The Truth About Celia Frost

by Paula Rawsthorne

  A week earlier he’d received a short, unsigned, typed letter inquiring whether he would be willing to take on a case which involved locating two people. It emphasized that the case required absolute confidentiality and discretion, and that his reputation had brought him to the client’s attention. The letter promised that, should he take on the work and be successful, he would be paid very generously indeed.

  Frankie knew that any client coming to him because of his reputation wasn’t going to be some little old lady looking for her cat. He didn’t even have to think twice about it. He’d written back immediately to the PO Box number provided, informing the correspondent that he was willing and able to take on the case but would appreciate an advance as a sign of goodwill.

  He pulled out the contents of the envelope: a couple of sheets of paper, a photograph, and a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes tied with an elastic band.

  “Wowee!” he said, counting the wad. “This one means business.”

  Next he turned his attention to the letter.

  PO Box 87

  London

  SW8

  Dear Mr. Byrne,

  Thank you for accepting the case. I now enclose the necessary information. The names of the two people in question are Celia Frost and Janice Frost. The report should provide you with enough information to locate them.

  The photograph enclosed may possibly be of Janice Frost. It was taken some years ago. If you find them it is imperative that you supply me with a DNA sample from Celia Frost, taken without her knowledge. You must not identify yourself or give these people any reason to think that they are being sought. This case will be terminated unless the DNA you supply confirms the girl’s identity so, once obtained, you must send it immediately to the above PO Box address and await my instructions.

  I cannot emphasize strongly enough that this case requires absolute confidentiality. There is to be no involvement from the police or from any other official agencies. As you can see from the enclosed advance, I am willing to pay well for your services and discretion.

  NEMO

  Frankie quickly Googled the word Nemo and nodded approvingly on seeing the result. He’d dealt with people before who wanted to remain anonymous, but signing off as “Nobody” showed more style than his usual clients.

  He picked up the grainy photo enclosed. It was of a young woman with dark, windswept hair.

  Early twenties, Frankie mused, studying the angular face, definitely not unattractive. Heavily pregnant by the size of that bump, he thought, noting the bulge beneath her long winter coat. It was a strange shot. Frankie could tell it was a still from a CCTV camera. From the brightness of the foreground he assumed that she was in the glare of a security light, but the background was as black as a bottomless pit. Her startled almond eyes were looking straight into the lens, but this troubled-looking woman wasn’t posing for the camera, she’d been captured by it.

  Next he opened the other sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of a report dated two weeks ago from a hospital A & E department in Wales.

  The patient’s name was Celia Frost – a fourteen-year-old, white British female. Next of kin was recorded as Janice Frost (Mother). There was a home address and a mobile number. The short report read that Celia Frost, who had a reported blood clotting disorder, was brought in by ambulance with a lateral knife wound to her upper left arm, which required suturing and a tetanus injection. The patient couldn’t recall ever receiving treatment for her clotting disorder and yet the blood flow stemmed normally with no sign of problems. The mother arrived in the department and presented as nervous and uncooperative. She had supplied the name of a GP but, when checked, both mother and daughter were unknown to that surgery. The mother removed the patient from the department, refusing any further investigation into her daughter’s condition and without waiting to sign a self-discharge disclaimer.

  The report was signed by a Dr. Ross.

  Questions buzzed around Frankie’s head. What kind of client was willing to fork out such a big advance, and able to procure confidential hospital reports? And what was all this stuff about the mother dragging her kid out of the A & E department? If this was a missing persons case, then he knew from experience that often the “missing” didn’t want to be found and it became more like a game of hide-and-seek.

  He fingered the wad of cash to help him refocus his thoughts. The bottom line for Frankie was that he wasn’t there to question the client about their motives. If his investigation ended up finding people who didn’t want to be found, and reuniting people who didn’t want to be reunited, so what? The consequences were none of his business. He collected his fee, hoped for a bonus and closed the case. A smug smile crept over his face as he reread the A & E report. Look at all these lovely personal details, he thought. Finding this pair will be the easiest money I’ve ever earned.

  “We’re not going to spend another day walking around this city are we? I’m sick of looking at one grotty house after another,” Celia protested.

  “No, we’re not actually,” Janice replied cheerfully. “We’re going to go to the park. We need some fresh air.” She noticed Celia’s pale, soft hands. “Why haven’t you got your gloves on? Come on now, we’re not leaving this room until they’re on.”

  “I don’t want to wear them. It’s sunny; they just make me look odd.”

  “Better to look a little odd than risk getting a cut.” Janice smiled sagely.

  Celia scrutinized her smiling face before reluctantly pulling on the black leather gloves. Then they made their way down the stairs, through the dark, strange-smelling hallway, and out of the front door.

  “Those women are there every day,” Celia whispered as they squeezed past the display of cleavages and painted faces loitering on the front steps of their guest house. “No one dresses like that at ten in the morning. I think we’re staying in a brothel.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” Janice replied, hurrying her away down the street. “They wouldn’t do a full English breakfast in a brothel!”

  “Full English breakfast!” Celia scoffed. “You could bounce those fried eggs off the walls. If we don’t get food poisoning from this place, we’ll catch something off the bed sheets. Have you seen the stains on them? I bet they’ve never been washed.”

  “Our room is all right – nothing that a bit of air freshener and a good scrub couldn’t fix. Anyway, we may not be here for much longer. I’m expecting a call from a landlord. Today could be our lucky day.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I’m not telling you yet. Don’t want to get your hopes up. Let’s just say that I’ve been doing my research.”

  “I still don’t understand why we had to leave our last place. Even if you were worried about me going back to that school, there were plenty of others I could have gone to.”

  “Give it a rest, Celia. You sound like a broken record.”

  “I’ll stop asking when you give me a decent answer.”

  “I’ve told you, I couldn’t have us living anywhere near that thug Jenkins. That place wasn’t right for us anyway. We needed a fresh start.”

  “I’ve had enough of fresh starts. I want to settle somewhere.”

  “Of course you do, love. That’s what I want too, but you know that we’ve always got to be so careful with your disorder. I’m just trying to find a place where you’ll be safe.”

  They walked in silence towards the park, Celia deep in thought. She’d always accepted Janice’s paranoid behaviour as a consequence of looking after a child like her, but now, since the knife attack, previously unthinkable questions had been plaguing her, making her feel physically sick.

  What if Mum’s got it wrong all these years? What if she really is just paranoid?

  They entered the park and walked past the playground, already busy with pre-schoolers falling off climbing frames and burying each other in the sandpit.

  “What’s up, love?” Janice asked. “You’re awful quiet.”

  Celia looked at h
er uneasily “I...I...” The censored words refused to form.

  “Out with it,” Janice laughed. “You know there’s nothing you can’t discuss with your old mum.”

  Celia braced herself, forcing the words out before she changed her mind. “I want to talk about my disorder.”

  “Oh,” Janice said coldly. “What’s there to talk about?”

  “It’s just weird, don’t you think? You’ve always told me that getting cut could make me bleed to death. But I didn’t, did I? And your only explanation is that I was lucky!”

  “Well? You were lucky this time,” Janice said, exasperated. “Just be thankful and don’t go fretting about it.”

  “But what about that doctor, what she said? She seemed to think I could have those injections to help my blood clot. She seemed to think it was all a bit odd.”

  “What the hell does she know?” Janice snapped. “She’s no specialist. I’m your mother. I’m the one who’s looked after you all these years.”

  “But why haven’t I been seeing a consultant, a doctor, anyone who could help me?” Celia persisted.

  “Listen to me. That stupid woman has just stirred you all up. You know that they did all the tests when you were born and there’s no way of treating it. I just have to keep you safe. Keep you from getting injured.”

  “But—” Celia continued.

  “‘But’ nothing, young lady! To be honest with you, Celia, I’m finding all this questioning a bit offensive.” Tears appeared in Janice’s eyes. “It’s making me feel like you don’t trust me or something. I’ve spent the last fourteen years looking after you and have I ever once complained? Have I ever once said anything to make you feel bad about all the stress your disorder puts me under?”

  Celia’s head dropped in shame. Suddenly she felt more freakish than ever before. “Sorry, Mum,” she mumbled.

  On seeing Celia chastened, Janice brightened. “Don’t worry about it, baby,” she said, pulling Celia to her and stroking her mop of hair. “We’ve both been feeling the strain. We won’t mention it again. Look, the duck pond’s over there.” She rummaged around in her plastic bag. “I took some bread from breakfast.”

  Celia picked out the brick-like bread. “We’re meant to feed them, not knock them out.”

  “That’s more like my girl,” Janice laughed. Her mobile started to ring. “This’ll be him!”

  Celia attempted to break the bread into pieces as she listened to Janice affecting a businesslike tone to her caller.

  By the end of the short conversation, Janice was bubbling over with excitement. “It’s all sorted. I’ve found us the perfect place to live.”

  “Where?” Celia asked.

  “One of those commuter-type places, well away from the city. So you won’t have to put up with all the traffic and pollution that you hate so much. You’ve always said you’d like to live somewhere more rural. Well, this place sounds right up your street.”

  “If it’s so good, how can we afford it?”

  “He’s doing us a fantastic deal on the rent. Says he’d rather see homes lived in by families than standing empty.” Janice grinned.

  “Okay then.” Celia nodded. “So what’s this wonderful place called?”

  “The Bluebell Estate!” Janice announced proudly. “Sounds pretty, doesn’t it?”

  Frankie set off early the next morning. He’d lovingly packed all the tools of his trade into the boot of his car. With his surveillance equipment, tracking devices, false IDs and case full of outfits, he felt ready for action; especially as, hidden behind a false back in the glove compartment, he’d placed his most comforting possession. He’d acquired the handgun from a raid in his police days. They’d stormed a gang’s meeting place and in the ensuing chaos it had been easy to slip one of their confiscated guns inside his uniform. He always knew that it would come in handy in his line of work and, over the last ten years, that weapon had got him out of a few sticky situations.

  It was a long, hot journey to south Wales and, as soon as Frankie drove up to the row of terraces, his heart sank. A To Let sign hung outside the house he’d hoped to find them in. He parked further down the street and changed into a uniform of tan trousers and matching jacket with a courier company emblem on the breast pocket. This was his favourite part of the job. Frankie’s acting ambitions had been thwarted at school as, year after year, he was banned from participating in the Christmas play. Even now the injustice of it still rankled; just because he’d cut a clump out of a whinging girl’s hair or set the fire alarm off at parents’ evening. But now, pretending to be someone else to procure information was an essential part of his job and it meant he got to act to his heart’s content.

  He got out of the car, carrying a big, brown parcel bearing Janice Frost’s name and address. He strode purposefully up to the house and casually looked through the front window. The room was sparsely furnished with no personal belongings in sight that would suggest someone was living there.

  Frankie made a big show of knocking on the door and ringing the bell. As he expected, there was no answer. He went through the alleyway a few doors down. From here he could gain access to the back of the house, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t arouse suspicion in his uniform. The yard gate was no obstacle, as it was already hanging off its hinges. Approaching the house, he peered into the back room and then the tiny kitchen. Again, they were poorly furnished and showed no signs of life. A wheelie bin, with the number of the house daubed on it, stood in the yard. He looked around to check he wasn’t being watched and then opened the lid, preparing to sift through the contents. Even though it was a dirty job, it often produced great results. He knew that every day people threw out bills, letters, bank statements, expired membership cards – all kinds of things that were a goldmine of personal information and could let someone like him into their lives in a second. However, today he wasn’t in luck. The bin had recently been emptied and all that remained was the lingering stench of rotting rubbish.

  He returned to the car and phoned the number printed on the To Let sign.

  “Hello,” a man answered.

  “Oh hi,” Frankie said. “Are you dealing with the property to let on Central Street?”

  “Yeah, I’m the landlord.”

  “Good,” Frankie said. “I’m interested in renting the house. Is it still available?”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” the landlord replied eagerly. “It’s a great little house; very homely. It’s only been vacant a couple of weeks. It’ll probably get snapped up.”

  “Why did the last tenants leave then? Not problems with the neighbours was it? Because I’ve been through that before,” Frankie said, injecting his voice with anxiety.

  The landlord snorted. “No! Nothing like that. Must have been money troubles. They did a flit out of the blue – still owe me a month’s rent.”

  “Oh, bad luck mate.” Frankie feigned sympathy. “Could I see round the house then? Say at...five o’clock today?”

  “Sure, no problem. I’ll meet you there, Mr...?”

  “Mr. Hughes. Paul Hughes. I’ll see you later then.”

  In light of these developments, Frankie’s next step was to call the mobile number that was on the hospital report. If Janice Frost answered, then he was ready with his usual patter about how she’d won a big cash prize in a draw that she may not even remember entering and how he just needed to confirm her details before sending the cheque out to her. Frankie always found that the thought of winning money caught even the most cautious people off guard and before they’d had time to think it through, they’d already told him all he needed to know. However, when he rang the number, the line was dead.

  “This case is going to be more legwork than is good for me,” he sighed, rubbing his round belly.

  He pulled himself and the parcel out of the car again and went knocking at the houses on either side of the empty property. There was no reply from the house on the left but, on the other side, a woman answered.

  “Sorry to
disturb you, madam, but I’ve got a parcel for Janice Frost at the address next door. You don’t know how I can get hold of her, do you?”

  “I haven’t got a clue. One morning they were here, next minute they were gone.” The woman began to shut the door.

  “Is there anyone on the street who might know how to contact her?” Frankie asked hurriedly.

  “Shouldn’t think so. The woman wasn’t a mixer. Very quiet, although the kid used to play her music too loud sometimes, but I never complained. I felt sorry for her. The mother never let her go out. I thought it was cruel.” And with that the door was closed on him.

  Frankie was beginning to think that the neighbour had been right. He’d knocked on ten houses up and down the street and gained no information, apart from the odd comment about how the Frosts had only been on the street a few months and how the mother might have said hello but never wanted to chat.

  Frankie decided to try just one more. He’d spotted an old lady in the house directly opposite, looking out from her front room. To his surprise, as he approached her door, she beckoned him in.

  “Just give it a push, dear. I always leave it on the latch; saves me having to get up,” she called out cheerily.

  Frankie pushed the door, which opened straight into the room.

  “Come and sit down. Have a rest. I’ve been watching you going up and down the street. You must be exhausted in this heat. Do you want a glass of water?”

  Frankie sat down and patted his glistening face with his hanky.

  “That’s very kind but no thanks,” he said, trying to make his gravelly voice as unthreatening as possible. “I’m not having much luck. I’m trying to deliver this parcel to a Janice Frost, but the address is empty.”

  “Well, yes, it will be, dear. I saw them. They were in such a hurry. Laden down with bags. Poor Celia looked very upset. A taxi arrived and off they went.”