by Mari Hannah
‘And once we’ve established that, we’ll be on our way.’ Frankie gave her word on that. ‘Now, are you going to let us in or do I call the Drug Squad?’
Scott stepped aside, mumbling under his breath as Stone and Oliver entered a house that was better kept on the inside than it was on the out. And that was saying something. The reason for that was sitting on the sofa in the living room, Scott’s waiflike girlfriend. Alex had warned them that he used women as slaves almost. In his mind, shagging and tidying up was all they were good for. Frankie was hopping mad. Had this moron run out of women of means and graduated to vulnerable girls half his age?
Stone bent down beside her. ‘You OK, pet?’
‘Eh?’ The girl’s pupils were dilated.
‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’ She went back to her rollie.
The DI clearly didn’t believe her. While he couldn’t prove that the girl was underage, if Frankie was any judge, he’d alert social services at the earliest opportunity. He stood up, a sour look transferring his anger to the homeowner. ‘I’ll check upstairs,’ he said. ‘If that’s OK with you, Mr Scott?’
‘Knock yourself out and don’t make a mess,’ Scott yelled after him. The irony.
‘Nice place,’ Frankie said, an attempt to divert his attention into the living room and away from Stone, who would be looking for signs that the girl lived there as well as for Daniel. Scott’s home wasn’t the festering shitpit they were expecting. If it wasn’t the drugs, the way he treated women and the age of his current squeeze, she’d have no squabble with the tenant. ‘Have you seen or heard from Daniel recently?’
‘Not since Alex pissed off, no.’
‘You’ve not sneaked off to watch him play football?’
‘She lets him get dirty? Class! Hear that, Trace? My lad plays footy.’
Tracy looked up, spaced out from another joint. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Nice? I’m one proud motherfucker me.’
Frankie wasn’t finished. ‘Do you have a vehicle, Mr Scott?’
‘Yeah, five . . .’ He mimicked Alex Parker: ‘Check the garaaage.’
Tracy snorted.
Scott laughed like a hyena.
Frankie wasn’t amused. She knew he didn’t have a car – not one registered to the address, anyway; Stone had already checked – but Tracy might. There was a banger parked right outside, though it was red, not grey. Maybe the girl was telling the truth and she really was eighteen.
The couple continued to knock back alcohol, chain-smoking cannabis, neither giving a toss that police were on the premises. After half an hour of searching, nothing of interest had been found; a bit of booze, more drugs, but no sign of Daniel or proof that he’d ever been there. As Stone gave the signal to leave, Scott began to let his mouth go, threatening to swing for Tim Parker if the boy wasn’t found soon. Suddenly he was playing the loving parent.
The DI had a quiet word, advising him that if anything should happen to Parker he’d return to lock him up. ‘It’s inadvisable to make threats to kill in front of two police witnesses.’
‘Says who?’
‘Step away,’ Stone said.
‘Or what?’
‘Calm down! We’re doing all we can to find your boy . . .’
During the altercation, which David was handling without help, Tracy had fallen asleep. Frankie took her photograph in case she was a runaway from her parents or local authority care. Technically, without her permission, it was against the rules. Frankie would worry about that later. It might help ID her or even save her life.
She was about to put the phone back in her pocket when it rang in her hand: Andrea.
Frankie was instantly on her guard. Andrea knew she was on duty and the nature of the case she was dealing with. She wouldn’t call unless it was important. Frankie moved into the hallway to take the call, leaving the door open in case Rob Scott kicked off again.
‘Andrea, what’s up?’
‘Can you talk?’
In the living room, Scott was still trying it on with Stone, refusing to sit down. Demanding answers. Effing and blinding, playing the big man.
‘I can,’ Frankie said, ‘but that might change.’
‘I can hear the commotion. You in trouble?’
‘No, but if I go offline send the cavalry. I’m at 125 King John Terrace, Heaton.’
‘Are you with Stone?’
Frankie leaned against the wall, one eye on the two men in the next room. ‘Affirmative. Why?’
‘There was an RTA on the A19 (A189/Annitsford junction) involving his brother, Luke. It happened an hour ago. Luke asked me to get a message to David, which I thought might be better coming from you. The thing is . . .’ Andrea paused. ‘He didn’t make it, Frank.’
‘Fuck!’
Frankie turned away from the set-to between Scott and her boss. For a second, Andrea’s voice was drowned out by Frankie’s thoughts, all the spiteful things she’d said to David earlier crowding in on her. She wanted to take them all back, to be on the very best of terms with him when she broke the news, but what was said could never be unsaid. As senior accident investigator in Traffic, Andrea was right to call. Frankie caught snippets here and there: ‘. . . paramedics worked on him at the scene . . . it took us a while to trace his son, Ben . . . the lad freaked out and won’t ID the body.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Cramlington.’ Andrea meant the Northumbria Specialist Emergency Care Hospital.
‘OK, leave it with me.’
‘Sorry to lay this on you. If there was any other way—’
‘I know.’ Frankie thanked her and hung up.
In the next room, oblivious to the unfolding drama, Stone seemed to have got the better of Scott, who was now slumped in a chair, a beer in one hand, another spliff in his mouth, a chimney of smoke clouding above his head. All Frankie knew about Luke Stone was that he was a little older than David and that he had a son the DI was once close to. How close they were now she didn’t know. She was about to find out.
20
It was baking outside, a blast of heat hitting the detectives as they climbed into their vehicle. Conscious of Rob Scott and Tracy peering at them through the grubby net curtains, Frankie let Stone drive away. She couldn’t tell him with an audience gawping at them. He turned right on to Heaton Road and then indicated left and made the turn into Jesmond Vale Lane, skirting Armstrong Park. Feeling a heavy pressure in her chest, for once in her life, Frankie had no words.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Stone said.
‘Can you stop here a minute, David.’
‘What? You call me worse than a pickpocket and now you want ice cream?’ He grinned at her, his kindness making her feel even worse than she did already. Up ahead there was an ice cream van, a crocodile of children lined up beside it waiting for their Saturday treat. ‘Kidding!’ he said. ‘What flavour? My shout. I could do with one myself. It’s like a sauna in here. You want monkey’s blood, sprinkles or both?’
Frankie felt physically sick.
She shifted in her seat to face him. ‘I don’t want any.’
‘You sure? We’re here now, I’m having one.’
‘No wait . . . there’s been an accident.’
The smile slid off his face, the colour draining from him. Instinctively he knew she didn’t mean any accident. This one was serious. Worse than that: it was personal. His voice broke as he asked: ‘Who?’
‘Luke.’
Frankie knew what it was like, going about your business normally – in his case handling Rob Scott – then receiving such unexpected and devastating news. Her boss was crumbling already, broken by what was to come and terrified to know more.
Wiping his face with his hand, he took a deep breath. ‘How bad?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry. He was i
n collision with a lorry. Traffic investigators managed to locate his son. David, they need an ID. Ben doesn’t want to do it.’
‘Where did they take Luke?’
‘Cramlington Hospital . . . Let me drive you.’
Stone dropped his head, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel as he clung on to it, fighting to hold on to his emotions. The sound of children’s laughter filled the car, their smiley faces as they walked by a bizarre contradiction to the mood inside the vehicle. Frankie rested a hand on David’s back. He hadn’t said a word and she didn’t know what to say to him. She had given the death message before but never to a colleague. And not to one she cared as much about.
He sat up suddenly, turned the engine over and pulled out into the traffic. Once clear of the ice cream van, he put his indicator on, head-checked the road, pulling hard on the wheel. U-turn complete, he put his foot down. Unlike the journey from Scots Gap to Ponteland, there was no discussion or analysis as they sped down the Coast Road. He’d talk when he was ready.
David appreciated her support and her silence. She’d never know what it had meant to him to come home after years of living in London, catching up with Luke, walking down Memory Lane over a pint in the pub, laughing over their antics as kids growing up in Northumberland. As an expat for the last fifteen years, he’d made biennial pilgrimages to Tyneside, his trips starting with a walk across the Millennium Bridge, stopping in the middle to catch his breath, a sight that made his heart swell. And when he finally made the break, his homecoming was everything he’d dreamed it would be.
He drove on autopilot, his thoughts all over the place as he tried not to imagine his brother’s body in the morgue. Luke had lost his wife to cancer a few years ago. He and Ben had never recovered from it. Instead of bringing them closer, Ruth’s death had pushed them apart. Ben had gone astray and Luke had struggled as a single parent. Now he too was gone.
They had reached the hospital. Stone parked his vehicle as close to the entrance as he could, slapped a POLICE sign on the dash, keen to get inside and find his nephew. As he reached for the door, Frankie put a hand on his forearm.
‘I’m coming too,’ she said.
‘Don’t feel you have to, Frank. I’ll be fine.’
‘Just till you locate Ben . . . I could sit with him while you make the ID. Please, I’d like to help.’
He nodded in lieu of thanks.
If she’d said anything on the journey, anything at all, he’d have summoned a panda to take her back to base. She hadn’t. Experience had taught her that it would take a while for him to get his head around the overwhelming news and begin the grieving process. She was so quiet in the car, he’d almost forgotten she was there. In a strange way, for reasons he didn’t entirely understand, he wanted her along. He wouldn’t shut her out. With Luke gone, David’s police family were on the bench to take over, Frankie first in the queue to fill that gap.
They found Ben alone in a quiet room reserved for bereaved relatives. He stood up as they entered and burst into tears. David put his arms around him. They embraced each other for a moment and then the DI stepped away. The lad was in shock, naturally. Physically, he was in bad shape. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes. His ashen face reminded Frankie of Scott’s undernourished girlfriend. And, like Tracy, Ben reeked of booze and cannabis. Frankie had seen homeless, neglected youths in better condition.
This would not please Stone.
‘This is Frankie,’ he said. ‘Wait here with her, will you?’
Frankie sat down as he left the room and gave Ben her condolences.
There were signs of a minor injury to Luke’s head, but otherwise he looked for all the world as if he were sleeping. David took his right hand, squeezing it gently. It was cold to the touch. The last time they had met, that same hand had punched his arm, a conciliatory gesture. A little over five weeks ago, on 11 May, Stone’s beloved Newcastle United were relegated to the Football League Championship as Luke’s team Sunderland won 3–0 against Everton.
David lost it then, weeping for a future he and Luke would never share, wishing he’d come home more often to visit. With a bit of effort, he could have. Regretting his decision to leave in the first place would not bring Luke back. In the privacy of the morgue, Stone let go of everything: their plans to spend more time together, their memories, their brotherhood . . . thank Christ his parents were dead already. The shock of losing their firstborn would’ve killed them for sure.
David confirmed the ID and walked down the corridor wondering why his brother came to be on that fateful stretch of road so far from home. Luke had moved to Wearside to work shortly after Stone had left for the Met. He pulled out his phone and rang Control. They would have been the first to receive the call.
Half an hour later, he pulled up outside Ben’s digs, a traditional Tyneside flat in poor condition, probably bought by a greedy landlord for the sole purpose of renting out to the city’s student population. Money for old rope was the cliché that sprung to Frankie’s mind as the DI got out of the car and took Ben inside. When he emerged a few minutes later he appeared more angry than sad. He didn’t say why as he got in and started the engine and Frankie didn’t pry. She guessed it was the state of Ben that troubled him . . .
Maybe the condition of his home was worse.
‘I’m going to need time off,’ Stone said. ‘Just a few days, until I get my shit together. You saw Ben, he’s next to useless, so it’s down to me to make the funeral arrangements.’
Frankie was nodding. ‘No problem. I’ll cover for you.’
‘Thanks. If you find you can’t manage on your own, use Mitchell.’ He was referring to Ray Mitchell, a DC destined for promotion: capable, reliable, if a little green.
‘You want to go for a drink? You could probably do with one.’
‘Maybe later. I have stuff to do.’
‘Stuff? Can I do it?’
‘No. I’ll drop you at base so you can pick up your car. I need to clear time off with the Super anyway.’
‘That I can do for you.’
‘You sure?’
Frankie gave a half-smile. ‘The least I can do. If Windy thinks you’re swinging the lead, I’ll send him the accident report. That’ll shut him up.’ Windy was the nickname for their guv’nor – Superintendent Gale – a third-rate, self-important, useless piece of shit she had no time for. ‘You’re entitled to seven days of compassionate leave.’
‘Seven?’ Stone gave her questioning look. ‘You sure?’
‘Rule 2 in the Frank Oliver Handbook of Dos and Don’ts: Know your rights. Rule 3: Keep in with your Fed rep.’ She grinned. ‘Take your due, David. You’ve had an awful shock.’
‘I won’t need that long.’
‘Book yourself the whole week in case you do.’
At Northern Command HQ they parted company. Frankie watched him drive away, a mixture of emotions competing for space in her heart and in her head: sorrow for Stone, joy for her – an opportunity to prove her worth at last. Many a detective had made their name stepping in at times like these. Taking charge of a major incident had always been on her wish list. She had never figured it would come this soon. The truth was, she didn’t want it, not like this. A life was too high a price to pay.
21
With Stone incommunicado, Oliver cleared his leave with their guv’nor and checked in with her team. Still no progress on Charlie Dawson, whose name she could only visualise in Daniel’s tidy handwriting. She’d no sooner got up to speed and told Control and DC Mitchell that she’d be fielding all calls in the Daniel Scott case, when his mother rang in unexpectedly, her anxiety reaching the detective sergeant down the line. She wanted to talk in person, but not at home. Frankie was intrigued, keen to facilitate a conversation that Alex Parker was so desperate to have.
They agreed to rendezvous at The Blacksmiths Coffee Shop in Belsay village, seve
n miles south-east of Scots Gap. The café closed at five. Frankie reckoned, with a bit of luck, she could make it with a little time to spare. It was like the Third World War had broken out on the way there, a convoy of army vehicles heading in the opposite direction, presumably from the Otterburn firing range, an MoD training facility a few miles further north, a vast wilderness, almost two hundred and fifty square kilometres in size.
Despite it being the weekend, Frankie expected customer numbers might have died down by the time she reached the café. She was wrong. The place was heaving, the only available table a few yards from a counter crammed with home cooking that made her stomach rumble and her mouth water. Suspended from a beamed ceiling, blackboards listed all manner of food to tempt her, every item guaranteed to stem the strongest hunger pangs.
Frankie ordered a tuna sandwich to go and a pot of tea for two, asking the waitress not to bring the brew until her guest arrived and to leave her sandwich on the counter for her to collect on the way out.
She took a seat facing the door, concerned that she was meeting Alex in such a public arena with sensitive matters to discuss that might be overheard. For a moment, she considered taking a table outside in the garden, but the sound of cutlery being placed in the dishwasher out back and the general hum of conversation suggested that she was worrying unnecessarily. Customers were deep into their own business, taking little notice of anyone around them.
It had been years since Frankie had been inside the old forge. The main area hadn’t changed much. An extension had been added to the rear of the property, doubling the size of the place overall. A black Lexus LS saloon pulled up outside the front door. Alex was either talking to herself or on the hands-free. By the time she came inside, the waitress had taken her cue from Frankie, arriving with the tea.
‘Thanks for meeting me.’ Alex took off her coat and sat down, glancing over her shoulder and then at the detective sergeant. ‘Is DI Stone not coming?’
‘No, I apologise, he’s been called away and can’t join us.’
