It’s exactly thirty-seven minutes’ walk from the Hooper residence to Bea Butler’s house and I already knew her routine. She leaves the house at twenty to nine precisely in order to get her kids to school before the bell. The rest is history.
I was still on a super-high from my double escapade when I headed to Chorlton the following day, leaving my perfect alibi to their own devices. I couldn’t wait to see where Frankie Hooper lived and needed to stake it out. Her parents had written her address in the little book. There was another in there, Kennington in London but it had a red cross through it so I knew straight away that the one in Chorlton was where Frankie had moved to.
I only wanted a quick peep, to get my bearings, and then I could head home and make some plans, I’m not rash, I’m ruthless. It wasn’t until I arrived that I became disheartened because in the front garden of Nightingale House was a To Let sign, with a smaller sticker saying flat four.
Once the gloom dissipated, curiosity got the better of me so I rang the agents and made all the right enquiries. The eager man on the other end told me that the previous occupant had vacated at the end of June and it had been empty since. I disconnected part way through his monologue about the full re-paint and excellent bus links into the city centre.
I was livid. Frankie had been gone for almost six weeks. I’d missed her and the little book definitely didn’t hold any more clues. There was no new address written in biro, and Chorlton hadn’t been crossed out. Incompetence, that’s what that was.
I’d decided to leave when I spotted a car pull onto the drive next door to the flats and it was then I knew I had to take a gamble, be bold. The woman driver was shouting at a boy who eventually got out of the back, giving me time to approach. I didn’t like the woman much: she had a peevish face and wasn’t very friendly, especially when I asked about my friend Frankie who used to live in flat four. I pulled a disappointed face, then explained that I’d recently arrived in the city and came to look her up, only to find she’d moved.
The woman seemed disinclined to help me at first. However, I persevered and asked if she had any idea where Frankie might have moved to. Probably more in eagerness to get rid of me than from goodness of heart, she gave me a snippet which came up trumps.
It seemed that Frankie was ‘doing a bit’ with one of the builders who’d worked on their garden, perhaps he would be able to help. Within seconds she had given me the address of the family firm, K. White and Son, at the end of the high street. After thanking her kindly, I was on my way.
It’s exhausting, you know, being so inventive and ingenious and while my body was starting to flag, I’d had a busy few days after all, my secret spirit urged me on. What would I do without it?
The next part was going to be trickier because I couldn’t risk giving myself away so I had to be wily, wilier than I already have been. When I arrived, the gates to the yard were open and I noticed that there was a house on the property. The only vehicle was a silver Peugeot, parked at the door of what looked like an office so I parked further up the street and walked back, made my way across the yard and knocked.
The lady who answered appeared flustered although in contrast to my previous encounter, she was friendly and a bit of a chatterbox. It seemed I’d only just caught Mrs White, as she introduced herself, because she was on her way to the hospital to visit her sister who’d taken poorly, a water infection, easily sorted even though it had sent her a bit gaga. It was all a bit of a bother because they should have been at the caravan in Southport. While chatty woman did lots of sighing, I pulled kind faces and made understanding noises.
After she’d given me far too much useless information, I gave the reason for my visit. I’d moved into a flat in Nightingale House and had a stack of mail for the previous occupant, a person named Ms F. Hooper but no forwarding address. Quite by chance I’d mentioned this to the lady next door who pointed me in the direction of the builders.
Chatty woman didn’t twig straight away and then the light dawned, on her. I must mean Frankie, who was going out with her Jed, bingo! Chatty woman ushered me into the office while she wrote down her husband’s number. She couldn’t give out Frankie’s personal information to a stranger but seeing as her husband was with her right now, doing a bit of work at her new place, he’d be able to pass me on.
I was most interested to hear that they were an hour in front over there. ‘Really?’ said I. ‘Over where?’ And would you believe it but her Ken and Jed had gone to France, to fit a kitchen for Frankie.
‘All right for some,’ said chatty woman.
There was actually no need for the phone number, though, because while Mrs White looked for a pad, then a pen that worked, I spotted all I needed to know stuck to the noticeboard. There, on a neon yellow Post-it note was an address: La Tournelle, 44630, Saint Suplice, France.
Obviously I took the proffered piece of paper with the mobile number scrawled across it, saying I thoroughly understood she had to go otherwise she’d miss visiting, and for good measure added that I hoped she got to the caravan very soon, and her sister made a full recovery.
I didn’t give a monkey’s. I did care about getting away and hiding the huge grin that was plastered across my face as I exited the yard, all the time repeating the address over and over so I wouldn’t forget until I could write it down. I’d done it. I’d found the bitch Frankie.
Once the euphoria of my find abated, the reality of my situation set in and I was presented with a dilemma. For a start, France wasn’t as convenient as Elkdale or Chorlton and the logistics were a nightmare – totally unknown for a start. I’d leave a trail too. Could I risk it? And if I even managed to get away I’d be missed, and what about my alibi? The only positive was that Frankie wouldn’t see me coming. She’d covered her tracks well, making a fresh start abroad but she’d slipped up hiring the builders, that was for sure. Still, I applauded her for trying but I applauded myself even more, in fact I deserved a standing ovation.
Final problem was that she had company, the husband and son of chatty woman. Then it occurred to me – if they got in the way I’d simply take them down too. Perhaps a good old-fashioned gas explosion might be called for, or I could finally use my knife while they slept. Mmm, that sounded good.
I had to decide. Be content with two out of three or go for the full set. Get over there, locate the bitch, do the job and get out. Was it worth it? Hell yes. Could we do it? My secret spirit had no doubt.
Once my mind was set it was all systems go. I had to make a few arrangements but they didn’t take long and France is only a few hours away by tunnel, boat or plane. The reason for my trip, should any of my fellow travellers enquire, is that I’m visiting family, a gathering. How lovely. It’s all gone like a dream, so far. I flew direct to Paris from Manchester and became another face in a busy airport and city. From there I took a super quick ride on the TGV, then a taxi to what is described as a quaint but in truth very tatty bed and breakfast in a little town called Candé.
Oh yes, I’m here, sorry I forgot to say, and I’ve already seen Frankie and her team of building buddies. I watched from the shadows as she took a moonlight stroll with her lover. We’ve even saidbonjouras I walked past the gate of her house. She was chasing her dogs about in the garden. She paid me little attention, I was just another rambler. She has no clue who I am or what’s going to happen tomorrow… But I do, and I simply cannot wait.
27
DC Barnes was starting to think he was losing his touch because not only had he failed miserably to arrest an arsonist, he couldn’t even find Frankie Hooper. The only thing that consoled him was that the murder squad also hadn’t found the killer burglar and Bea Butler remained stable, but was still in an induced coma.
At least things were getting back to normal at the station so once he’d spent a couple of days tidying up a virtual mound of unfinished paperwork, Barnes had found time to concentrate on the elusive Frankie. There were no phone records for her so the obvious line of enquiry would be to ask her parents for her number; but they weren’t answering the phone. That’s why he was going back to basics and about to knock on doors, one door in particular, the home of Mr and Mrs Hooper.
It was a pleasant summer day as he drove out of the station car park and up towards the peaks and Elkdale village, thinking as usual of Chelsea who was away visiting her parents for a few days and attending a big family gathering. He knew it was ridiculous to even imagine ever being introduced to them because no matter how much they supported their daughter, a cradle-snatching copper might be a step too far.
Five minutes later, after ringing the bell and hammering on the door, Barnes was convinced that the Hoopers were on holiday. Two cars were parked on the drive, both more or less brand new, a Mini and a flash Range Rover, and there was a pile of post in the porch, sure signs of the owners being away. He was making his way back down the path when a car pulled onto the adjacent drive and a woman, who Barnes presumed was their neighbour, got out. He’d intended asking next door anyway so her nosey, forthright approach saved him the bother.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman removed a shopping bag from the rear passenger seat as she spoke over the roof of her car.
‘Yes, I’m looking for Mr and Mrs Hooper but I presume they’re away. I’m DC Barnes.’ A quick flash of his warrant card caused the neighbour to come scurrying towards the garden fence.
