Frankie (8 page)

‘Yes, of course,' Johnson replied, his voice still shocked. ‘We'll help in any way we can. I'm going home now – I'll be there when your officer arrives.'

Francesca's bedroom, with its pastel lilac walls, book-shelves filled with books, CDs and photos, and the serene view over the garden pond, had not altered since the day she left home. Harriet seldom went in there, only unlocking the door once a week so that the cleaning lady could dust and vacuum. Now, as she sat on the single bed with its colourful, patchwork bedspread, her face
white with horror, she saw things as she had done hundreds of times before. The hairbrush. Harriet had loved brushing Francesca's hair when she had been small, but she had not been allowed to when her daughter developed the self-consciousness of a teenager.

The small pile of compact discs. They had done their best to persuade her to turn the music down almost every day. Harriet was never successful; William only when he raised his voice. She'd give anything to sit downstairs now and hear that God-awful racket.

The little pewter jewellery box in which she kept all her necklaces and trinkets. She had loved those things. The fact that she had left them there kept coming back to haunt Harriet – she had wanted to leave so much that she hadn't even bothered to take her most treasured possessions, and so they had stayed in their box for the last four years, untouched.

She looked at the wooden-framed picture of Francesca's father. The one taken in France the summer before he became ill. Francesca had missed him so much. They both had. But life had to go on. A year after her husband's death she had started dating, even though she believed her daughter was too young to understand. Francesca had wanted her mother to herself, and believed she was betraying her father. It had hurt Harriet a great deal, so she tried to keep her relationships secret from her daughter. That was until she fell in love with William, a forty-four-year-old sergeant at Reigate police station who had just come through a messy divorce. The relationship blossomed, but Francesca had found it hard, and hadn't understood why her mother needed to marry only two years after her father's death. Harriet had tried to
make her understand that all she wanted to do was keep things normal for her, to give her a family to grow up in; and William had tried so hard to be friends with her, but she had never accepted him, always treated him with suspicion. She was a bright girl, but her schoolwork had started to go downhill. Teachers would ask Harriet if anything was wrong at home. She always said no.

Whenever she'd tried to talk to her husband about her concerns for her daughter, he just became cross. ‘She's fine, Harriet,' he would snap at her. ‘Just a teenager.' But her mother's instinct had known it was more serious than that. Then, one evening when Francesca and her mother were alone, the problem had come out. She hadn't believed what she was hearing from her own daughter's mouth. She
couldn't
believe it.

And then, just short of her fifteenth birthday, she was gone. No warning, no note, just an empty bed and an open window. Paranoia got the better of Harriet in those awful months after the disappearance, and she kept thinking that perhaps her daughter had been telling the truth. She couldn't sleep and became heavily dependent on the benzodiazepines her GP gave her – little tablets that offered her some short release from her torment. As the months went by she grew to accept that she had just been trying to rationalize her daughter's disappearance in some way, to find a reason for something that seemed to make no sense, but it had taken years of counselling before she could finally accept that, and she was determined not to take a step backwards.

Suddenly she heard the gravelly sound of her husband's Mondeo coming up the driveway, and by the time he had started to climb out of the car she had run down the
stairs and was standing at the doorway, her cardigan wrapped tightly around her shoulders. He was a small man, slightly paunchy, but with bright eyes that often seemed to be full of suppressed mirth, though today they were steely and serious. His greying hair was curly and a little unruly, and he wore a small, neatly trimmed moustache that Harriet had never really liked but in which he took great pride. She broke down in a sea of tears as he approached, and he held her firmly in his arms as they stood together at the entrance of their house. ‘It was her,' Harriet sobbed. ‘I know you think I'm making it up, but I'm not. It was her.'

‘I know,' William replied quietly, reassuringly. ‘I know.'

‘Is she in terrible trouble?'

‘It's hard to say.' He lifted her head up from his shoulder. ‘Listen, Harriet, you need to know something. I've spoken to the officer in charge of the case.'

William felt her body stiffen. She pulled away. ‘What do you mean?' she whispered. ‘I told you not to.'

‘I had to, love. For her own sake. I'm sure it's all a big misunderstanding, but the longer she avoids the police, the worse it will be for her.'

‘What do you
mean
?' Harriet repeated her question but more forcefully now, and more tearfully. She turned and stormed inside, her husband following swiftly. ‘She'll end up in prison,' Harriet wailed as she collapsed on the sofa in the front room.

‘You don't know that.' William said the words firmly as he put his arms around his sobbing wife. ‘But she must speak to the police. We must help them find her.'

‘How can I help them find her? I thought she was dead.'

‘I know,' replied William, gazing momentarily at the only picture of the three of them. In its sparkling silver frame it took pride of place above the fireplace. ‘So did I.' They remained silent for a few moments, as if contemplating the magnitude of what they had just admitted. ‘They're sending someone round to talk to us,' William said, breaking the silence. ‘We have to help them as much as we can. I can't be seen to be obstructing them – I'm a serving police officer.'

Harriet flared up. ‘This isn't about you, William! The police think my daughter has just killed someone.'

‘I know, I know,' he said apologetically. ‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean that to sound like it did. But they have CCTV footage, fingerprints and DNA. We have to help the police, for her safety as much as anything else.'

She nodded weakly. He was right. ‘I'm sorry,' she apologized quietly. ‘I just miss my baby so much.'

‘Come on, love,' William said calmly. ‘We just have to make sure we do the right thing – for all of us. You know I want to find her as much as you do.'

He held her again as the sobs shook through her body, and gazed once more at the picture of his stepdaughter. The eyes in the photograph seemed to gaze straight back at him.

Carter was slurping noodles out of a takeaway box, his feet on his desk, when his phone rang. He totted it up in his brain: this was his fifth takeaway in a row. He really ought to get some vegetables down himself, but he knew he wouldn't be able to face the prospect of cooking when he got back to his flat – not that he ever would anyway.

It had been a frustrating morning since he arrived back at the office from Scotland Yard, one of those times when he knew he should be working in his assigned team, but couldn't. He was just thinking about Rosemary's evidence and what it held, and about the girl who took it. No leads, no nothing – he just had to hope Yvonne managed to come up with something, but he wasn't optimistic. Until she did, he simply had to wait, sitting there shuffling piles of paper around his desk. It wasn't something he was very good at. He let the mobile ring a few times as he shovelled another forkful of food into his mouth, then picked up.

‘Sean Carter.'

‘Sean, it's Yvonne. Are you eating?'

Carter swallowed his food quickly, and clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘No, no, it's OK. That was quick – have you come up with anything?'

‘Certainly have. Forensics have come up with a match for the blood on that coat.'

‘Go on.'

‘There was a fatality last night. Two separate blood samples were taken from the scene, victim and suspect. Looks like whoever was wearing this coat had a lucky escape – the sample matches that of the suspect.'

‘What else do you know about them?'

‘Female. Probably a vagrant, maybe a prostitute. That's all we have at the moment.'

‘Where did the fatality take place?'

‘Newington Park – just by Elephant and Castle.'

Carter looked puzzled – that was quite a distance from Chelsea Bridge. He'd have to look at the timings. ‘Who's in charge of the case?'

‘A DI Mark Taylor. Do you want his number?'

Carter went a bit quiet. ‘No, it's OK,' he muttered finally. ‘I know Mark. I'll call him now. What about the credit cards?'

‘One of them was used to withdraw a sum of money from a cash machine in south London last night. We're trying to get hold of any camera evidence from the shop.'

‘Good. Anything on the phone?'

‘Nothing, I'm afraid. It obviously hasn't been turned on yet. I'll keep on it, but Jameson's been piling stuff on me today – he'd go bananas if he knew I was prioritizing you over him. He really hates it when you ask him for a favour, doesn't he?'

‘ 'Fraid so.'

‘Any idea why?'

‘He's jealous of my good looks and charm, Yvonne. Keep on that phone trace – it's really important.'

‘Don't worry, Sean. I'm more than happy to sacrifice my family's livelihood on your account.'

Carter smiled at her sarcasm. ‘Good girl.' He hung up.

He pushed the carton of half-eaten food to one side and drummed his fingers absent-mindedly on the desk, contemplating his next move. One of the best things about leaving the force had been that he wouldn't have to speak to Mark Taylor again, and he had no doubt that the feeling was mutual. They hadn't spoken for two years, and even then it had been on pretty unfriendly terms.

It hadn't always been that way. He and Mark had come up the ranks together – even shared digs in Aylesbury when they had been training – and had been good friends. But his career had blossomed more obviously than Taylor's, and his friend had found it difficult to be left behind. Mark had always set his sights high, but now it looked unlikely that he would ever make it past DI, and Carter's promotion to the SFO had been the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. There was no way round it, though. He was going to have to pick up the phone, call his former friend and ask for help.

This, thought Carter, is turning into a really shitty day.

He picked up the phone and dialled London Bridge CID. ‘Put me through to DI Taylor, please.'

‘One minute.'

He continued to drum on the table while he waited. Finally he heard the voice he recognized so well. ‘Taylor.'

‘Hello, Mark,' he said quietly. ‘It's Sean.' Taylor didn't respond for a moment. ‘Sean Carter,' he clarified.

‘Yeah, I know who it is,' Taylor conceded abruptly. ‘What can I do for you, Sean?' His voice was level, emotionless. Carter knew him well enough to know that he was waiting to take offence at something, anything, no matter how small.

‘I need your help, Mark.'

‘I'm very busy.' It was the second time someone had said that to him today.

‘I know, Mark. Look, it won't take long. It's about the incident in Newington Park last night. Can I come and see you? I'm just round the corner.' A silence. ‘Please, it's important.'

‘OK. But you'll have to make it quick.'

Twenty minutes later Carter was being escorted to his old friend. It had been a while since he had seen him, but it took only one glance for the features to crystallize in his mind once more. He looked older; his brown eyes were as sharp as ever, only masked now with a glassiness that spoke of a little too much fondness for drink. He's not a stupid man, Carter reminded himself. Cynical, maybe; jaded, certainly; but don't underestimate him. And remember: he used to be your friend.

Neither man proffered a hand – they knew it would be an empty gesture. Taylor merely indicated that Carter should pull up a chair and sit down beside his desk.

‘Long time,' Carter said warmly. The fact that the relationship had cooled over the years gave him no pleasure. ‘Family well?'

Taylor shrugged, but he couldn't stop himself making a few proud comments. ‘Annabelle's fine. Still making my life hell, but that's her job. Samantha wants to be a teacher, more fool her.'

‘I remember when she was a little girl and wanted to be a police officer like her dad.'

‘Yeah, well, we soon talked that out of her. Look, Sean, much as I'd love to sit here and reminisce about the good old days, us proper policemen actually have a bit of work to do, and I'm bloody busy.'

Carter smiled ruefully to himself. ‘Then I won't take up any more of your time than I have to. I need everything you've got on the Newington Park killing last night.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I think your suspect is involved with a case I'm investigating.'

‘Don't be stupid,' Taylor scoffed. ‘She was a bum. Homeless. Probably a junkie. Why would the SFO be interested in her?'

‘Do you have a name?'

‘Yes,' Taylor replied unhelpfully.

‘Well, what is it, Mark?'

‘Why do you need to know?' Taylor folded his arms and looked stubbornly across the table.

Carter pinched between his eyes in frustration. ‘I can't tell you, Mark. I'm sorry.'

‘Oh for fuck's sake, Sean,' Taylor burst out. ‘Why do you always have to be so cloak and dagger?'

‘I'm not being cloak and dagger, Mark. I just can't tell you at the moment. Now do you want to give me the information I need, or am I going to have to go above your head?' He hadn't wanted to make that threat, but Mark was being childish.

Taylor looked at his former friend with undisguised dislike. ‘You'd love that, wouldn't you?'

‘No, Mark,' Carter told him wearily. ‘I wouldn't. I just need to know what you've got.'

Reluctantly Taylor rummaged through a pile of papers, pulled out a copy of the photograph of Frankie and handed it to Carter. ‘Francesca Mills,' he told him. ‘Nineteen years old. Ran away from home four years ago, hasn't been heard of since. Mother and stepfather live in Surrey.
She's a housewife, he's a local sergeant. There's no other close family that we think she could have gone to, and she hasn't been in touch with anyone since she disappeared. The stepfather told us they thought she'd gone the same way as her dad.'

Carter looked quizzically at him.

‘Dead,' Taylor explained shortly. ‘And frankly it would make my job a lot easier if she was.'

‘Does she have any criminal record?'

‘She's been pulled in for vagrancy and petty theft a couple of times and cautioned, but that's it.'

‘What are you going to do to find her?'

‘Not much.'

Carter looked quizzically at him again. ‘What do you mean? She's a suspect in a murder case.'

‘Oh give me a break, Sean. The bloke she topped was a pimp and a dealer, and we think it was self-defence anyway. I can't imagine the CPS showering me with gratitude for bringing her in. I'll do all the usual, and if we nail her, fine; but if it's not going to end in a conviction I'm not going to throw everything I've got at it. Knowing who she hangs out with, I wouldn't be surprised if she was drugged up to her eyeballs, and she probably still is. She's a waster, Sean. She'll be dead in a year.'

Carter hated to admit it, but Taylor was probably right. ‘Just do me a favour,' he replied, ‘and let me know if you get any leads.'

‘Yeah, OK, Sean, whatever you say. But you know as well as I do how hard it is to find these people if they don't want to be found.'

‘Something always comes up,' Carter said optimistically. ‘You've got a photo of her already; I might have
another on the way. Surely she'll have been caught on CCTV somewhere else.'

‘Come off it, Sean.' Taylor didn't even bother to hide his derision. ‘God knows how many thousands of cameras there are in London – where do you suggest we start? We don't have the resources to trawl through every camera in London.'

Carter's mobile rang. ‘Excuse me,' he muttered automatically to Taylor before accepting the call. ‘Sean Carter.'

‘Sean, it's Yvonne. We've located the phone.'

‘Where?'

‘Surrey.'

Carter looked sharply at Taylor, who returned the look blankly. ‘How close can you get it?'

‘I can give you an address. The only house in the area is on its own down a private road. Have you got a pen?'

He jotted down the address Yvonne gave him. ‘I'm going to need some back-up,' he told her. ‘What are my chances of getting Jameson onside?' He glanced over at Taylor, who was making no pretence that his ears were not glued to the conversation.

‘Very slim, Sean. You've got a real knack of upsetting him, did you know that?'

But Carter's mind was elsewhere. If he found Rosemary's phone, the chances were the locket wouldn't be far away, but he had to move quickly. He could make some calls, go in above Jameson, but it was all going to take time, and that was the one thing he couldn't risk. ‘OK, Yvonne. Thanks. I'll call you back soon.'

He turned to Taylor, realizing he was going to have to talk fast. ‘Mark, this may sound unlikely to you, but I've
got good reason to believe that this girl is in a house in Surrey. I've got the address. Can you arrange for some officers to get round there and pick her up?'

Taylor eyed him sceptically. ‘How the hell could you possibly know where she is? You didn't even know her name until two minutes ago.'

‘Mark, I'm right about this. Think how good it will look for you if you bring her in less than twenty-four hours after the killing.' He'd known him long enough to understand which buttons to press.

But Taylor seemed to dither. ‘I'm not sure, Sean. Sounds to me like you're clutching at straws.'

‘Come on, Mark, you know we have to check out this lead. We've had our differences, but I'm not in the business of wasting your time. Please?'

The question seemed to hang in the air. Finally Taylor spoke as he glanced at the photographs on his desk. ‘You're going to have to give me more than that – you know I can't just raise a team to go onto someone else's patch like I'm ordering a pizza. It's going to be my arse on the line, so you'd better tell me where you're getting your miraculous hunch from.'

Carter bowed his head. ‘OK, Mark,' he gave in. ‘Last night, I think your suspect stole some personal belongings from a contact of mine.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. But one of those items was a mobile phone. It's been traced to an address in Surrey.'

‘And why do you give a fuck that some bum off the street has nicked a mobile phone? Or is that the sort of thing the SFO are investigating these days?'

‘I'm sorry, Mark.' Sean was beginning to lose patience now. ‘That's as much as I can tell you. Are you going to do this or not?'

Taylor stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the suits crossing over London Bridge. ‘OK,' he said at last. ‘I'll send some people down there now. But it's my arrest, and my suspect, do you understand?'

‘Just give me twenty minutes with her when you bring her in, Mark,' Carter replied. ‘That's all I'll need. I promise.'

Carter walked down the street towards his car with misgivings firing through his mind. He didn't like leaving things to Taylor, but there hadn't been much choice in the matter: if he wanted the elusive Francesca Mills brought in, he was going to have to trust his former colleague. He had known not to bother asking if he could go along – this was too good an empire-building opportunity for Taylor for him to allow anyone else on the scene to take the credit. He was just going to have to sit tight and wait.

As his car pulled out into the traffic, he decided to check on Rosemary. She had been pretty shaken up last night, and with good reason. But she was tougher than her prissy exterior suggested, and he reckoned she'd recover pretty quickly. He was still in two minds as to whether to ask her to repeat her night-time tiptoeing round the corridors of the bank, but with any luck it wasn't going to be necessary. By this evening he'd have the information he needed.

He punched Rosemary's office number into his mobile. It was answered immediately by a sprightly sounding receptionist. ‘Lenham, Borwick and Hargreaves, good afternoon.'