The Truth About Celia Frost (17 page)

As Frankie walked through one of the passageways, a gaggle of youths entered from the other end: swaggering young boys with their arms draped around an array of gum-chewing girls. Each female
sported scraped-back hair tied into a tight ponytail, and make-up so thick that it managed to bury their youth and any natural beauty beneath it. The boys walked past, giving the big man an
obligatory hostile look. Frankie reciprocated their stare and watched in amusement as they struggled to maintain their nonchalant pace out of the passageway.

Dodging piles of baking dog muck, Frankie made his way to the shopping precinct. Here he went from shop to shop, pretending to browse, while all the time listening in to people’s
conversations. He’d hoped to glean some useful information, but all he heard was talk of bad kids, bad husbands and bad debts.

He came to the bookies and decided it was worth a try. Gambling was one of the few vices that Frankie had managed to avoid. He knew only too well the consequences that visited people who’d
fallen under its spell. He’d worked many cases for turf accountants, locating terrified gamblers who’d gone to ground after accumulating huge debts. Frankie knew that the bookies always
got their pound of flesh in the end.

The bookies was packed with men shouting at TV screens which hung from the walls. Alternate blasts of hot then icy air billowed out of the dodgy air conditioning. Frankie watched the
race’s progress on the faces of the punters, as they transformed from hope and excitement to despair and anger. Betting slips were ripped up as they cursed the old nag they’d spent
their last pounds on.

“Seeing as you take every penny we’ve got, the least you could do is get some decent air conditioning. It’s bad enough sweating to death in my own flat, without having to come
here to do it,” shouted a disgruntled punter to the man behind the counter.

“Haven’t they sorted out that heating yet, Roy?” The bookie tutted. “You should get on to them.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Fifteen times I’ve called them. It’s been weeks. The whole building is like a bloody hothouse; hundreds of people suffering, and all
they keep saying is that they’re ‘working on it’.” Roy was getting increasingly irate. “They treat us worse than vermin.”

Frankie chipped in. “You should go to the local paper. That’d get them moving.”

“Yeah.” Roy nodded. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Which building is it anyway?” Frankie enquired casually.

“Tower Two. I tell you, the whole place needs demolishing. We’d be better off living in cardboard boxes,” Roy ranted.

Frankie turned to leave.

“Aren’t you going to have a flutter?” the bookie called to him.

“Nah, it’s a mug’s game,” Frankie answered, deep in thought.

He went in the newsagent’s next door and bought a paper, before returning to the foot of the tower blocks. He positioned himself out of sight of the CCTV cameras but still with a clear
view of the entrance to Tower Two. Putting on his sunglasses, he opened his paper, keeping one eye on the entrance. For over an hour he watched people coming in and out of the building until, with
great relief, he saw Celia emerge. She gambolled across the square, a bulky bag slung over her shoulders. Just then, a pleading voice rang out from the sky.

“Celia, you will phone me today, won’t you? Don’t let me worry, love.”

Frankie looked up and saw a woman calling from the very highest row of balconies. She was still in her dressing gown and waving at Celia. But the girl didn’t look up; she just kept walking
across the square and out of sight.

Frankie decided it was time to make his move. He marched back to his car and, after looking around to check he wasn’t being watched, he rifled through his bag of outfits until he found a
boiler suit. Next, he peeled off the appropriate labels from his sheets of names and companies and proceeded to stick them onto a photo ID card. From the glove compartment he unwrapped three
thumbnail-sized black discs, which he held delicately in his huge hands.

“In you go, my beauties,” he said, carefully placing them in a metal toolbox. He stepped out of the car transformed into Paul Garner, Heating Engineer and, taking a moment, he
mentally prepared himself for his performance.

Taking the lift to the twentieth floor was a deeply unpleasant experience. It seemed to take an eternity to ascend. The silver interior was covered in graffiti and smeared with what smelled like
the remnants of a curry. Frankie struggled to hold his breath until the doors eventually juddered open at his destination.

He knocked at flat 2011. It took a couple of minutes before the door was opened a fraction. Janice’s face peered out from behind the chain.

“Ms. Frost?” Frankie inquired.

“Who wants to know?” came the abrupt response.

“I’m Paul, the heating engineer,” he said, showing his ID badge. “I’ve been sent out by building maintenance to have a look at your radiators.”

Janice immediately let him in. “Thank God,” she said. “Do you have any idea how unbearable it’s been in here? We’re having the hottest summer on record and our
bloody heating has been on full blast day and night.”

“I know, Madam,” he answered. “But the company have got their act together now and hopefully it’ll soon be sorted.”

He gave Janice a quick look. This was definitely the woman in the grainy photo, but the years hadn’t been kind to her. She looked worn out, shrivelled up – but there was still
something about her, Frankie thought, something quite appealing behind her bloodshot eyes.

Janice felt his eyes pass over her and she suddenly became conscious of what a sight she must look.

“Sorry about this,” she said, clutching her dressing gown to her neck. “I’m not feeling so well this morning. I’m running late for work.” She bustled around
the sitting room, grabbing the half empty bottle of gin from the coffee table and whisking it into the kitchen.

“I’ll be out of your way soon. I just want to check the radiators,” he said.

“I just need to get ready,” she said, disappearing into her bedroom.

As soon as she was out of sight Frankie got to work, and within minutes he’d planted the three magnetic room bugs: one behind the back of the living room radiator, one behind the bathroom
radiator and the final one under Celia’s bedside table.

When Janice emerged he was on his knees with a wrench, pretending to be working on the radiator.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

“That would be lovely. Milk and three sugars, please.”

She busied herself in the kitchen and soon after presented him with a mug of tea.

“I don’t know how you’ve stood it in here,” he said, mopping his brow. “Must be terrible. Is it just you who lives here?”

“No. I live with my daughter.”

“Is that her in the photos?” he asked, pointing to the wall full of pictures.

Janice nodded proudly.

“Lovely looking girl,” Frankie said. “Looks about the same age as mine.”

“Oh,” said Janice, suddenly perking up, “have you got a daughter too?”

“Yeah, Megan. She’s fourteen, but I don’t know where my sweet little girl’s gone; she’s turned into a right stroppy madam.”

Janice nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “I know what you mean. What happens to them?”

“I blame all those raging hormones – turns them into monsters for a few years. I think they should be put into hibernation until they’re eighteen and have finished being
screaming drama queens,” Frankie said.

Janice found herself laughing.

“Don’t get me wrong. I love her to bits and I only get to see her at weekends so I want every minute with her to be special,” he said, straining with emotion.

“Don’t you live with her mother then?” Janice wasn’t usually one to ask or answer questions, but she was warming to this man.

“Nah. We split up. I found her cheating on me. I wanted Megan to live with me, but you know what the courts are like; they always give the kid to the mother, no matter what.” His
voice faltered.

Janice surprised herself, welling up with sympathy for this stranger. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I’m sure that your daughter enjoys her time with
you.”

“Thanks,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry about getting a bit emotional on you.”

“Not at all. It’s nice to meet a father who cares so much about their child.” Janice smiled.

Frankie collected up his tools. “Well the bad news is there’s no way I can fix your heating today. It’s a much bigger job than they told me. It looks like the main boiler for
the whole building will need replacing,” he said apologetically.

“It’s not your fault,” Janice said sweetly. “It was nice to meet you anyway.”

Frankie walked out, giving what he hoped was a winning smile. “It was a real pleasure to meet you too,” he beamed, causing Janice’s grey cheeks to flush.

Once Frankie was back in his car, he put in his earpieces and fiddled around with the multi-band receiver until he’d tuned into the correct frequency. Over the airwaves,
the bugs transmitted the sound of Janice moving around the flat, followed by the sound of her singing “Somewhere, Beyond the Sea” in a surprisingly sweet voice.

It brought a smile to Frankie’s face.
I love this Sinatra song
, he thought to himself. He started to sing along, his baritone voice performing a duet with the unsuspecting
Janice.

Minutes later he heard the door being shut and the airwaves fell silent. He knew that he probably had a long wait until he’d hear anything else. Making himself comfortable, he put his
sunglasses over his eyes, and settled back in his seat. Within minutes the inside of the car was rattling with his snores.

It was 7.20 p.m. and Frankie was just opening a polystyrene box containing a congealed burger in a rock-hard bun, when, through his earpieces, came the sound of a key in a
lock. “At last,” he said.

There was the sound of the door opening and then the squeak of the shower control being turned, immediately followed by the thundering of water onto the bath. “Stinking chickens,” he
could hear Janice complain as she scrubbed herself clean.

After dressing, she left a message for Celia.

“Hi, Celia. You haven’t phoned me since lunchtime. Are you coming home soon? Love you.” Her voice was full of forced cheeriness.

There was a ping, indicating that her microwave dinner was ready, and then, Frankie assumed, she must have settled down in front of the TV, as the only sound coming through was shouting from
some soap opera.

By the time he heard another key in the lock it was two hours later and Janice had succumbed to a couple of large gins, muttering something about “Dutch courage” as she gulped them
down.

“Mum,” he heard a girl’s voice call out. He recognized Celia’s voice from the diner.

Janice tried to make her interrogation breezy. “Hiya, love. Had a nice day? You’re a bit late, aren’t you? What have you been up to?”

Celia ignored her questions. “You seem a bit merry,” she said suspiciously.

Janice tutted. “No, I’m not at all. I’m probably just a bit excited. I wanted to talk to you...about this place.”

“This place? This flat?” Celia asked.

“Yeah. This flat, Bluebell Towers, the whole estate. It’s not a great place, is it?”

“Ha! That’s the understatement of the year.”

“Well, I’ve realized I made a big mistake, dragging you here. This environment is no good for you. Now don’t go panicking,” she said quickly, looking at Celia’s
stormy face. “I’m not suggesting we pack up and leave right now. We can both plan this move; find a decent area, with nice neighbours and good schools. And, what if I promise to let you
go back to school, Celia? Hey, isn’t that what you want? I know you’re angry with me, but I’m offering to make things up to you.”

Celia was completely thrown. “I don’t know what to say. This place
is
a dump and, yeah, I want to get my exams...but there’s something here I wouldn’t want
to leave.”

“It’s that boy, isn’t it?” Janice tried to sound sympathetic. “Well, you’ll be able to stay in touch – phone, text – but to be honest, Celia, a
few weeks away from this place and you’ll probably have forgotten all about him.”

Janice had blown it.

Celia bristled. “Yeah! You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Take me away from the only friend that I’ve ever had. You know, for a second there, I actually thought that you were
trying to do what was best for me. But I should have guessed that you were just trying to drag me back into your twisted little world.”

“No, Celia,” Janice said desperately. “This
is
what’s best for you. Things are more dangerous than ever now.”

“Oh my God, Mum!” Celia sounded despairing. “You’re just madder than ever!” And with that, Frankie heard her stomp into her bedroom. Seconds later, raucous music
blasted out from the CD player that sat directly over the bedroom bug.

In response, the sound of the TV soared as Janice competed with the music’s volume. The ear-splitting cacophony poured into Frankie’s headphones. He tore them out of his ears.

Janice caved in first. The TV went dead and she shouted, “I’m going out. I can’t stand this.”