by Celina Grace
“Where were you going with that?” asked Kate as they drove back to the office.
“What d’you mean?”
“The questions about Michael Frank’s wife. What was all that about?”
Theo gave her a strange look; half indulgent, half annoyed. “Get with the program, Kate,” he said. “We’re assuming that this is a straight act of terrorism. Aren’t we?”
Kate nodded, reluctantly.
“Well,” said Theo, changing gears with a cocky flick of his wrist, “What if it’s not? What if it’s for some other reason? A personal reason?”
“A car bomb?” Kate tried to keep the scepticism from her voice. “What the f—” She cleared her throat and tried again. “I mean, what the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s just an idea,” said Theo, airily. “I’m just running with it. What if it’s not a terrorist attack at all? Perhaps his wife wanted him dead. Perhaps he’s pissed another scientist off. I don’t know, I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Right,” said Kate. “His respectable, middle-class wife and mother of his two children decides to forego the divorce court by planting an explosive device under his car. Yes. I can see how that might happen.”
Theo reddened a little.
“I’m not saying it’s likely. I’m thinking aloud, here.”
Kate made a mammoth effort to stop herself casting her eyes up to the ceiling.
“Have you told Anderton your theories?”
Theo changed down gears as they approached a T-junction, this time with more of an annoyed shove. “No, I haven’t. I don’t have any theories. I’m just thinking aloud.”
“All righty, then,” said Kate, this time not bothering to keep the contempt from her voice.
“Feel free to chip in with any ideas of your own,” Theo said snappily. She heard him mutter the rest of the sentence under his breath and despite pretending not to hear, heard the words clearly enough. If you have any, that is. She breathed in sharply through her nose, clamped her mouth shut, and looked out of the window. They spent the rest of the return journey in silence.
Chapter Four
Kate was getting used to these early morning wake-up calls. This time it was Olbeck, calling to tell her he was en route to pick her up.
“Sorry about the late notice. Tried calling you last night, but I couldn’t get through.”
That was because Kate had crawled straight to bed after getting home the night before, not stopping to wash, eat or check her phone. She decided not to mention that.
“Sorry,” she said, sitting up in bed. “I didn’t check my phone.”
“No worries. Anyway, we’re interviewing Mary Frank this morning and I need you along. Pick you up in an hour, okay?”
Polton Winter was a tiny village, saved only from being a hamlet by the presence of the ancient village church. The gateway of the Franks’ house was visible from the churchyard – at least what was left of it. The stone wall that encircled the garden at the front of the house was nothing more than a pile of rubble and the young beech tree that had stood by the driveway was stripped of all of its branches on one side. Sap had run like blood down its blackened trunk.
The house itself was a small, pretty, Georgian cottage, built of what had once been golden Bath stone. The windows had already been replaced, but the front of the house was chipped and pocked with tiny pieces of metal, which had embedded themselves in the porous stone.
Olbeck parked on the driveway. As Kate got out of the car she felt herself shiver as she realised they had parked on the blackened piece of tarmac where Michael Frank’s car had stood.
The two Frank children were at school. Mary Frank opened the door to the two officers and Kate was immediately struck by her haggard face and shaking hands. She managed a flicker of a smile – convention was obviously too strong for her not to be able to show some form of greeting – but as she led them through to the living room, she hunched her shoulders as if expecting a blow to fall upon her.
The two officers took seats. Mary Frank remained standing for a moment, clasping both arms across her body. “Could I get you tea – coffee?” she asked, faintly.
“No, nothing for me,” Kate said immediately and Olbeck also murmured his polite refusal.
Mary Frank sat down rather too suddenly in an armchair. Kate eyed her uneasily. The woman was like a spring wound tight, every muscle clenched. A nervous system flooded with adrenaline. Post-traumatic stress disorder, was the phrase that sprang immediately to mind and Kate knew all about that.
Olbeck was very gentle with Mary, speaking softly and calmly. “I know this must be very distressing for you, Mrs Frank, but I was wondering if you could just take us through the few days preceding the – the incident.” Mary Frank’s shoulders jerked and she tried to cover the movement but shifting in her chair and re-crossing her legs. Olbeck continued. “It would be really helpful if you could tell us anything about anything strange you might have noticed. Any strangers. Anything slightly odd, perhaps.”
Clearly, they had already had a preliminary interview with Mary Franks and this was a follow up. Kate sighed inwardly. She was coming at this case so behind it was difficult to know whether she was missing anything important.
Mary Franks was looking blindly down at the arm of her chair. The fingers of one hand pulled compulsively at the thumb of the other, over and over again. “I don’t think so,” she said in a low voice, after a moment’s silence. “I can’t remember anything. It was – it was just normal.”
“Try and cast your mind back to the day before. What did you do?”
Mary Frank closed her eyes for a moment. Kate thought she was probably running through the memories in her head, watching the pictorial record of her life scroll past – the last moments of the life she’d known before it was blown to smithereens by eight pounds of plastic explosive.
“I don’t remember, exactly,” she said, in a quiet voice. “I was at work in the morning – I teach adults with learning disabilities, part time – but I came home for lunch. I did some housework, I think. I can’t remember exactly, I’m sorry—”
“Not to worry,” Olbeck said soothingly. “You didn’t notice anyone hanging about the house or driveway? No strangers came to the door?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Did Michael mention anything to you that seemed significant, in the light of what happened?”
Mary’s mouth cramped. She shook her head mutely.
Olbeck glanced over at Kate. She knew he was thinking what she was thinking: that this interview was pointless. Mary Frank was too traumatised, too broken to even think about what she was saying. She didn’t want to remember anything about the days leading up to the bombing because she then had to accept that it happened, and she wasn’t ready to do that yet – not by a long shot.
“Right,” said Olbeck after a moment. “I can see that this is still very painful for you, Mrs Frank. Have Victim Support been in touch with you?”
“Hmm?” Mary Frank was staring at the floor, her fingers pulling compulsively at a fold of her jumper. “What’s that?”
“Have you been offered any counselling by Victim Support?”
After a moment, the woman’s blank stare focused a little. “Oh, yes,” she said faintly. “They’ve been very kind. Everyone has been very kind.”
Olbeck exchanged a glance with Kate. She shifted forward in her chair, preparing to get up.
“Wait,” said Mary Frank suddenly. She was frowning slightly, her foggy gaze clearing. “There was something – it’s probably nothing…”
“What was it?” Kate asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“It was one night, about a week before the – before it happened. Michael and I were just going to bed and he said ‘that car’s been parked out the front for ten minutes now. Do you think they’re lost?’”
“You didn’t recognise the car, then?”
Mary Frank shook her head. “It was dark and there’s only o
ne streetlight near the house. It was quite a big car. A dark colour, dark blue, perhaps?”
“Can you remember the make of car?” asked Olbeck.
Mary Frank frowned again, biting her lip. She was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember anything more about it,” she burst out. Tears shone in her eyes. “Do you really think it might – might have had something to do with – with—”
“I can’t say, Mrs Frank, I’m sorry. We’ll have a look at the local CCTV for that night. What night was it, can you remember exactly?”
This time Mary shut her eyes. She clenched her hands together, pressing her fingers against one another until the knuckles went white. “It was the Tuesday... that’s right... the Tuesday before it happened. Michael was late coming to bed because he’d had a call from his brother that went on for a while. They don’t speak often.” She tripped herself up over the tense she’d used and gulped. “I mean, they didn’t speak often, so when Paul rings, they chat for a long time. That’s right, I looked at the clock when Michael came up and it was past eleven o’clock. He twitched the bedroom window curtain as he walked past it and that’s when he mentioned the car. I had a quick look but I couldn’t see much. Whoever it was drove off just after I looked out of the window.”
Kate was scribbling quickly in her notebook. She didn’t imagine there were many cameras in Polton Winter, if any, but it would be worth a try to see if anything had been picked up.
“Thank you, Mrs Frank,” Olbeck said, putting a great deal of warmth into his voice. “That’s really helpful. If you can remember anything else that might help, you will let us know, won’t you?”
Mary Frank nodded fervently. She looked better than she had at any point since they arrived, but still, even as they said goodbye on the doorstep, Kate didn’t want to leave her. She made a point of mentioning Victim Support again as they took their leave and made sure Mary had her business card.
“Poor woman,” she said to Olbeck as they drove away.
“Yes, indeed.”
They were both silent for a moment. Kate watched the sun-dappled beech woods roll past the windows of the car. She remembered Mary Frank’s compulsive pulling of her thumbs as she sat in her chair and realised her own hand was creeping towards her back, almost stealthily. She put it back in her lap with an exclamation of annoyance and Olbeck looked over, surprised, but didn’t say anything.
*
Stuart walked behind the group of protestors, far enough back so that they wouldn’t realise he was there, close enough to get a good look at them. They were heading for one of few the pubs in the area that would serve them; Stuart had seen a handwritten sign on the door of one of the other nearby pubs that had said ‘No Protestors’. He was determined that this would be the opening he was looking for.
The pub was a dive – sticky carpet, yellowed wallpaper, stench of old cigarettes embedded in the fabric of the seats. Stuart waited until the small group of protestors had been served, got his own pint and sat down unobtrusively in a corner, ostensibly reading the tabloid newspaper that had conveniently been left at the table, but really taking a closer look at the people he was tailing. He was looking for the weak spot, the one who would let him in.
There were two women and three men in the group. Stuart focused on the women – it was almost always easier to strike up a conversation with a woman. The two he was watching were both young, both quite pretty under the crazy dyed hair and facial piercings and crappy clothes. Which one? He chose the smaller, slighter one, the one who laughed a lot, looking up at the men in the group with a face that was slightly too eager.
Stuart waited until the girl of his choice made her way to the loo. He waited until she re-emerged and, seemingly on his way to the bar again, gently bumped into her.
“Oh, sorry!” she said in a surprised tone, even though it was technically his fault and that was when he knew he’d picked the right one.
Her name was Rosie and she was twenty-two, having just graduated from some no-mark university. Stuart bought her a drink, gave her his best cheeky-chappy grin and made sure she got a good look at his Plane Stupid T-shirt.
“Were you at the Heathrow protest?” she asked, gesturing to his chest.
“For sure. Were you?”
She shook her head. “Not that one. We went along to the camp, though. That was where I met James, actually.”
Stuart followed her gaze to one of the other protestors; a rangy, tall, dark-haired guy who was casting curious glances back at them. Rosie waved him over and introduced Stuart.
“This is Mike,” she said. Stuart inclined his head slightly and held out his hand. After a moment of hesitation almost too brief to notice – although Stuart did notice, that’s what he was trained to do – James shook it.
“All right?”
“Yeah. Rosie was just telling me all about how you guys met.” Stuart had stepped back a little, out of Rosie’s personal space. Good decision, as the next moment had James sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him.
“You an activist, then, man?” James asked, with just the slightest hint of hostility in his voice.
Stuart knew how to counter that. Find the commonality, find the shared experience – something that will soften someone towards you. There was always something. With James, it was his accent. Stuart had spent some time in Newcastle and he could hear the faint intonation of someone who’d once lived there – for how long, he couldn’t tell – but it was there, in James’s voice. That was his opening.
“You know, man, I think I’ve met you before,” Stuart said, getting a nice mix of doubt and delight into his tone. “Did you go to Newcastle?”
The faint suspicion clouding James face cleared. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Did you?”
Stuart improvised a quick story about visiting a mate at the university and hitting some of the student bars there. He mentioned a few names – “John, John Richards, you know him? No?” and when James came up with the names of several other Johns who’d been students there, Stuart was able to feign recognition and claim a vague acquaintance with one of them. This, coupled with a few anecdotes centred around some riotous drinking at the campus bar, was all that it took. A few pints later and James was his new best friend, Rosie shunted off to the side and almost forgotten.
“You coming to the protest tomorrow?” James asked as they said goodbye at the end of the evening. Stuart was as sober as a judge, being a master in the art of seemingly drinking without actually doing so. The other activists were nine tenths drunk, falling against one another, laughing.
“For sure,” said Stuart. “That’s why I’m here, man.”
“Cool. See ya, then. Oh, and there’s a party tomorrow night, as well.”
“Even better,” said Stuart, grinning. He winked at Rosie, bumped his fist against James’ and, raising a hand to the others, set off for the grim little bedsit he was renting for the duration of this job.
Chapter Five
Andrew’s house had a very pleasant conservatory at the back of the kitchen, where one could sit drinking good coffee from a fine white china mug, toes snuggled into slippers, looking out at the pretty garden and distant hills beyond the back fence. Kate drew her dressing gown more snugly about herself and sipped her hot drink, watching the sparkle of the morning sunshine on the lawn, bejewelled with a million little beads of water.
Andrew was busy in the kitchen and the delectable smell of frying bacon soon filled the room. Kate smiled to herself. Here she was, dressed in a fluffy white dressing gown, with her good coffee and her feet up on the bar under the table. The Sunday papers were scattered over the tabletop. She could almost imagine herself to be in a glossy photo-shoot of a lifestyle magazine. How did someone like me end up here? She remembered chaotic mornings in her mother’s filthy kitchen; the shouting, the hunt for a clean bowl, the rancid smell of the milk that hadn’t been put away in the fridge overnight. Too many children, too much stuff everywhere. Trying to get herself ready for
school, trying to find a shirt that wasn’t too dirty. Kate shuddered and looked about her again, at the cleanliness and luxury, taking comfort in the beautiful view through the sparkling windows.
A hand appeared from behind her, bearing a plate loaded with food.
“Dig in,” said Andrew. “If you manage to get through that lot, I’ll be amazed.”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” said Kate, smiling up at him. “Wouldn’t want you slaving over a hot stove for nothing.”
Andrew sank into a chair opposite her with his own full plate in front of him. He picked up the sports section of The Times, flapped it open and settled back in his chair with a loud sigh of contentment. Kate began attacking her breakfast with appreciative noises.
Andrew looked up after a moment. “I like seeing you at my breakfast table,” he commented.
“I like being here. Particularly when I get a full English breakfast cooked for me.”
Andrew smiled. “Perhaps we ought to make it a more permanent arrangement,” he said, flipping the page of the newspaper.
Kate froze, laden fork halfway to her mouth. A piece of bacon fell back onto her plate. “Sorry?” she asked, after a second that felt more like a minute.
“Make it a more permanent arrangement,” repeated Andrew. He was still perusing the newspaper and his tone was casual. “What do you think?”
Kate put her fork back down on her plate. “Well—” she began carefully, but was interrupted when her mobile rang, loud and insistently. She could feel it vibrating in her dressing gown pocket.
She fished it out. The shock of Andrew’s words was nothing compared to the shock of seeing Anderton’s name glowing on the screen of her telephone. She fumbled to answer it.
“Hello, sir.”
She could tell something had happened even before he spoke. There was something heavy in the dead air humming between the satellite signals that brought his voice to hers.
“Kate. Sorry to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing. I know you’re not supposed to be working.”