29
DC Barnes hammered on the door of the downstairs flat after pushing all of the buzzers on the intercom, his patience running out. He’d rang the number of the estate agent on the To Let sign but it had gone to answerphone and it appeared that every single resident of the block of flats was out.
He had to make contact with Francesca Hooper because he was unable to shake the really bad feeling that she was in danger. It looked like he was going to have to ring her parents. Barnes gave up knocking and began to scroll through his phone when his attention was drawn to the taxi that pulled up. Behind him a door slammed and a man appeared, dragging a small suitcase down the path on the other side of the fence, clearly in a rush.Bingo.
Rushing towards the taxi, he cut the man off in his stride and flashed his warrant card as he spoke. ‘DC Barnes, may I have a quick word?’
The man was flustered and not best pleased. ‘What’s it about? And can you make it quick? I’m late and I need to get to the airport.’
‘Shouldn’t take a minute, sir. I’m trying to locate the woman who used to live at flat four. I don’t suppose you have any idea where she may have moved to? I can’t get hold of the estate agent and it’s rather urgent.’ Barnes saw irritation flash across the man’s face.
‘Well, she’s certainly very popular lately but I’m sorry no, I have no idea where she’s gone now. If you don’t mind, I really do need to go otherwise I’ll get stuck in rush-hour traffic. Is that all?’
Curious, Barnes stood firm, blocking the passenger door of the taxi. ‘Could you explain what you meant by your comment about her being popular? Sorry, but as I said it’s a matter of urgency.’
A loud tut preceded an impatient reply. ‘All I know is someone came round a few days back asking after her – an old friend or something – so my wife pointed them in the direction of the builder’s yard, White and Son, on the high street. The woman you’re looking for is going out with the son, or so my wife says. That’s all I know, so can I go? You really are going to make me miss my flight.’
‘Is your wife at home at the moment Mr…?’
A roll of the eyes and another snappy response. ‘Aspinall. No, she’s at her mother’s in Wales, won’t be back until tomorrow.’
‘I’ll need her number. Did she say what the person looked like?’
‘For crying out loud, no! I’m not sure. To be honest, mate, I wasn’t even paying that much attention. Look, write her number down and ring her, then you can ask her yourself.’
Barnes took out his notebook and scribbled down the mobile number, then stepped to one side and allowed the man to open the taxi door. ‘Thank you for your help, sir, and I hope you make your flight.’
He didn’t really, in fact he hoped Mr Aspinall got stuck in the traffic jam from hell and missed it, and the next one was delayed for hours. While the taxi shot off, Barnes rang the number on the phone and prayed Mrs Aspinall picked up. It was at this point he told himself he was jinxed because there was no answer, no voicemail option either, then it disconnected.Great, just great.
Not wasting another second, he ran to his car and once inside searched for the address of White and Son. The area was unfamiliar and he had no idea where the high street was. Google maps said it was seven minutes away and as he pulled onto the road, Barnes prayed that someone would be there, anyone who could tell him where the bloody hell Francesca Hooper was.
* * *
On seeing that the steel double gates of K. White and Son were firmly closed, his heart sank, and then something caught his eye: movement in the upstairs window of the house inside the yard. Someone was cleaning the glass, the circular motion a giveaway. Within seconds Barnes had left his car and raced across the road and once outside the gates began waving, desperate to attract the attention of whoever was inside. When the circles stopped he sighed with relief and waited while the figure, a woman, opened the window.
‘You all right, love?’ she shouted, much friendlier than Mr Aspinall had been.
‘Could you come downstairs? I need to speak to you. It’s nothing to worry about but I’m from the police.’ The last thing he wanted was her panicking but from the way she slammed the window shut then disappeared, Barnes had a feeling that’s exactly what she was doing.
When the front door opened the woman came rushing across the yard, her hand held to her chest, fear etched on her face. She hadn’t even reached the gate when she shouted out, ‘It’s not my boys, is it? Nothing’s happened to them, has it?’
Barnes held his hands up as if to calm her. ‘No, no, please don’t worry, it’s just an enquiry. I’m sorry if I’ve worried you. Look, here’s my ID.’
The colour began to return to the woman’s face as she glanced at his warrant card while he asked her the obvious. ‘Would you be Mrs White?’
‘Yes, I am Jenny White. Why do you want to know?’
Barnes was used to suspicion so tried to set her at ease. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me with my enquiries, or perhaps your husband – but I take it he’s not around.’
‘That’s right, he’s on a job. Ooh love, you did give me a fright. Hang on while I open this gate and I’ll let you in. As long as it’s nowt to do with my boys, that’s all I care about.’ Mrs White fiddled with the lock and then swung it open, enough that Darren could squeeze through. ‘Come on then, let’s go inside otherwise we’ll have nosey buggers earwigging. I was just going to put the kettle on if you fancy a brew. Perhaps I can help you: I’m the chief cook and bottle washer round here.’
‘I see, and that would be lovely, thank you.’ As he followed her back to the house Darren got the impression Mrs White like to natter and he wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee either. He’d not eaten since breakfast and he was starving. Her next words were like music to his ears.
‘And I’ve got some nice apple pies from the bakers. They’re for my boys but I can spare you one. Come inside and have a seat.’ Jenny went in first and dropped the bunch of keys she’d used to open the gate on the table, then began pottering around the kitchen, filling the kettle and taking mugs from the cupboard.
Barnes did as she’d said and took a seat, still eager to get some answers about Francesca. ‘As I said, Mrs White, I’m sorry I gave you a fright but I’m actually trying to track down a young woman by the name of Francesca Hooper and I was told by the neighbours at her former address that she’s in a relationship with your son. Is that correct?’
Mrs White turned and smiled, placing two pies on a plate as she spoke. ‘Yes, that’s right but we call her Frankie. She’s been going out with my Jed since June. Lovely girl she is and so pretty. But why do you want to speak to her? And call me Jenny, no need to be so formal.’
