not
end up paying me the remainder of my money. And I really want that money, Mr Tunney. You have my personal guarantee that the moment she surfaces, I will find her – and the information that she is carrying.'

The three men stood in silence. Andreas appeared to be gauging their reactions. He continued talking in a slightly quieter tone of voice. ‘In any case,' he said, ‘it would be unwise of you to take your funds back.'

‘Why?' Tunney appeared wrong-footed by Andreas's reaction.

‘I would hate to be placed in a situation whereby I am forced to make use of this information for my own ends when the girl does come to light.'

‘Are you blackmailing me?' Tunney spluttered. Cooper remained perfectly still.

Andreas smiled. ‘Simply making you aware of the realities of the situation. Now, if that is all, I hope you will excuse me. I am a busy man.'

‘Not yet.' Tunney removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away a trickle of sweat that was falling down the side of his face. This was not going as he had expected. In his world, the possibility of losing money was enough to make people do almost anything. Andreas had responded far too coolly for his liking – indeed he had slickly turned the tables on him. Now he had only one place to go, one final card to play that he hoped would gee the bloody awful man into action. He doubted he would ever follow through on the threat, but he calculated that they wouldn't want to take the risk …

Tunney spoke nervously, like a child facing up to his bullies. ‘As we're all being so honest with each other, I've a few things to make clear myself. If this girl is not
found soon, I'll have no option but to go to the police myself.'

‘Don't be a fool,' Cooper exploded. ‘You'll incriminate yourself along with the rest of us.'

‘I don't think so,' Tunney retorted. ‘If I give them information leading to the arrest of a cabinet minister, I suspect they will deal with me rather leniently.'

Cooper looked furious, and for once he seemed lost for words; Andreas, on the other hand, was quite unflustered. ‘You will do what you see fit, of course,' he said calmly as he walked towards the door. Something seemed to pass between him and Cooper – a look of inquiry from the blond man, and a gentle nod from the politician. Andreas inclined his head towards them. ‘Gentlemen,' he intoned politely, then walked out.

‘Just find her!' Tunney shouted after him as the door clicked shut.

Sean Carter looked tired. More than that, he looked bored. Since Rosemary's death his team had captured four embezzlers and nine fraudsters, with a total fraud of £19 million. His arrest sheet was good, but to his dismay four cases had collapsed at court; only three had ended up with convictions, and even they totalled only four years in a minimum-security prison. He was getting tired of white-collar workers with their greed and arrogance, and he didn't think he could stomach them falling through his fingers any more. The files on his desk were piling up, unread and unattended to, and although when he came in that morning he had been all fired up to do something about it, his enthusiasm was waning once again. The days all seemed to merge into one: shuffling papers in the
office, then back home to his empty flat for takeaway and TV. He wasn't feeling good on it. At times he had even thought of signing up with a dating agency.

He had been so close to bagging a major conviction with the Rosemary Gibson case, but it had been well over a year ago that the previous director had closed the file, and since then he had felt trapped in an accountant's nightmare, buried under spreadsheets and financial reports that meant next to nothing to him. When he had joined the SFO, it had been a big move for him, but now it seemed like it was dragging him down. It all went back to Rosemary's death, which had affected him more than he'd have admitted at the time: it was he who had persuaded her to go through with the whole operation, and even though nobody could have predicted what would happen next, he felt responsible. The police inquiries into the killing had drawn a blank, and Francesca Mills – his only lead – seemed to have vanished. Mark Taylor had said she would most likely be dead in a year, and he was probably right. And now Carter felt next to helpless, stuck in that featureless office on Elm Street. He half wished he was back with the Met.

There was a knock on his door, and Andrew Meeken, recently promoted to director of the SFO, just as everyone knew he would be, stuck his head round the corner. ‘Sean,' he said, his voice as understated but as friendly as ever, ‘could I have a word?'

‘Yes, sir.' Carter didn't stand up, but he gestured that Meeken should take a seat opposite him.

‘I've been bringing myself up to speed on the Lenham, Borwick and Hargreaves file you asked me to look at.' He laid a file on Carter's desk. ‘It seems to me,' Meeken
continued, ‘that there's more to this case than is in the file. Would that be an accurate analysis?'

Carter nodded. ‘Would you care to enlighten me?' Meeken asked.

Carter took a deep breath and in a slow, measured voice told Meeken everything. How Rosemary had come to him with her suspicions that something untoward was happening at the bank. The locket, the girl who had stolen it, Rosemary being fished out of the Thames. A grim look passed over Meeken's honest face. ‘So why was the case closed?' he asked quietly.

‘I drew a blank. The previous director decided my resources were better used elsewhere.'

‘But you disagree?' Now it was Meeken's time to be perceptive.

Carter nodded. ‘Look, Andrew,' he said, ‘I can't back up what I'm about to say.'

Meeken indicated that he should continue.

‘Rosemary Gibson was close to the chairman of the bank, Morgan Tunney. When she was in his office one day, she saw paperwork relating to a company called Rankin Systems. They were not a client of the bank, and she knew that place inside out. But she noticed large funds coming into the bank and then being siphoned off.'

‘Who are Rankin Systems?'

‘They're an arms company. And a year before all this happened they had been awarded a major contract by the Ministry of Defence. But there was an outcry when Rankin Systems went over budget on the order to the tune of £250 million. The overspend was personally approved by the Secretary of State for Defence.'

‘And you think Rosemary Gibson stumbled across
something to suggest that the arms company, the bank and the secretary of state were involved in some kind of fraud? It's pretty thin, Sean.'

‘That's what I thought. So I had the chairman followed.' He picked up the file, flicked through it and pulled out a couple of A4 photographs. They showed two men getting out of a black London cab. ‘Morgan Tunney and Sir Ainsley Cooper,' he said simply.

Meeken's eyes narrowed. ‘The head of the bank and the secretary of state. You think they were involved in a £250 million fraud …'

Carter nodded. ‘I'm convinced Tunney was laundering the money through his bank and passing it on to Cooper. But without the information Rosemary Gibson appropriated, I can't prove a thing. For her to turn up dead, though, she must have been on to something.'

Meeken was silent for a moment. ‘Why didn't you get a Section 2?'

‘I tried to, but it was declined through lack of evidence.'

‘But even if you find this information again, won't it be inadmissible in court?'

‘Not if we get witnesses to back up the claims and follow the paper trails to the other accounts. I know it's untoward, but I really think we were on to something major.'

‘So why did my predecessor close the file?'

Carter didn't answer for a moment. He'd had a long time to think about that, to mull things over. The theory that he had come up with convinced him, but he didn't know how Meeken would take it. ‘At a guess,' he said finally, ‘I'd say he was scared.'

‘Scared of what?'

‘Think about it.' Carter was becoming more animated now. ‘He's less than two years from retirement and a comfortable pension. Out of the blue I give him circumstantial evidence that the secretary of state is involved in one of the biggest financial and political scandals in recent years. Who knows if other cabinet members are implicated; maybe the PM's involved, maybe not. Whatever the truth is, the government will do everything they can to make sure this stuff doesn't reach the light of day.'

Carter leaned back in his chair. The two men sat there in silence for nearly a minute before Meeken spoke. ‘Thank you for telling me this, Sean. Here's what we're going to do. From now on, I want you to consider this case reopened.'

Carter started to protest, but Meeken cut him short.

‘Direct all your resources onto it, Sean. If there's an ounce of truth in your suppositions, I want to know. Let me know what you need to get the job done, and it's yours. This is too important to be relegated to an inactive file, gathering dust. And Sean –'

‘Yes, Andrew.'

‘Good work. Keep it up.'

‘Are you sure you'll be OK, June?'

Ever since the stroke more than eighteen months ago, Frankie had been almost stiflingly overprotective of her friend, concerned that she shouldn't overexert herself in any way, even though six months after it happened June had almost recovered. The slur in her voice was hardly noticeable any more, and the droop down the left-hand side of her face was gradually rectifying itself thanks to the gentle exercise routine imposed with regular visits
from the community nurse. She still seemed to get tired more easily than she used to, but perhaps that was to be expected – she was in her sixties, after all, even if her sprightly conversation sometimes made you forget that fact.

‘I'll be fine,' June chided lightly. ‘I used to run this shop by myself, you know, and you're only going to be away for a day. I'm much more worried about you – are you sure you can manage the train journey with Jasper?'

Frankie walked across the shop to where her tiny son was sleeping soundly in his carrycot. She had already had this conversation with Keith that morning – and every morning before that for the last week – but she was determined to take her little boy with her. It wasn't that Keith wasn't perfectly able to look after him, or that his mother wouldn't love a bit of time with her grandson; it was just that Frankie couldn't bear to be away from him. Keith was understanding. She knew he found it difficult letting her go back to work at the flower shop every day, but she had dug her heels in – she'd really taken only a couple of weeks off after Jasper had been born, and even then she had insisted that he drove her over to see June as often as possible, just to make sure that she was coping. Now he dropped her and Jasper off on his way to work every morning, and the two women would take turns in looking after him while the other dealt with customers. It couldn't last like this, they all realized that. Before they knew it, Jasper would be toddling about, and other arrangements would have to be made. But for the time being, Frankie just wanted to be with him every moment of every day.