“Where’s Molly? And Frankie? Are they okay?” Toby’s voice sounded hoarse, like it hurt to talk. He coughed a little and was instantly handed some water.
“What happened, darling? Who did this to you?” Caro asked in an anguished voice. “And why, for God’s sake?”
Rather than let Toby launch into explanations, Dev hunkered down in front of him. “Don’t mind your mum; you can tell us when you’re ready. Moll’s still out looking, or she was, till we got Flynn’s call, and Frankie’s off gallivanting at the Clifden film festival. She doesn’t even know you’re missing, scout.” He ruffled Toby’s hair, his eyes drinking in the sight of this amazing young man and the joy of everyone here in this room.
“Eh, she does, actually,” Ali said.
All eyes swung to her.
“Frankie knows. I told her last night about eleven when she finally got through to me. What?” She glared at Dev, who cursed. “She deserves to know. All she’d got from us was voicemail all day – how long before she figured something was up and she knew something was wrong but thought it was more trouble with the break-in? I had to tell her,” Ali defended.
“And?” Dev asked.
“She wanted to come straight back, but I persuaded her to stay till morning. To be honest, she sounded a bit tipsy, maybe. Her voice was slightly slurred.”
“Frankie never drinks at these things, or at least very little. She must just be tired.” He felt rather than saw the raised eyebrows at that telling comment. “Leave off, would you? Let’s focus on what’s in front of us.”
Dev moved over to butter some fresh toast for Toby, who was inhaling what Ali had already given him. He watched his mum add several spoons of sugar to some milky tea and hand it to her grandson. She brushed a hand over his matted hair and it seemed to Dev that none of them could stop touching him, they were so damned relieved to have him back home. Safe. Alive. Knowing Toby, he’d probably want to settle himself later by doing a bit of cooking – something easy, normal, something grounding. Pasta, if Dev had to place a bet.
And slowly the story came out. Bit by bit, in between bites of toast and sips of tea, Toby related his misadventure to the family. Molly arrived breathless in the middle of it and after being hugged within an inch of his life, Toby began again, a few more details forthcoming as he finally started to relax. He’d been grabbed, he said, from behind, some foul-smelling stuff put over his mouth before being dragged into a car. He’d been alert enough to have been able to recognise colour and model before he blacked out.
Flynn was already working on those details, having sent a report to his office as soon as Toby had been found.
No, he didn’t know who it was, never saw the person’s face, and he’d woken in a bit of scrubland on the Hill of Howth, a headland on the north side of the city. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet were also bound. Both those pieces of fabric and the one used as a gag were now with the forensics department. Flynn’s colleagues had taken him seriously and had alerted all units to scour the Greater Dublin Area. It was an off-duty policewoman, aware of the alert, who’d decided to take a look on the hill, just in case.
She’d found a frightened though mostly unharmed Toby at about 10 a.m. Then she’d immediately contacted Flynn, who’d driven like a bat out of hell to the location. She’d kept Toby there on the hill till the detectives arrived in order to preserve the scene. Uniforms were now checking the area, asking the public for information, at last taking the snatching seriously.
Flynn had overridden the idea of bringing Toby straight to hospital as one pleading look from the kid told him he just wanted his mum. Flynn promised the medic at the scene that he’d take him to St Vincent’s A & E should the need arise.
Toby’s wrists and ankles were a bit scratched and bruised, and his head ached, but all in all he was no worse for wear. His phone was still missing, but a trace was on it and it was only a matter of time before some information came through. Toby had Dev take photos of his “wounds” so he could show them in school – a bit macabre, maybe, but hey, Dev thought, whatever gets you through the trauma.
Camera put away, Dev glanced at his phone: midday. No new messages from Frankie and no sign of her yet. She should be along any minute. He’d just messaged her to say Toby was safe but knew she wouldn’t get it till she needed a shot of coffee or pitstop. She must have left later than planned, or been extra tired as, according to Ali, Frankie would have been on the road early – she loved Toby and would’ve been anxious to get home to help.
He put his phone back in his jeans pocket and decided to head for his apartment. He could always call or text when he got there and they could meet up when she’d seen Toby for herself. Right. A plan – he liked a plan, sometimes, and this one eased the slight tingle of worry that was edging in and filling his mind. He knew it was probably just a reaction to the stress of the break-in here followed so swiftly by the disappearance of Toby, but . . . He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, where it felt tighter by the minute. Something wasn’t right.
He checked his phone again – not on silent, plenty of coverage – and caught Flynn watching him. With a jerk of his head, he motioned his brother out into the hall for a quick powwow.
“I want to give you a right bollocking for getting Frankie’s picture all over the paper yesterday, but this isn’t the time,” he began.
“My relief knows no bounds,” Flynn said wryly. “What’s up?”
“Frankie. I’m anxious – okay, worried – that she hasn’t contacted me. She must have left the lodge by nine at the latest and hasn’t checked in.”
“Could she be pissed at you for not talking to her about Toby?” Flynn asked.
“No. No, she gets pissed at me for a lot of things, but she’d put her concern for him first. She loves him. She’d want to know what’s happening, if he’s been found, if he’s okay.” He paused, his hand rubbing the knot now fully formed at his neck.
Saying his worries out loud to Flynn confirmed them, made him aware he was right to be worried. Toby’s situation had taken over their lives for the last twenty-four hours, but now that it was resolved, little things started to fall into place.
Why hadn’t she phoned first thing to check on the progress of the case? To check on Caro, to check on Jo and Patrick, to check in with him, for Christ’s sake. Worried, he went back over in his mind how they’d parted yesterday – a long, slow kiss at the train station came to mind. So, no angst there. He looked at Flynn, his eyebrow raised in question.
“I’ll get a bulletin out on her car. Jesus, this family’s taking up a lot of police time these days. Hey,” he took Dev by the shoulder, “don’t worry, we’ll find her. Go back to your apartment and wait. She’ll turn up.”
Flynn sounded competent and assured, but Dev didn’t buy that act one bit. Flynn was worried, too.
Chapter 19
Her eyes like lead, Frankie struggled to open them, even a tiny bit. Gritty and sore, they felt as if they were stuck closed with conjunctivitis. Her throat was parched and her stomach felt as if she’d been vomiting all night – which she was pretty sure wasn’t the case. Cracking her lids just a fraction brought a glare of what appeared to be sunlight piercing in.
Shit. Closed. That’s better. No. That won’t do – it’s not better.
Frankie’s brain, which felt like mush, was now aware and alert, flying round like a windmill in her head. What on God’s earth was going on? Steeling herself, she cracked open her eyelids again – being prepared for the pain of brightness helped and she managed to keep them open a slit. She moved her head slightly to try to take in her surroundings but without causing the expected pain.
And damn, her head hurt. A throbbing deep in the base of her skull and a sharper jabbing pain behind her eyes. Brave and calm, she said to herself, that’s who I am. I can do this, whatever the hell this is.
She was in a room – a large circular room, it seemed – and as she carefully tested her limbs, she realised she was
seated on a hard-back chair and she was definitely tied up. Pulled back, her shoulders ached and she couldn’t even feel her feet. No gag . . . She licked her parched lips. Did that mean no one to hear her cries for help? I’m not in a film, I’m not in a film, this is bloody real, she told herself repeatedly as she surveyed the room slowly.
Stone and wood. The walls were stone and the wooden floor was scattered with worn carpets. There were two windows – one, the culprit of the piercing light, was obviously facing east, if this was, indeed, morning. The other was across from it, facing west. But both windows were too high for her to see out of from her forced seated position.
Frankie tried to take slow deep breaths, just like she used to for her panic attacks, and the very fact of having something practical to do centred her mind. Slowly, in and out, counting methodically, on both the in and the out breath, allowing her to take stock. She cast her mind back to her last real memory from the previous night. “Hold on, bitch, you’re in for the ride of your lousy life.” Had Mary Louanne really said that? And why on earth had she shoved her in her car and very obviously drugged her? What the . . . ? Well, there was only one way to find out.
“Hello? Is anybody there? Mary Louanne?” Her throat felt scratchy and sore. She tried again. “Hello? Help me!”
“Well, well, and if the dead haven’t arisen and appeared to, well . . . me.” The voice sounded familiar but . . . different.
Slowly, Frankie turned her head, her eyes more adjusted to the glare, and she focused in on the figure sauntering towards her. It could only be Mary Louanne but she sounded, well . . . not southern, anyway. New Jersey, maybe. The figure, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, stopped in front of Frankie. Reaching out with a long-bladed dagger, Mary Louanne placed the tip ever so carefully under Frankie’s chin and lifted her face upwards.
“How does that feel, bitch?” she asked casually. She whipped away the blade so suddenly that Frankie’s head fell forwards and it was an effort to bring her eyes back on a level with her assailant.
“What the hell, Mary Louanne? What’s this about? Why are you doing this? What do you want?” she asked painfully, her throat dry and scratchy.
“Always with the questions. Questions, questions. Well, now I’m going to give you some answers, but first . . .” In a sudden movement, she slashed the dagger down Frankie’s face and drew it quickly back, blood dripping from the tip.
Frankie screamed in pain – Jesus! that hurt like frigging hell. The stinging intensity ripped through her and her eyes filled with tears.
“Big fucking crybaby. Not so pretty now, are you?”
Frankie tried to pull herself together – she could feel the blood trickling down her neck and the cut was stinging fiercely. What on earth was happening? Just as well she’d given up acting, she thought, her mind trying to find something, anything positive, in being cut in the face by a big-ass dagger.
“Mary Louanne, please, tell me what this is about. Maybe I can help you. Please, tell me.” She knew she was sounding whiny and begging but, Christ, it was how she felt right now.
Her face hurt like it was on fire. The words “I am not in a film” kept popping into her head and she had to focus on the real. The now. Breathe, damn it!
The person who sort of looked like Mary Louanne but didn’t sound like her any more slowly walked in a circle round Frankie, the tip of her knife cutting at the sparkly fabric of her dress as she dragged it around Frankie’s upper body. The knife caught in places, nicking her flesh and cutting through the material in others.
“Stop it.” Frankie tried to sound insistent, to sound in control, but she could hear her own voice and it sounded trembly and meek. Shit. This wasn’t helping.
“Who are you?” she asked, discovering she really did want to know.
She wanted to understand why this woman had drugged her and basically kidnapped her – Oh, God, Toby! Last night’s frightening events came rushing back.
“Please, you have to let me go. My nephew’s missing. I have to help! Please, he’s only thirteen . . .”
“Oh! shut up with the snivelling,” her captor snarled. “That little brat was more of a nuisance than I thought. I gather he woke up and wouldn’t stop shouting, so they had to whack him – little shit.”
Frankie gasped. Literally felt the blood run from her entire body. How? What? She simply couldn’t take it in. Who had hold of Toby and how did Mary Louanne know about it?
“Finally dawning on you, is it? I thought you were supposed to be smart as well as pretty and lookie here . . .” she snarled viciously. “Turns out … you are neither.” And with that she grabbed a hold of Frankie’s hair in one hand, her sharp knife in the other, and began hacking at the long dark strands.
Dev reached down and picked up his pile of newspapers from the doorstep. Was it only yesterday morning that he and Frankie had been arguing about her picture blazoned across the tabloids? He unlocked his door and tossed them on the counter. He reached for the landline and listened distractedly to his messages, hoping to hear her voice. Nothing.
Seriously pissed off, he strode to his darkroom to drop off the camera bag still hanging on his shoulder. He pushed open the door, flipped the light switch and stopped dead . . .
It was chaos – tubs and bottles of chemicals, thankfully still closed, strewn across the floor, his developing trays in a heap at his feet and . . . oh, God, the photos of Frankie hanging from the wire stretched lengthways down the room, all slashed. Dev just stared, dumbstruck at the violence of the attack. He moved gingerly into the room, his pulse racing, and reached up to look more closely at the destruction of the pictures. Frankie’s face was sliced through in every one.
He quickly turned to the stack that usually leant against the wall. Kneeling, he pawed through the now mixed-up pile and the same here – every photo of Frankie was cut in the face. Dazed, Dev staggered back on his hunkers and fell against the wall. This was fucking serious. He yanked his phone from his jeans and dialled Flynn.
“What?” Flynn’s voice was irritated.
“Get over here. Now! And bring your team. Jesus, Flynn. Hurry.” He hung up, unsure what else to do.
He tried Frankie’s number again. He realised his fingers were shaking as he waited, hoped, for her to pick up. Damn it, pick up!
“Hi, this is Frankie, please leave a message.”
He flung the phone across the darkroom in a rage and surged to his feet.
Okay, calm the fuck down and think, he ordered himself. Realising he was reacting in his normal hotheaded way, he stepped over the debris and collected his phone from atop a pile of upended trays.
Think, think, think, he told himself, and don’t bloody touch anything else.
By the time Flynn and his boys arrived, Dev was pacing his living room, slapping a newspaper against his thigh. As Flynn walked in the door, Dev shoved the folded newspaper at him.
“What do you see?”
Startled by such a greeting, Flynn took the paper but didn’t immediately look at it.
“Did you bring me all the way here to look at a fucking newspaper?” His tone was glacial.
“What? Shit, no. Sorry. Here.” He grabbed Flynn by the arm and pulled him to the darkroom. “This was what I found when I arrived back earlier. All the images of her are cut. In the face. Jesus, Flynn.” Dev scrubbed his hands over his face. “There’s a lot of hate in here.”
Quickly assessing the scenario, Flynn directed his crew in checking it out. He spoke briefly to his second in command, who began making hushed phone calls.
“Any chance of a coffee?” Flynn asked, but when he saw Dev about to explode at what seemed like an inane request, he mumbled, “Never mind,” and began making it himself.
He laid out several mugs and shrugged indifferently at Dev’s growl.
“The lads are shattered – most of them have been up all night, searching, on their own time, for Toby. They bloody deserve some caffeine.”
Pulling himself together, Dev helped.
He even tried to sound gracious as he handed mugs to the three men and one woman, who were now scouring his darkroom, presumably looking for clues.
“We appreciate it, thanks,” he grunted and turned to put on a fresh pot for himself and Flynn.
He added several slices of bread to the toaster and glared at Flynn’s raised eyebrow.
“It’s a cure-all!” he snapped and reached for the butter. “What the hell is going on, Flynn?” Dev asked. “How is all that’s happened to our family in the last couple of days connected? Or is it? What am I missing here? Because this is all starting to be pretty fucking scary.”
Flynn drank some coffee and paused before looking Dev straight in the eye. “Truthfully, Dev, I’m not sure. Yet. I put a call out on Frankie’s car and the boys in Clifden said it’s parked in the driveway at the lodge. No one’s home.”
He let that sink in and Dev realised Flynn was really worried.
“They gained access, on my authority, but nothing was out of place, nothing seemed off. But,” he made eye contact with his brother again, “her bed wasn’t slept in.”
“Where the fuck is she?” Suddenly, a trashed darkroom was so far down on his list of concerns as to mean nothing. “She said Jason expected her to be at the festival opening last night and implied in her message that he’d be there, too. I’m calling him now.”
He dialled the agent’s office in New York to ask for Jason’s number, but his voice stuttered to a stop when Jason himself answered the phone. Several minutes later, he hung up and slowly dropped to a sitting position on the couch.
Family Affairs Page 26
