Swinging open the gate, she rehearsed her welcome sentence and hoped the online course and hours and hours of talking to herself in French would pay off. Frankie had tried hard to learn the language of her new home, knowing it would help her blend in, be one of the locals. Taking a breath, she followed the truck up the drive, swallowing down shyness and nerves. It was time to practise.
* * *
One television cabinet later, Frankie declared victory and crowned herself the flat-pack princess. She’d decided that being the queen would mean tackling all the bedroom furniture, and she was already mentally and physically exhausted after meticulously following the instructions which she’d read out loud to the puppies. They’d made her giggle because they both sat bolt upright, listening to her every word like they understood, big brown eyes following each movement, heads moving in unison from side to side as though they were checking progress, making sure she was doing it right.
Resting wearily against her new sofa that was still covered in polythene, she eyed Oscar and Belle who had fallen asleep in their bed, snuggled together, Oscar’s head tucked under his sister’s chin. It was so hot outside and Frankie had already burnt the top of her arms and shoulders the day before, so needed to stay out of the sun for a couple of days. She’d been weeding the path and lost track of time, absorbed in a world of plans for her garden and things she would cook for Jed when he arrived. It wasn’t until she took a shower and removed her vest top that she realised her mistake. The tell-tale sting of the water jet confirmed it.
Not wanting to slip into laziness, determined to have the house in some semblance of order sooner rather than later, Frankie focused on the packing box in the corner that was marked ‘photo albums, frames, knick-knacks’ and pondered whether to empty it. One more box out of the way would be good and it was a job that required little effort and exertion so shuffling across the click-clack floor on her bottom, Frankie unpicked the brown tape as quietly as possible so not to wake her babies.
Removing the contents, she placed the photo frames in the drawers of the telly cabinet, positioning a happy snap of her parents and grandma on top before stacking the albums neatly in the space below. It was as she pulled out the last two Frankie paused, knowing exactly what was in them and why she’d shoved them to the bottom when she packed up. They contained photographs of her, Bea and Scarlet, chronicling their school and teenage years, birthday parties, camping holidays, enrolling at college, everything. It was unusual to feel the urge to look at them but as she slid her hand across the cover of the top album, feeling the bumps of the faux leather, she gave in and flipped it open.
Boom, and there they were.
Bonfire night, they were all fifteen, waving sparklers in one hand and holding a hot dog in the other, Scarlet was pulling a stupid face while Bea was taking a huge bite out of her food. Frankie was concentrating on writing her name in titanium sparkles. She remembered it so well, being happy, part of a gang, carefree. No. Not now.
The cover slammed shut, that creeping sense of unease was unmistakable. This isn’t the time to go back. We’re going forward, not down memory lane. Enough. Without another thought Frankie lifted the other albums and placed the last two underneath: out of sight and mind. Even though she didn’t have the heart to throw them away, she didn’t want to see them whenever she opened the cupboard door, bringing the past into her future.
Shower, wine and food, that was what she needed and then she’d take a blanket into the garden and eat her dinner watching the sunset. The solar lights she’d strung through the trees looked lovely at night, and the lamps on either side of her front door and gates brightened the garden. Oscar and Belle could play and she’d ring Jed and tell him all about her flat-pack skills. Shut it down, refocus, keep busy and none of it could hurt her anymore. By the time she’d stood on creaky knees and the puppies were waking from their nap, stretching and yawning, any thoughts of Elkdale were well and truly banished.
17
Detective Constable Darren Barnes slunk down in his seat and closed tired eyes, waiting for the double espresso to hit and give him some va-va-voom, or at least enough energy to get out of the car. He was shattered after working four consecutive fifteen-hour shifts thanks to a very inconvenient virus that was sweeping through the station and wiping out the workforce. Leave was cancelled and everyone was expected to take up the slack, hence his partnerless state. To add insult to injury this occurred as an arsonist and then a burglar with a penchant for murder chose to target Elkdale. Yep, it had been the proverbial shitstorm of a week and didn’t look like improving soon.
Everyone was stretched so while the rest of the team tried to find a killer, Barnes had been given the unenviable job of catching the arsonist. He was currently tasked with interviewing the victim who had finally regained consciousness. Dennis Mills was known in the area for being a complete pain in the arse, prone to drunken flare-ups and the odd bit of wilful damage. Yes, his anger was justified, losing his daughter the way he did, but after fourteen years everyone was getting tired of his antics which made Barnes wonder if someone had simply lost patience with him. But who?
No matter how annoying Dennis the Menace was, sticking a petrol-soaked rag through his letterbox was a tad extreme. According to the fire brigade’s report the hallway carpet went up in flames and a pile of unopened junk mail didn’t help either.
Luckily the fire alarms woke the neighbours. Dennis was sleeping off a binge and succumbed to the fumes but was rescued in the nick of time. He’d suffered lung damage through smoke inhalation and thankfully pulled through. Now there were questions to be asked.
Barnes had spent the drive to the hospital wanting his shift to be over soon and thinking back to his days as a newbie beat bobby. He’d joined the force around the time Abby Mills had been murdered and remembered how her death had altered the dynamic of the village. So many accusations and recriminations had rumbled on and the main instigator of the unrest and unpleasantness had been Dennis, and his targets were many.
Herbert Dunne had his shed burnt down. Then the three main witnesses were subjected to tirades of abuse and then later, Margaret Tibbs who owned the hardware shop incurred the wrath of Dennis when he found out she was standing by her man. Rumour had it that Dennis was responsible for acts of vandalism at the Tibbs home and shop yet she never made a formal complaint. Perhaps she didn’t want to rile Mills further or draw attention to herself. She wasn’t exactly popular.
Barnes was also aware that Dunne was out of prison and living with Tibbs so could the ex-con be responsible for the fire? Perhaps he’d been festering in jail and wanted a bit of revenge. Herbert Dunne was next on the list for a visit. But first off, he’d get Mills out of the way. Barnes hated hospitals. He hated morgues even more and the sight that had met him earlier in the week would live on in his memory forever.
The photos on the evidence board in the office were horrific. Scarlet Jones lying on the metal slab with a caved in skull turned his stomach, so he was damn sure he could cope with seeing Dennis Mills, skull intact, lying in a bed on ward nine.
Fastening up his tie that he’d loosened to let in some air, Barnes then checked his reflection in the mirror noting his bloodshot eyes and sallow skin. Even though it was midsummer and half-decent weather for northern England, he’d not seen any of it: too busy doing overtime and filling in. He needed some time off but not on the sick. He was thinking more of two weeks in Greece, anywhere would do. It was a bit shit going on holiday alone and he currently had no one to ask, so his idea crashed and burned before he’d even loaded up Tripadvisor.
Knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer, Barnes shelved any holiday plans and grabbed his keys from the ignition, then flipped up the visor. It was time to see what Dennis Mills remembered or – more to the point – find out who he’d pissed off the day someone torched his house.
* * *
Barnes hovered at the entrance to the four-bed ward and waited while the nurse spoke to the young woman by Dennis Mills’ bedside. The man himself appeared to be asleep and when the two women approached. Barnes half expected one of them to say he’d wasted his time. The nurse scurried off without a word so it was left to the visitor who held out her hand as she spoke.
‘DC Barnes, good afternoon. I’m Chelsea. Dennis is my granddad.’
Shaking her outstretched hand Barnes was conflicted by a memory that flashed into his head. He’d been placed on watch outside Abby Mills’ house and was there when the social workers arrived to take away her six-year-old daughter. That day, Chelsea had been in her pyjamas, sobbing and bleary-eyed, refusing to be comforted by the social worker who carried her to the car. When Chelsea’s slipper dropped off, Barnes had picked it up and chased down the path to return it, only to be caught in the glare of the saddest brown eyes. That little girl had grown into the very pretty woman stood before him, with long blonde hair and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Her eyes were exactly the same as he remembered them, big brown buttons but not sad, more wary than anything.
‘Hello, Chelsea, I’m sorry to disturb visiting but is he up to speaking to me today? The nurse said he’s improved overnight and should be fine.’
Chelsea grimaced and looked uncomfortable, glancing at the bed by the window where the occupant kept his eyes firmly closed. ‘The thing is, Granddad can be very cantankerous at the best of times and he’s not in the most co-operative of moods at the moment.’
Barnes sighed. The feeling was mutual. Even so he really didn’t want to have to come back so took a chance. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you let me give it a go and see if he’ll answer a couple of questions. I won’t be long. A few minutes are all I need.’
Before she had the chance to object, he stepped to the side and headed towards Dennis whose eyes were twitching. The old man was definitely not asleep, peeping more like.
The next voice the whole of ward nine heard, proved Barnes right. ‘I said I don’t want to talk to no coppers, so piss off and leave me alone. I mean it, do one.’ Dennis snarled as he spoke but remained tight-lidded.
