by Anne Cassidy
She could get out of the car, go across the road and knock on the door of the house and see if he answered. If so, then it would prove that he lived there. If he didn’t, she could ask for him by name. Whoever answered the front door would know who lived in the house. But that plan wasn’t good either. If Frank Palmer did answer, then he would recognise her. If he really was on the run from the police, then her presence would alert him to the fact that someone knew his real address. He would just run away again.
She looked across at the house. Part of the front of it was obscured by an old tree on the pavement. Its leaves were going yellow and its branches looked heavy as though it was weary. The building was two storeys high and had two bells by the front door; two flats. She looked at the large bay window on the ground floor. The lower half of the window was covered with a net curtain and drapes hung at the sides.
The net curtain moved and she saw a face at the side of the window. It was only there for a second before the curtain dropped back into place. Had it been Frank Palmer? She didn’t know. It had only been a glimpse.
She sat back in her tiny space in the back of the Mini.
Why did she care who killed Ricky Harris? Henry said he had been killed with his own knife, that possibly he had been the aggressor. That tied up with everything she knew or thought about Ricky. As well as being a bully he had deceived his girlfriend by seeing her stepsister. Then he was stealing stuff and getting involved with dangerous people.
Why should she give a hoot about that obnoxious boy?
She didn’t. But Ricky’s death had started a chain of events. Sherry had blamed Ricky’s death on Lewis Proctor. She was almost certainly wrong about that but, still, that’s what she thought when she went to the cemetery to meet Emma and Lewis and have it out with them. Had it been in a fit of rage or had she planned it in some way to get back at Lewis? You took away the person I loved, why shouldn’t I take away the person you love?
It was complicated but Rose couldn’t help feeling that if Ricky hadn’t been killed then Emma would be alive today. The Sherry/Ricky/Emma/Lewis/Bee mix would have sorted itself out in the way that romances did. People would move on, hearts would get broken, new couples would emerge from the debris.
But Ricky Harris had been stabbed.
If Frank Palmer killed him then he should be arrested. She was still resentful that by pleading manslaughter Sherry Baxter wouldn’t get the punishment Rose thought she deserved. If Frank Palmer was involved in Ricky’s death, then it was suddenly important to her that he paid the price for it.
The passenger car door opened and Joshua’s face was there. He was smiling. The driver’s door opened and Skeggsie got in. Joshua started to speak breathlessly as he sat down and both doors closed at the same moment.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Mrs Harrison has this system where she keeps every bit of paper that passes through her business!’
‘And?’
‘She had an arrangement with the taxi firm. She displayed their cards and every ride they picked up from the B and B they gave her a percentage. So, every three months she got a printout from them of the rides from the B and B and the destinations.’
‘We already know the destination,’ Rose said, feeling a need to dampen down Joshua’s enthusiasm. She had seen on the previous Tuesday how that had turned to despair.
‘But when the taxi is booked for Heathrow they always ask upfront which terminal, which flight and the time of the flight. Just so that they can gauge the time it takes to get there and so on.’
Rose glanced out of the window at the house across the street. She could hear Joshua talking but she refused to join in with his excitement.
‘So, on the printout, it tells us that on the morning of the fifth of November Kate and Dan Brewster picked up a taxi at 7.30 for Heathrow Terminal Two for a flight to Warsaw at 11.30. The cost of the taxi was thirty-two pounds of which Mrs Harrison got three pounds twenty-two, five per cent.’
‘Warsaw?’ Rose said.
‘I don’t think this is to do with organised crime at all. I think it’s about security. I think they were working undercover for something to do with national security.’
Rose couldn’t trust herself to speak. So what? So what? So what, they’re dead anyway. Does it matter why or how?
‘That’s good, isn’t it, Rose? That we’re beginning to piece it together?’
What about the other night? she wanted to say. When you said ‘I hope they are dead.’
‘National security, I think. Skeggsie and me, we can continue the search.’
‘But once they stepped off that plane in Warsaw? Doesn’t the trail end there?’ she said.
‘No!’ Joshua said. ‘We can set up websites in Polish. Maybe we’ll be lucky and find someone who knew them, saw them. We have pictures we can put on the web. Remember how we got lucky with Valeriya Malashenko?’
Skeggsie started the car.
‘Wait!’ Rose said, dismayed at Joshua’s plans. ‘There’s something I need you to help me with before we go.’
Joshua looked round, puzzled. Skeggsie put the handbrake back on but kept the engine running.
‘I want you to go across to that house with the green door and ring the bell for the downstairs flat. If no one answers, ring the other bell. You can make up some excuse like you’re looking for a room to let or something.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story but I think it might be the technician from my school. You remember I said I saw him round here? He’s gone missing and Henry, my policeman friend, thinks he might know something about the murder at Parkway East. I don’t want to say that he is here unless I’m completely sure.’
‘How will I know if it’s him? I’ve never seen him.’
‘I’ll know. I’ll be nearby. I’ll stand behind that tree over there on the pavement. If it’s him I won’t move. If it’s not him I’ll come forward and ask if he knows Frank Palmer. Maybe he’s a friend or something.’
‘Sounds a bit dodgy,’ Skeggsie said, turning the engine off.
‘It will only take a minute.’
‘Why don’t you just tell the policeman what you saw?’
‘I don’t want to. I can’t explain why. It’s just a small favour. Please?’
Joshua opened the passenger door. Rose got out of the back seat and followed him across the road and stood by the tree. He gave her a look of pained forbearance and for a second she wanted to punch him in the face. Then he got back in the car without a word. Rose pushed her annoyance down and followed Joshua across the road and stood by the tree. Joshua went up to the front door. He looked round at her once before he rang the bell. Rose stood back. The green door stayed shut.
Josh rang the bell again. Rose could hear it, loud and insistent.
Was no one in?
The door opened a moment later and Rose heard a man’s voice. She peeked out. It was Frank Palmer. She pulled her head back, not wanting to be seen. She could hear Joshua talking to him.
‘Excuse me, there was this advert. Down at the newsagent’s? On a card? In the window? It gave this number and said that you had rooms to rent?’
‘No, mate. No rooms for rent here.’
‘That’s odd, maybe I read it wrong.’
‘Yeah, you read it wrong.’
‘Do you know any other houses round here that have rooms to rent?’
‘Sorry, mate. Look in the local paper.’
‘Will do. Sorry to have bothered you.’
Joshua’s voice was moving closer to Rose as if he was backing away from the door. He passed the tree and continued on across the traffic until he got to the car. Rose was waiting to hear the front door shut before she moved off. There was no sound of it closing, though, and she stood impatiently as Joshua got back to the Mini. He opened the passenger door and pulled the seat forward and climbed into the back of the car.
The door of the house finally closed. She heard it bang and she quickly walked out from behind th
e tree and headed across the road towards the car. She got into the passenger seat and looked over at the house again. She’d been right. Frank Palmer did live there. As soon as they got back to Camden she would make the anonymous phone call. She looked round at Joshua to thank him.
He had a funny look on his face, though.
‘What’s up?’ she said.
‘You all right?’ Skeggsie said.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said when Joshua didn’t reply.
‘I know him.’
‘Who?’
‘Him, in that house.’
She looked at Skeggsie as if he had some answer.
‘You know him? The technician from my school?’
‘He was a friend of my dad’s. He was a policeman who worked with my dad. His name was Frank. I know him.’
Rose sat very still, stupefied. Skeggsie caught her eye, holding it for a moment. Then she looked across at the house and saw the curtain at the bay window pulled back. There was a face there watching them. This time it didn’t duck away.
It was Frank Palmer.
THIRTY
Frank Palmer was a friend of Brendan Johnson.
The car was getting hot and Skeggsie opened the windows. Cool air came in but so did the noise of the passing traffic.
‘Yes,’ Joshua said, leaning forward, more in control of himself. ‘He used to come round when we lived in Brewster Road. I saw him a load of times and I saw Dad out with him as well. I know it was him. His name was Frank. I don’t remember his surname. I don’t think I ever heard it.’
‘He was a policeman?’
Joshua nodded.
‘Why’s he working as an IT technician at a school?’
‘I don’t know.’
Rose looked across at the house. The face at the window had gone.
‘How come he didn’t say something? When you rang his bell. How come he didn’t recognise you?’
‘It’s been five or more years. I’ve grown up. He hasn’t changed, though. He looks just the same.’
‘Don’t you think it’s significant,’ Skeggsie said, ‘that he lives there and your parents came to this B and B?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Rose said sharply, the mention of the B and B, yet again, irritating her.
‘If they were arranging their own disappearance and they had a friend who knew where there was somewhere safe that they could stay …’
‘He might know something about Dad and Kathy?’ Joshua said.
‘Maybe …’
‘Shush! Look!’ Rose hissed.
The green front door opened and Frank Palmer came out of the house. He was in his shirt sleeves, holding some keys in one hand. He closed the front door behind him and walked towards them.
‘He’s coming over here,’ Skeggsie said.
Frank Palmer walked briskly, glancing sideways at the traffic as he crossed the road. When he got to the Mini he bent over.
‘Hi,’ he said, leaning into the car. ‘Joshua and Rose. And friend. How about you two come across to my flat so that we can talk about a few things.’
‘Who are you?’ Joshua said.
‘You know who I am, Joshua. You remembered me.’
‘But you work at my school. You gave a false name …’ Rose said.
‘Come over to my house. There’s a lot to talk about.’
Nobody moved. Frank Palmer leant down to the window again.
‘Your dad and your mum would want you to talk to me.’
He turned and walked away. There was an electric silence.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said that Mum and Brendan …’
‘He knows something. Skeggsie is right. This is not just a coincidence. Don’t you see, Rosie? Dad and Kathy came here, to the B and B. Across the road from Dad’s old friend. I’m going over there …’
‘But he might have killed a boy from my school!’
‘Skeggsie, open the door. Let me get out. I’ve got to talk to this guy.’
Skeggsie opened the door and got out, flipping his seat forward as he did.
‘Come on. We have got to find out what he knows.’
‘He might be a murderer …’
‘Skeggsie, if we’re not back in fifteen minutes ring the police. Just make up some story to get them here. Now, Rosie. Let’s go.’
She got out of the car.
‘I’ll wait for fifteen minutes,’ Skeggsie said.
Joshua took Rosie’s hand and led her across the road.
They walked towards the green door. Frank Palmer was standing waiting, holding the door open for them to walk inside. When they got closer Rose examined him, her eyes travelling over his face, down his chest, along the arm that was holding the door open.
Her breath caught in her throat as she focused on Frank Palmer’s wrist. His shirt had fallen back and she could see the tattoo there as vivid as the real thing.
A butterfly.
The three of them stood in a room with kitchen units. There was a small table by a wall with a single chair by it. Round the back of the chair was the leather biker jacket that Rose had seen Frank Palmer wearing. There was nothing on the work surfaces; no toaster, no kettle, no breadbin, plates or cups. The room felt cold and had no smell at all, as if nothing had ever been cooked there. On the floor was a small black suitcase and on the work surface was the red holdall that Rose had seen Frank Palmer carrying a couple of times. The black and white chequered flag looked a little worn close up, the fabric peeling at the corners.
Joshua was asking question after question. Frank Palmer wasn’t giving any answers. Rose looked at some things on the work surface. There were folders, papers and a book; a wallet, a glasses case, a camera and a toiletries bag. They were in neat piles as if waiting to be packed in some methodical order. Rose looked curiously at the book. It was an old hardback. On it was the title The Butterfly Project and illustrations of several well-known butterflies overlapping each other.
‘Are you going to say anything?’ Joshua said, irate now.
‘Who are you?’ Rose said.
‘Do you know where my dad is?’ Joshua said.
Rose looked sharply at him. My dad? What about her mum?
Frank sighed.
‘One thing at a time,’ he said, ‘I can’t tell you much and I shouldn’t be telling you this. But your dad and your mum are all right. I’ve not seen them myself for a while but I know, from speaking to other people, that they are all right.’
‘They’re alive?’ Rose said. ‘But why haven’t they contacted us?’
‘Where are they?’ Joshua said.
‘There are things I can’t tell you. Things I don’t know.’
‘Where have they been for five years?’ Rose said, her mind whirling.
‘I can’t tell you.’
Joshua stepped forward. ‘You can’t tell us that our parents are all right and tell us nothing else!’
Frank closed his eyes as if he was trying very hard to control himself. Joshua stared at him, fired up. Frank finally managed a shaky smile.
‘Joshua, don’t get upset, lad. I can only tell you that your dad is well. And, Rose, your mum is well. But I can’t tell you any more than that.’
‘Why not? What are they doing?’ Joshua banged the table in frustration. Are they imprisoned somewhere?’
‘No, no …’
‘Are they working undercover? Is it a police thing?’
‘No …’
‘Government? National security?’
‘No. That I cannot talk about. I will tell you one thing. They think about you a lot. I know that for a fact. An absolute fact.’
There was silence. Joshua was puffed up, moving from one foot to another. Rose was leaning against the work surface, her fingers touching the corner of the red holdall.
They think about you a lot.
Her mum and Brendan were alive; flesh and blood, walking, talking, breathing, laughing, crying. Rose was full of confusion.
&nbs
p; ‘Are they in this country?’ Joshua said.
Frank shook his head.
‘In Europe? Warsaw?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ Joshua said, furious now. ‘You’re making this up. You don’t know where Dad and Kathy are – this is just a lie!’
‘It’s true.’
‘You haven’t a clue what happened to them. You’ve made up this story for some weird reason of your own.’
Rose frowned. ‘Josh said you’re Brendan’s friend but I don’t remember seeing you. I know you worked at my school. The police think you know what happened to Ricky Harris …’
‘Wait a minute. I do remember something about you,’ Joshua said, cutting across her. ‘Didn’t you get kicked out of the force? I remember Dad talking about it. Poor Frank got sacked for doing his job. Poor Frank. That’s what he said.’
Frank stiffened. ‘I did lose my job.’
‘So now you’re working as an IT technician in a school and nicking stuff from there. You’ve got no idea what happened to them. You’re just living some kind of fantasy.’
‘I’m not nicking stuff from anywhere. My job in the school was a cover,’ Frank said.
‘A cover? For what? What about Ricky Harris?’ Rose said. ‘What do you know about him and the way he died? Did you kill him?’
‘I’m not allowed to …’
‘You’re not denying it? You mean you did kill him?’ Rose’s voice was loud. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
‘Rose, don’t waste time. This is not what we should be talking about. It’s Dad and Kathy …’
‘He killed someone, Josh,’ she said, interrupting him.
‘I don’t believe that either. I think he’s making this all up,’ Joshua said, walking past him. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
‘I did not make it up. I’m not lying.’ Frank Palmer moved to block Joshua’s way out.
‘Did you kill Ricky Harris?’ Rose demanded.
‘I did.’
Rose felt limp. The station walkway came back into her head; the flickering light and the black sky; the smell of autumn, of fireworks and damp leaves; a boy’s blood on the ground.
‘But he can’t tell us anything about Dad and Kathy. He doesn’t know anything. He’s making all this up. Don’t believe him, Rose.’