Becky slammed her hand down on the desk. ‘I knew there was something about her. Lynsey mentioned her to you yesterday, boss. She’s the woman who has the apartment in the building where Jagger was murdered.’
Becky reminded him of what they had discovered about Anna Franklyn and Saskia Peterson.
‘She told us she was visiting the apartment block to see this Saskia. It’s on the list of things to check today, because we’re pretty sure Saskia Peterson and Anna Franklyn are the same person. But we couldn’t find anything to link her to either of the deaths, other than the fact that her car came into the car park about thirty minutes before Jagger was killed.’ She banged the desk again and muttered an expletive. ‘All we had was the fact that we were sure she lied about being Saskia Peterson. It seemed unlikely she’d killed Jagger, but we knew she was hiding something, as was her husband, because he said she’d been in all night. I just didn’t see her as a priority. Sorry, boss.’
‘So let’s get hold of her now. If she’s been visiting Mrs Roberts, there’s clearly a more significant connection than we thought, and if she knows the mother there’s a chance she knows where we can find Scott or Bradley – even if only to rule either of them out.’
There was no point in Tom going back to his own office. He had the sense that things were going to be moving quickly, so he pulled off his jacket and threw it on the back of a chair. He could hear Becky on her phone, and finally she waved him over.
‘We’ve tried Anna’s home number. There’s no answer. I tried the school. The bursar says she’s taken a couple of days off as her mother has had a fall. She lives in Cumbria, apparently.’
‘Check it, Becky.’
Becky smiled. ‘Already did. The mother’s surname is Osborne, and Keith’s trying to reach her now.’
Osborne. Tom grabbed the copy of the index page again and laid it on Becky’s desk, flattening it with the palm of his hand. He pointed to the entry.
‘“S. Roberts” – Scott – with a line through his name apparently to indicate that he is deceased. Another name on the list – “A. Osborne”. Similar dates, although she started paying Edmunds again over a year ago. Would that be Anna, do you think, Osborne being her maiden name?’
Becky raised her eyes to his. She should have pushed harder against the wall of resistance put up by Anna Franklyn.
‘Sir,’ Keith called. ‘I’ve tracked down Mrs Osborne and spoken to her. Her daughter isn’t with her, and she hasn’t had a fall. She used her own mobile to call her daughter’s, but there’s no answer. According to Mrs Osborne, that never happens. Anna always picks up when she sees it’s her mum.’
‘Right.’ Tom raised his voice so the whole room could hear. ‘We need to find Anna Franklyn. Let’s get her car registration and see if we can discover where she is.’
‘We’ve already got it,’ Becky said. ‘Her car was in the car park where Jagger was killed.’
‘Of course, so track her. She may be on her way to visit her mother, whether or not she’s had a fall. But let’s see, shall we?’
Tom felt a burst of elation. Anna Franklyn was paying money to Cameron Edmunds, so there was little doubt she knew Roger Jagger. And she was linked to Scott Roberts, so by default to Bradley Roberts. She may not have been strong enough to kill Jagger herself, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t involved. They needed to find this woman now, before anyone else died.
62
Tom paced the incident room as Keith continued to try Anna Franklyn’s phone and Becky spoke to Mrs Osborne, who it seemed was now becoming slightly hysterical.
‘It’s okay, Mrs Osborne. There’s no problem, I’m sure. Your daughter might be driving so she won’t be able to answer. We’re just trying to find her in relation to someone she once knew, that’s all. Nothing for you to worry about,’ she repeated.
Tom signalled Becky to put the phone on speaker.
‘Who? Who did she used to know? I know everything about my daughter – if she knew him, I would know him too.’
Tom nodded to Becky.
‘Scott Roberts.’
There was no mistaking the gasp from the other end of the phone. ‘He’s alive then? Anna said she didn’t think it was possible. She swears he died in Nebraska.’
Again, Tom’s eyes met Becky’s. This was new. Cameron had said Scott was dead, but not that he died in America.
‘Do you know when this was, Mrs Osborne?’
‘Yes, it was this time of year. I remember that. And it was a week or so before Anna’s twentieth birthday, so that would make it fourteen years ago. They met when she first went to university a year before that. He died in Lincoln, Nebraska.’
That would explain why there was no record of Scott’s death in the UK. There was no obligation to register the death of someone who had died overseas.
Tom made winding-up signs to Becky, but Mrs Osborne wasn’t finished. ‘That’s why it was odd when I heard him on the radio on Monday. Anna was certain it wasn’t him, but he said his name was Scott and his girlfriend was Spike, which is what he called my Anna after she had that silly haircut.’
‘What programme was this?’
‘Local radio. The bit they call “The One That Got Away” on Monday morning. Scott said he was going to reveal everything that had happened on next Monday’s show. But Anna said I was daft believing it was him. I wasn’t though, was I?’
Just then Keith waved his hand at Tom and mouthed, ‘ANPR’. Leaving Becky to Mrs Osborne, he moved over to where Keith was sitting at his computer screen.
‘Lots of hits on Mrs Franklyn’s car in the last couple of hours. And look where she was heading.’
Tom stared at the screen. ‘She’s going to north Wales,’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘When was the last sighting?’
‘Half an hour ago. We lost her here.’ Keith pointed at the screen. ‘She must have moved onto the side roads.’
Becky had finally managed to extricate herself from the call, and Tom signalled her to join them.
‘Get onto the radio station, Keith. Find out if they have any contact details for Scott Roberts.’ He picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Grab your things, Becky. Anna Franklyn is somewhere in north Wales, and the question is…’
‘I know,’ Becky said. ‘Is Scott Roberts alive, or is it Bradley? If so, is Anna Franklyn in cahoots with one of them, or is she about to be his next victim? I don’t like the sound of this. Whose car, yours or mine?’
‘Yours,’ he said. ‘And for God’s sake, drive like you used to!’
63
I can’t speak. I peer into the doorway, waiting for him to step into the light. But he stays where he is.
‘What did you call me?’ he asks, his voice suspicious.
‘Scott,’ I say, more tentatively now.
Then he moves forward and my heart races. He’s too young to be Scott – mid-twenties, probably, but so very like him. Who is he?
‘Scott’s dead,’ he says, and my fear ratchets up a notch. If he’s not Scott, what does he want with me?
‘What are you doing in my house?’ he asks, his words clipped.
I take a step back, trying to hide my confusion. He’s angry, but surely he asked me to be here? Is he pretending to be Scott?
‘I had a message – from Scott – to meet him here. Who are you?’
He laughs, and he is so like Scott that I guess the answer the moment before he tells me.
‘Brad Roberts. I’m Scott’s younger brother. You’re lying about the message and you’d better tell me why before I phone the police. I got a call from the estate agents to ask if the builder I’d employed had managed to get into the house with the keys they gave him. Except I hadn’t hired anyone, and you don’t look much like a builder to me. So I’ll ask you again. Why are you in my house?’
I don’t know what to say. Scott never told me he had a brother. None of this makes sense. I shake my head as he takes another step towards me.
‘Who are you, and for
the third and final time, why are you trespassing on my property?’
I look at his dark hair again, so like Scott’s. Brad can’t know that his brother is alive and that any minute now he’s going to walk through that door.
‘I went to see your mother at the hospice. It was you who ran away from me, wasn’t it?’ I can hear the accusation in my voice, and for a moment my conviction that Scott is alive wavers. But he has to be. Only Scott knows the truth.
‘Ran? What, from you?’ He laughs. ‘I ran because I’m always late when I go there. My mother thinks I’m Scott. She gets upset and it takes ages to calm her. He was her blue-eyed boy, you see, and I’m just little Brad.’ I can hear the bitterness in his voice. ‘Why did you go to see her?’
‘I was looking for Scott. My name’s Anna Franklyn and I was his girlfriend at university. I thought he was dead too, but he’s not. I told you – he sent me a message and asked me to come here.’
He shakes his head wearily, as if it’s not worth arguing. It’s only then that he seems to notice the papers and pictures attached to the wall behind me.
‘What the hell’s this rogues’ gallery all about?’
He walks to the photo of Saskia and turns to look at me through narrowed eyes, as if trying to work out if she and I are the same person. Then he sees the photo of Scott with the smaller one of me next to it, and he stands for a few seconds staring at it, then glances at the map of Nebraska and spins round to glare at me.
‘You!’ he says, spitting out the word. ‘You’re the reason he went to Nebraska. We always knew some girl had dragged him there, but we never knew who it was, or why. We’ve got you to blame for the fact that he died so far from his family.’
I want to shout that he’s not dead, and it wasn’t me who wanted to go to America. It was Scott. All of it was Scott. He said it was the only way to solve all our problems, and I had sworn I would do whatever it took to keep him from harm.
In the end, though, there was one sacrifice too many. I should have stopped it before it went too far.
Then
Four weeks after I told Scott I was expecting his baby we still hadn’t agreed what we were going to do. By then I was working for Cameron, and even though I detested him with a passion, the thrill of the casino had started to get into my blood. I didn’t play, but I took vicarious pleasure in watching some of my favourite poker players win.
There were other players I despised – those who thought they had the right to touch me, to put an arm around my shoulders or my waist and ask for a kiss for luck. They never got one – I always laughed and playfully pushed them away. I became good at flirting, flattering, lying through my teeth about what fun I was having, what great company they were. That was when I learned one of the skills that I have since honed to perfection. The art of pretence.
I didn’t know I was being filmed until two weeks after I started when Jagger handed me an envelope of stills taken from the CCTV.
‘Buck your ideas up, Anna, or you’re out.’
The photos captured my disgust when punters weren’t looking my way. I wasn’t playing the game the way Cameron wanted me to, so I worked on my performance, laughing, smiling and flattering even those men I found disgusting. The photos got better, and Cameron was pleased. But I learned where the cameras were and – over time – how to avoid them.
I knew I couldn’t keep the job for more than a few months. At some point Cameron would realise that my shape was changing, my waistline expanding, and he would sack me. Because my decision was final. I was going to have my baby.
Scott didn’t like it. He had tried to persuade me that a termination was the sensible option, but I couldn’t do it. This was my baby, and I wanted him or her to live. I was worried about telling my parents, but I was going to need their support. I wasn’t concerned that they would be appalled or ashamed of me – I could do no wrong in their eyes. But my mum would want to bring up my baby, and I didn’t want that. My parents were already in their early sixties and would be eighty before the child reached eighteen. It wasn’t the right solution for anyone, although it was going to be hard to make them understand what I had decided. And I still had to convince Scott.
I arranged to meet him away from my room, which had begun to feel claustrophobic after all the pain it had seen, and as I sat in a café waiting for him, sipping a cup of coffee, I caught a glimpse of him in the distance. Despite all that had happened he was bouncing along, looking as if all was well with the world, and I had to admire his resilience, although the mood swings from elation to despair could sometimes be wearing.
He strode towards me with a beaming smile. ‘Come outside. I don’t want to talk in here.’ He held out a hand and pulled me to my feet. It was freezing, but he dragged me over to a bench.
‘Have you decided?’
I had promised to give him my final decision today. Not that I had wavered even for a moment.
‘I have. Look, Scott, I know it’s not what you want, but I can’t have an abortion.’ I expected a look of irritation at my determination to have this child, and was surprised when I didn’t get one. ‘I’m going to go home at Easter and tell my parents, and then I’m going to have the baby and put him or her up for adoption. Some lucky couple are going to get a gorgeous child to bring up in a happy home.’
Scott’s face didn’t drop as I had expected; in fact he positively beamed. ‘It’s due in early September, yes?’
He knew that. I also wanted to tell him to stop calling our baby ‘it’.
‘Okay, and you’re not showing at all yet, so you can probably hide the fact that you’re pregnant from your family, especially if you don’t go home again after Easter.’
I had no idea where this was going. ‘I need to tell them. I’m going to go home to have the baby.’
‘No, you’re not. I’ve got a plan, Spike. A plan that will solve all our problems.’ He grabbed both of my hands in his. ‘We’re going to America.’
Now
Scott’s brother walks away from me, hands shoved into his pockets. As he reaches the door he turns. ‘I don’t know why you have it in your head that Scott’s alive. Do you think he would have let us suffer the pain of losing him, of not being able to bury him, if he was alive?’
In a moment of clarity one word comes to me: Yes.
Scott was desperate, and he was a planner. Apart from the sponsorship scam, all the money-making schemes were his. America was his idea. He broke both the law and my heart to escape the clutches of Jagger and Cameron. So what else might he have done?
Brad is by the door now, indicating the way out with his arm.
‘I want you to leave. I don’t know what this is all about, but please get out of my house.’
As I look at him, not sure what to say, I see a shadow move behind his back. It seems to loom above his head, then suddenly there is a crash and he staggers forward and crumples soundlessly to the floor at my feet.
The only thing I can see is an old cricket bat, the glare of the spotlights reflecting on the yellowed wood. And then I hear a voice, the voice from the radio.
‘Hello, Spike. Thanks for coming. I knew you would.’
64
Tom had been hoping that some of Becky’s old driving habits had survived, but despite his request that she should drive the way she used to, for the first few miles she was the new ultra-careful driver that he didn’t recognise.
‘Why don’t you let me drive?’ he asked after fifteen minutes.
Becky glanced across at him. ‘What? Tom, you have moaned non-stop about my driving since the day I met you, and now I’m trying to be more cautious you don’t like it, do you?’
Tom had to admit she was right. ‘I’m missing the fear-induced adrenaline rush of a journey with you at the wheel.’
Becky glared at him, then the corners of her mouth twitched up into a grin. ‘You’re right. This is tedious, isn’t it? And anyway, you’re the boss!’ With that she put her foot down.
Tom sat back in
his seat and called Keith in the incident room to check what the team had discovered about Bradley Roberts. The answer was not very much, but it was early days. Whether or not he was involved, if anyone knew if his brother was alive, it would be him.
‘One more thing, sir,’ Keith said. ‘DC Whitely volunteered to go back to the casino late last night and ask around again about the woman seen with Cameron Edmunds.’
‘Ah yes, the woman he has since denied all knowledge of. And?’
‘It seems the dealer was being a bit disingenuous. When the picture was shown to the barman he confirmed that he – and just about everyone in the casino, it would seem – knows the woman as Saskia. She isn’t always a redhead, though. Sometimes blonde, sometimes platinum. She likes to ring the changes, but he said he didn’t need to see her face – if she was with Cameron, it would be Saskia. Oh, and he said she’s one hell of a poker player.’
Tom could see Becky’s eyes widening as they listened, but she didn’t take them off the road.
He thanked Keith and ended the call. ‘That confirms her links to Edmunds, Jagger and Scott Roberts. What else are we going to discover about her?’
‘Talk about a multi-layered woman,’ Becky said, with what sounded like admiration. ‘Mother and head teacher – a picture of respectability – combined with a sassy kick-ass poker player with a variety of wigs, a sexy name and a secret apartment.’
‘Which is the real Anna Franklyn, though? What did you make of her when you met her, Becky?’
‘I found it impossible to tell what she was thinking most of the time. I honestly couldn’t get a handle on her, but if she’s such a poker ace, perhaps that explains it.’
Tom pondered for a few moments then pressed the screen on his phone and put it on speaker again.
‘Morning, ma’am. I need a sign-off on a request for the live-time cell siting of a suspect’s phone.’
‘Tell me.’ Philippa Stanley, as usual, was not wasting words.
Tom laid out the case, explaining why they needed to find Anna Franklyn. ‘Philippa, I can’t tell you for certain how she’s involved, but my gut is telling me she’s either a co-conspirator in two murders or she’s the next victim.’
The Shape of Lies: New from the queen of psychological thrillers Page 26