by Linda Huber
It was the stuff of his dreams.
Chapter Eleven
Friday, 14th July
A thud from Frankie’s bedroom woke Sarah, and she lifted her phone to see the time. Oh no. Ten to four. If this was her up for the day she’d be dead by lunchtime – and what a sick thing to think on the day of Petra’s memorial. Bad as this was for her and Mim, it was infinitely worse for Frankie. Sarah forced her feet to the floor and grabbed her bathrobe.
Frankie’s door was cracked open and Sarah pushed it gently. ‘Frankie? You okay?’
‘I fell out of bed,’ said Frankie, and the despair in her voice prompted Sarah to go right in. The girl was sitting on the floor, clutching the duvet which was half on, half off the bed. Her eyes were huge, staring at Sarah in the dim light from the street lamp outside.
Sarah tucked her in again. ‘I guess you were dreaming.’
Frankie scrunched the duvet under her chin, her lips trembling. ‘Sarah…’ She stopped, and screwed her face up.
Sarah sat down on the bed. ‘Out with it. Keeping things to yourself never works. Let me help.’
She had to lean forward to hear Frankie’s whisper.
‘You and Mim – and the police – you all said Mum died of a blow to the head… Sarah, did someone kill my mum?’
The horror was plain to hear, and Sarah blinked back tears. They’d been wrong to conceal the truth from Frankie. She wasn’t a little child, and the life she’d led with Petra must have made her more worldly-wise than most eleven-year-olds. But that was no help to the girl in this nightmare.
‘Sweetheart – no-one knows what happened. Someone seems to have hit her with something, but the police don’t have any details yet. Mim – we thought it would be better if we didn’t say anything to you until we knew more, but perhaps that was wrong. I’m sorry.’
A single tear was tracking down Frankie’s left cheek and she brushed it away. ‘But why would anyone want to kill my mum?’
‘I don’t know. It seems incredible,’ said Sarah. Not quite true, but in the general scheme of things it was incomprehensible that one human being could kill another merely for financial gain. She searched for something to comfort Frankie. ‘I think the best thing is to let the police get on with their investigation. Mr West said they solve virtually all these crimes, and he was sure about that. So if someone did kill Petra, they’ll be caught.’
And hell, she still hadn’t told this poor kiddie the truth. It might have been better to say straight out that Petra had definitely been murdered. But on the morning of the memorial… Sarah stood up. They could talk another time.
‘Go back to sleep for a while, and try not to worry. We can trust the police to find out what happened.’
I hope, she thought, kissing Frankie, who closed her eyes and turned to face the wall. Sarah shivered back to her room. Finding the truth wouldn’t help Petra, but it might give Frankie the closure she needed. And at least Petra hadn’t suffered for long – or had she? There was no way to know what had gone on before Petra’s death.
Sarah shuddered, and rolled back into bed, grasping her duvet in much the same way Frankie had hers. She dozed fitfully until seven o’clock, then went downstairs to find Mim making coffee.
The morning seemed never-ending. Sarah made Frankie a bacon sandwich which the girl toyed with for half an hour before binning it. She took Mim to physio and Frankie to see Wilma, who was either unconscious or asleep, and made a Spanish omelette for lunch. How were she and Mim to help Frankie through the service? The child had barely uttered a word all morning. She’d been all for the memorial a few days ago, but the reality of a service for her dead mother was going to be very hard, especially with others present. A horrible thought came to Sarah and she stood still. What if the killer came to the memorial? He might be hanging around somewhere, watching them all, getting his kicks from the whole sorry pageant.
Mim went to change her clothes, and Sarah joined Frankie, who was at the kitchen window, watching Thomas climb the apple tree outside.
‘Frankie. My gran’s funeral was the worst day of my life because she was all the family I had and she was gone. I felt terrible for a long time, and I know you feel terrible too. But you’re not alone, lovey.’
The shoulder beneath her hand relaxed slightly, and Sarah hugged the girl, relieved when Frankie didn’t pull away.
Caitlyn arrived at half past one, looking elegant in a grey trouser suit. ‘How are things?’ she mouthed, nodding towards the living room.
Sarah made a face and shook her head. ‘We’re ready.’
It was a short drive to the crematorium, which was macabrely situated just beyond the hospital. Backing on to the geriatric unit, in fact – dear heavens, thought Sarah, who on earth planned these things? She sat in the back of Caitlyn’s car, holding Frankie’s cold little hand and watching as Brockburn passed by outside. Brilliant sunshine was splitting the skies, and the people going about their daily business were summer-clad – T-shirts and mini-skirts and happy smiles all over the place. And here she was, holding the hand of a child who should have been part of her past, going as one of the chief mourners to the memorial service of a woman she barely knew.
The chapel was in the middle of an old, unkempt graveyard. Caitlyn swung the car into the driveway, and Sarah felt the hand clutching hers shake as they rumbled along the weed-strewn gravel, mossy, overgrown graves on either side.
‘This is the old part, Frankie,’ said Mim, turning round. ‘The chapel’s up ahead, and the garden of remembrance is on the other side. It’s less wild there, a gardener looks after it regularly.’
A dozen or so people were waiting outside the chapel. Nick was there with Evan and Vicky, and that must be Mrs Chisholm with the blue hair, and her friend would be Mrs Baker. And the police were here. Four women were grouped to one side; Petra’s neighbours, maybe, or workmates. Sarah considered the little group. Could any of them be involved in Petra’s death? There was no way to tell, and this wasn’t the time to ask Frankie who they were.
And there was Jack, standing by the chapel door.
He hurried over and opened the car door for Mim and then Sarah, smiling briefly at them both. When Frankie came to stand beside Sarah he put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and squeezed quickly. ‘Remember your mum’s found her peace,’ he whispered.
Frankie nodded, all eyes, and Sarah shot him a grateful look. That was the right way to help Frankie – brief contact and words of support. Well done, Jack.
The others crowded round as they walked towards the chapel door, Mrs Chisholm murmuring, ‘She’s in a good place now, lovey, don’t forget that,’ as she patted Frankie’s back.
Frankie gave a gulp and grasped Sarah’s arm as they moved inside. There were two wreaths lying at the front where the coffin would normally be; lilies organised by Mim for Frankie, and pink roses from the family in Australia. Sarah put her arm round Frankie as they settled into their pew, and saw that Mim was holding one of the child’s hands in both her own. The atmosphere was hushed, anonymous background music filling the silence.
The service was mercifully short. Frankie remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the flowers. Sarah couldn’t tell if she was listening as Mr Paul the vicar spoke about life after death, and comfort in heaven. But then he mentioned Petra by name, and Frankie began to sob. All Sarah could do was hold the girl tightly, her own eyes closed to keep the tears in, the memory of Gran’s funeral intensifying her pity for Frankie. This shouldn’t be happening, it shouldn’t… it wasn’t fair. Sarah was aware of Jack beside her, his shoulders trembling too.
The 23rd psalm marked the end of the service. Sarah helped Frankie to her feet, wondering if the past half-hour had been any help to the girl at all. Mr Paul approached and invited them to follow him outside, but Frankie shook her head, dropping back onto the pew and pulling Sarah down beside her.
‘I’ll go out and thank people,’ said Mim.
Sarah waited as Mim, Caitlyn and Jack left, followed by the
other mourners. ‘Take your time,’ she said to Frankie.
When the room was empty, the little girl went up to the flowers, touching the lilies with tentative fingers. ‘My mum loved flowers.’ Two tears ran down her cheeks.
‘They’ll put these in the garden of remembrance for her. We can go there as often as you like, and take more flowers. You can choose her favourites.’
‘Will the proper funeral be here too?’
Sarah rubbed the thin back. ‘Yes. It’ll be for family only next time, though.’
Frankie stood for a moment before turning to go, her face white as they walked to the door.
The Royal Hotel, opposite the graveyard and probably owing much of its business to funeral parties, was ready for them. The others were milling around in the hallway, and Mim held out her arms to Frankie, crutches dangling.
The girl went for a hug, and Jack put his hand under Sarah’s elbow. ‘It was a good service for Frankie, wasn’t it? She’d take comfort if she was listening, and if she wasn’t, it wasn’t too long.’
‘That’s what Mim had in mind,’ said Sarah. ‘But I don’t know. Frankie’s terribly pale.’ Oh, dear. They’d hoped the memorial service would help the child, but Sarah couldn’t tell if they’d been successful or not. How had she felt, immediately after Gran’s funeral? It was hard to remember. Mim had been there for her, but it seemed that Sarah was the person Frankie wanted to be close to this afternoon. The girl was back, hanging on Sarah’s other arm. In a way it was understandable. Mim with her crutches needed help too.
Afternoon tea was set up in a dining room with a long oval table. Mrs Chisholm came up to talk to Frankie, and the little girl’s face brightened for a few seconds. Sarah found herself sitting at one end of the table with Frankie, Mrs Chisholm and Jack. She turned to see what Mim was doing, but Caitlyn was seating her further along with the three nurses. A handful of people from Wilma’s church were in between, but the women Sarah had noticed before hadn’t come for tea. Harry West and Mandy Craven had left immediately after the service too.
Rather to Sarah’s surprise, Jack started the conversation at their end with a story about a funeral his grandmother had wanted to go to on a Scottish island, but only the men were allowed to attend. She glanced at Frankie but the girl was listening avidly. Mrs Chisholm joined in with an anecdote about a graveyard cat, and Frankie actually smiled. Sarah relaxed. Frankie would grieve for a long time, but she had seen that her mother’s passing had been noticed and marked.
The little girl wandered across the room to look at an aquarium, and Sarah glanced down the table to Mim, who was listening to Vicky with her usual bright expression.
Jack and Mrs Chisholm started talking about Wilma.
‘You must miss her,’ said Jack, shaking his head when Mrs Chisholm offered him the sandwiches. ‘Do you manage to visit her much?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a trek from Burnside Road but we visited regular, nearly every day while she still knew which way was up. We used to have a real laugh. A magnet for gossip, she was, and she didn’t believe in keeping it to herself. Such a shame… there’s not a word to be had out of her these days.’
Sarah noticed Nick staring down the table at them. He gave her a strained smile as soon as she caught his eye, then turned back to Evan.
Frankie returned, and Jack changed the subject to summer flowers. What a help he was being today, thought Sarah. Maybe she’d judged him too quickly yesterday evening.
‘I wish Frankie would let me help her more. Poor Sarah, it isn’t her job,’ said Mim, her mouth turned down.
Caitlyn glanced up the table, where Sarah and Frankie were listening to some repartee between Jack and Mrs Chisholm. ‘I don’t think Sarah sees it like that. I wouldn’t worry. Once your knee’s better you’ll be able to do more with Frankie.’
Nick was gazing over too, the expression in his eyes intense. ‘Sarah has a huge sense of family, doesn’t she?’
Caitlyn saw him jerk in his seat. Vicky was giving him a very significant look – had the other nurse kicked him under the table?
‘Nick, don’t stare. You’ll freak… Frankie out.’ Vicky passed him a sandwich, and Caitlyn glanced at Mim, who was obviously fully aware that Nick had the hots for Sarah, because she gave Caitlyn a tiny smile.
‘Sorry.’ Nick accepted a sandwich and turned to Mim. ‘How’s the knee?’
Caitlyn glanced at the man opposite her. Evan was staring at Sarah too.
‘Young lady, I want you to promise you’ll stay in touch,’ said Mrs Chisholm, passing Frankie the biscuits. ‘Ma Baker and I want to know how you’re getting on, and we can’t depend on meeting at the hospital while we’re visiting Wilma. So you make sure and phone us every now and again.’
Sarah’s lips twitched as Jack spoke in a low voice.
‘Frankie, if I were you I’d be very careful to do just that. I’m sure Mrs C here is an angel in disguise, but Ma Baker sounds like a dangerous woman. Isn’t she the one who’s a crack shot and head of a team of gangsters?’ He looked meaningfully across at Mrs Baker, who was eating a ham sandwich with a placid expression on her wrinkled old face. Frankie giggled.
Mrs Chisholm poked Jack’s arm, and he winked at her. ‘Don’t worry. I know you’re the boss.’
‘Away with you! Charm the leaves off the trees, you would.’
Jack chuckled, and turned to Sarah with a remark about how the town council was proposing to do up the old graveyard.
I was wrong about him last night, thought Sarah, as he went on to tell them more about it. Well, everyone was allowed an off-night. He was everything a girl could wish for today. Sensitive with Frankie, yet not afraid to talk about death, flirting with the old ladies, interesting talk. Warmth spread through her as she listened – he was doing this for her. Her life had taken an unexpected U-turn and no mistake. She’d arrived here expecting a holiday to cheer her up after Andreas’s desertion, and instead she’d found – what? A chaotic home situation that could well put the Geneva job in jeopardy – and Jack.
Sarah looked down the table at Mim, and saw that Nick’s shoulders were hunched all the way to his ears. Tense didn’t begin to describe his posture. Was that about – was Mim okay? Maybe it was time to break up the party.
Frankie was hugged and kissed by everyone present on their way out, but she bore it very well. Jack kissed her cheek and then Sarah’s, saying he would call later, and helped Mim into Caitlyn’s car.
‘Your Jack seemed delightful today,’ said Mim, as Sarah settled into the back seat. ‘He was a good help, wasn’t he, Frankie?’
‘I guess I was a bit harsh last night. Good, huh?’
Frankie looked across the road at the cemetery. ‘My mum would have liked him –’ Her voice choked into silence.
Sarah gave her a warm smile. ‘She would be proud of you today, Frankie. We’ll come back tomorrow with more flowers, shall we?’
Netta Chisholm watched as Frankie drove away from the hotel with her new family, then glanced round for Ma Baker. They were going to get the bus home; their pensions wouldn’t stretch to a taxi both ways. Ma was nowhere to be seen, and Netta concluded she’d nipped off to the loo. She sat down on a regency chair opposite the reception desk.
‘Waiting for the royal coach, are you?’ said a voice beside her, and Netta gazed up at Jack, remembering with a pang that her Pete had been like that too, a real ladies’ man.
‘A number seventeen bus, more like,’ she said, as Ma joined them. ‘Well, let’s be off, Ma. Goodbye, Jack dearie, if we see you again I hope it’ll be in happier circumstances. But poor old Wilma isn’t looking so good, is she?’
His eyes shone in sympathy and Netta felt warmed. What a nice young man. She staggered as she rose to her feet. It had been a long day. Jack steadied her arm and Netta beamed at him. Just like her Pete, he was.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Chilsholm?’ The blond staff nurse from Wilma’s old ward hurried over and took Netta’s other arm, and she beamed at him too. Goodn
ess, she was surrounded by handsome young men – here was the dark-haired nurse too, the one who barked a lot but he was a sweetie really.
‘I’m fine, dearie. My legs had a wobble, that’s all.’
‘Is someone driving you home?’ The dark-haired nurse bent over her.
Jack pulled out his car key. ‘I’ll do that, shall I? I’ve plenty of time, and I’ll be passing Burnside Road on my way to Leeside Centre.’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Ma, before Netta could open her mouth. Ma had never been much of a bus fan. She said all the jolting gave her indigestion.
The blond nurse felt her pulse then patted her hand. ‘Fit as a fiddle.’
The other nurse didn’t look convinced, but Jack turned to the door, crooking his other arm to Ma Baker.
‘Come on, ladies, your chariot awaits.’
He ushered them past the nurses and into his car, and Netta relaxed into the passenger seat. Oh, she was tired. It would be good to get home and put her feet up. They drove by the hospital and she winced. Poor old Wilma. But they were nice people, those doctors and nurses. Maybe tomorrow she and Ma could visit Wilma in the new ward, suss out the nurses there.
Jack manoeuvred round the roundabout and Netta straightened up.
‘Here we are, Burnside Road. Ma’s number ten, and I’m across the road at number fifteen. You can let us out over there, thank you very much indeed.’
He pulled in at an empty bus stop, and opened the doors for them both, back-chatting like mad. Netta and Ma stood waving as he drove away again.