The Truth About Celia Frost

by Paula Rawsthorne

  He laid his head down on the beer-soaked bar. That felt better. The room wasn’t spinning so much now.

  “I hate this case,” he muttered to himself. “Seeing her like that was like being handed the winning lottery ticket, then losing it.”

  What more could he do? He’d already gone back to the American diner to ask whether they knew anything about the kids, but they’d never seen them before today. He’d even gone and enquired in the sports shop, but they were a dozy lot who couldn’t even remember her coming in.

  His head was throbbing from going over and over the conversation he’d heard; trying to remember every word, hoping that there’d be some clue. But what had he learned? That the girl liked punk, that her mum was drinking too much, that the boy had dodgy brothers who worked in a pub. So what! There were hundreds of pubs in the city and he didn’t even know the boy’s name. Then there was that bit about the boy saving her life and showing her the best place on earth. Well, you had to take that with a pinch of salt. Frankie knew how girls exaggerated. He reckoned that the “best place on earth” could be any old dump she had some romantic idea about. And then they were going to swim, but so what? What should he do – hang around in all the local leisure centres and get accused of being a pervert again? No! It was ridiculous. He could waste months chasing up one dead end lead after another.

  His mobile rang and he fumbled around in his pockets for it. Nemo flashed up on the screen.

  No way am I answering that, Frankie thought to himself. What am I going to tell her? “Well, madam,” Frankie rehearsed, “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. I’ve seen the girl, but I lost her and haven’t got a clue where she’s gone.” Yes that was bound to go down well.

  He waited until the phone stopped ringing and tried to negotiate climbing off the bar stool. It had been a lot easier getting on it, but now the floor kept moving. He’d had enough of this case. It was affecting his health. For weeks now he’d been living off substandard cakes and fast food. He missed the delicious pastries from the bakery below his office; he missed his favourite takeaways that he lived off when he was home. He was sick of the dingy hotel room with its lumpy mattress. He longed for his own bed in his bachelor pad. No one could ever describe Frankie’s flat as homely, and it lacked a certain level of cleanliness, but it had all the necessities of life: his forty-inch plasma screen TV, his surround sound home cinema system, his state-of-the-art music system, and enough computer games to keep him company for years. Thinking about home made Frankie even more melancholy and he came to a decision.

  “I’m going to pack this case in,” he declared to himself while lurching to a nearby table. “That’s it. I’m going home. I don’t need this hassle. I’ll pick up other cases, spy on a few cheating husbands; they always pay pretty well and aren’t half the work of this. So what if the client doesn’t like it? That’s her problem. She can pay me what she owes and find some other sucker.”

  The phone rang out from his pocket. He ignored it. It’ll be her hassling me again. I’ll tell her my decision in the morning. I just need to lie down now. But seconds later the phone went yet again. She’s not going to stop until I answer. Frankie growled in irritation.

  “What do you want?” he said grumpily, but the voice that replied was not the one he’d expected.

  “Oh...hello,” came a frail, lilting voice. “Is that Frankie?”

  Frankie hesitated. “Who wants to know?” he replied.

  “It’s me, Mary,” said the voice.

  Frankie’s mind was a blank. “Listen, love,” he slurred, “I don’t know how you got my number but I don’t know any Marys.”

  “Well, you do sound different to how I remember. Do you deliver parcels by any chance?”

  Frankie’s head hurt. What was this senile old woman going on about? “Parcels? You want me to deliver a parcel?”

  “No. You wanted to deliver a parcel...to Janice Frost; does that ring any bells?”

  Frankie shook his head, trying to clear the fog. “Did you just say Janice Frost?” he asked tentatively.

  “Yes dear, it’s me, Mary, their old neighbour. I’m sorry to call so late, but I’ve been searching and searching for the piece of paper you left your number on and I’ve just found it. You’ll never guess where I’d put it.”

  Mary paused to give him time to have a guess, but Frankie didn’t answer as he was frantically rifling through his befuddled brain, trying to recall the details of his encounter with the woman. It was an occupational hazard trying to remember which lies he’d told to which people.

  “Oh, can’t you guess?” Mary said, sounding a little disappointed. “Well, I’ll tell you then. I’d put it in the pocket of my dressing gown, but then I got a new one the other week – it was an absolute bargain, I would have been a fool not to buy it. So anyway, I put my old dressing gown away in the wardrobe and of course completely forgot that I’d put your piece of paper in there. Aren’t I a twit?” she ended cheerfully.

  Mary’s waffling had given Frankie time to get his act together. “You’re no twit, Mary. Sorry I was a bit abrupt. I think I’m coming down with the flu,” he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

  “Oh, you poor dear. You sound dreadful. Well hopefully I can cheer you up,” Mary said.

  “How can you do that?” Frankie said, dreading the thought that she might have just rung for a chat to fill her lonely evening.

  “Have you delivered that precious parcel to Janice yet?” she asked.

  “No. I’m still trying to find her,” he answered.

  “Well then, you might want to write this down, because I’ve got her new address here,” Mary said proudly.

  Frankie convinced himself that he must be in the middle of a cruel drunken dream. “Mary,” he whispered into the phone, “are you really there?”

  Peals of laughter greeted his question. “Oh, you silly boy, of course I’m here.”

  “But how have you got their address?” he said, still bewildered.

  “Celia wrote to me. She was so upset at leaving like that and not getting a chance to say goodbye. I told you she was a lovely girl, didn’t I? Anyway, they’re living somewhere called the Bluebell Estate; sounds nice, doesn’t it? Now, if you’re ready, I’ll give you their address.”

  Frankie couldn’t control himself. He started to shake with laughter, tears streaming down his face.

  “Frankie, what’s the matter? Are you laughing or crying?” Mary asked in alarm.

  “Mary, I think I love you,” Frankie howled.

  “Oh! That’s nice, dear,” replied a rather startled Mary. “Now just you make sure that you get that parcel to Janice. Won’t she get a lovely surprise?”

  Early the next morning, despite a splitting hangover, Frankie Byrne woke in a triumphant mood. He phoned Nemo and proudly told her the news. She tried to maintain a businesslike tone but couldn’t disguise the excitement in her voice. Frankie didn’t bother telling her that an old lady had phoned and just given him their address. Instead he emphasized the painstaking lengths he’d gone to to get this result and how priceless his expertise was.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be well rewarded for your efforts,” Nemo replied. “But there is more to do yet. You need to move quickly to resolve this case.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ll take photos of the targets for you. I’ll make one hundred per cent sure we have the right people.”

  “I need more than that,” she said. “I want you to put them under surveillance. I need to be sure that they haven’t told anyone else about their situation.”

  “What situation?” Frankie asked.

  “I can’t divulge details,” she replied.

  “So how will I know if they’re talking about it,” he asked, confused.

  “You’ll know,” she said emphatically. “And remember, Mr. Byrne, whatever you may hear you must pass onto me, and only me, and then you must forget you ever heard it. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yeah, sure – I know t
he score. I’ve dealt with cases like this before, you know,” he replied indignantly.

  “No, Mr. Byrne. I doubt that you have ever dealt with a case like this before,” she said.

  Frankie packed all his equipment into his car and drove out to the Bluebell Estate, which was dominated by the four ugly tower blocks. He parked close to the towers and, pulling the peak of his baseball cap low to shield his face, he crossed the concrete square that lay in the middle of them, surreptitiously noting all the CCTV cameras that were trained on every entrance. He assessed that Bluebell Tower Two would be easy enough to access, but with all the security cameras, he couldn’t risk breaking into the Frosts’ flat. He’d have to come up with a convincing cover story to work his way in there and do what he had to do.

  He needed to get a feel for the area and so he decided to pick his way through the estate.

  What a dump, he thought as he passed a burned-out car and yet another smashed-up phonebox. The maze of identical slit-windowed houses gave the estate the look of a massive prison compound. This impression was reinforced by the pockets of people, young and old, who seemed to be aimlessly hanging around, killing time, as if they were inmates in an exercise yard.

  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.”

&
nbsp; “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.