I Don't Care To be Frank.

Will soon be a film

and then??

Ok..here is chapter one...Sonya..it was only the blurb on the back cover I highlighted. Easy to criticize names and events..but not important really.

I DON’T CARE TO BE FRANK

Chapter 1

The hangover was present and his head throbbed. He felt a touch sick. His mind was blank. Empty of any thought or idea; a bit like the state of his soul. He sat up in bed and a thought entered his head. Coffee! A wave of mild nausea swooned around his guts. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick. The day was starting badly. He doubted if it would improve. A good cappuccino was produced in a robotic fashion in automatic mode. The small cheap machine made good coffee. Back in bed it spilt over the duvet cover. He swore as he got a paper towel from the nearby small bathroom and got back into bed, flicking the radio on. The giggling Five live presenters were having their usual private morning silly jokes whilst reading the ever depressing news about the economy. They were putting their normal spin on things. The talk was of recovery. He knew it was bull and we were all up shit creek without a paddle. It was around 8 in the morning. Outside it looked cold and was starting to rain. It was November in South East England. The bonfires had been doused and the Xmas commercials were in full swing. There was 5 months of grey cold dank weather to look forward to.

It depressed him. The routine morning tasks commenced of splashing cold water on an unshaven face, cleaning teeth with an electric tooth brush. Like the sun coming up it just happened. He gave his reflected face in the mirror a glance, a look of dismay and a grimace. The blue eyes were still attractive but the balding hair line and bags under the eyes showed his age. He pondered whether to shave or not. He did 50 press ups quickly which made the wave of nausea return. He had a muscular body for someone of 53 years of age. The gut was not as firm as it once was. Being super fit in his twenties and thirties had stayed with him, relatively speaking. He shaved with quick precision. Today he had to find a lost wife. Probably she had run away. She was likely being beaten by her husband or having an affair or both. Yet a deeper and more sinister story was emerging.

Frank was a private detective. He had been for nearly 5 years now and still couldn’t get used to the idea. 10 years in the police force. Quite a successful career and he was moving up fast when suddenly he was forced out after the incident. Prior to that several years had been spent in the forces; the S.A.S. ‘Shit’, he shouted as the blood oozed from a nick from the cheap razor. He ripped off some bits of toilet paper and held them against the cut.

2

This regular occurrence irritated him. Many small things irritated him nowadays. The bigger problems and real disasters seemed to challenge him. A challenge he still rose to and took on. He used to be fearless. Since turning 50 a nagging sense of fear had somehow got into the back of his head, his subconscious. To help stop the blood and out of habit some rather refined quality after shave was liberally splashed.

He put on a shirt and tie, dark trousers and a smart blue jacket. Feeding Lapta, his one year old Persian cat completed the routine. She rubbed up against his leg and purred as he spooned Whiskas tuna into a bowl.

Without breakfast, as was the norm, he left his 2 bed roomed flat opened the downstairs garage and got into his 6 year old Saab 93. Then out he got and back upstairs. Lapta ignoring him as she expected him back giving him a sideways look of disdain. He had forgotten his ageing briefcase. Today is a booze free zone he told himself as starting the ever reliable Saab, still rather smart and tidy. Snooks Eaglin blues came over the CD player rather too loudly, ‘Alberta, Alberta, where’ve you been so long’ blasted out. He turned it off and drove out of the garage and flicked the doors shut with the automatic key. He rented the nearby office; he had paid for the flat. Today was a normal fairly routine job, but any job was a bonus. The first two years had hardly produced any cases. He had mainly survived by doing some private security work on the side. 10 minutes later he parked around the back of his 2 room small office which was up a flight of metal outdoor steps and looked at the words above the door on bold letters, ‘Frank Spring, Private Detective’.

He unlocked the door and entered.

The place was as he had left it late last night. The bottle of Real Russian Vodka was still open on his desk. He put the top back on the litre bottle. Put it back in the freezer compartment of the small fridge in the corner. He scowled as he noticed the milk had run out and noticed he needed to defrost the freezer compartment.

As he slumped down into his swivel chair behind the rather large and opulent desk he reached for his mobile from his brief case, dropped it, and swore and then texted Betty to get some milk on her way in. He then looked for details of the current missing woman, Mrs. Turner.

A text came back with a ding. ‘OK Boss, see you soon x.’ A kiss, from his secretary. Was this too informal? He read the notes on Christine Turner? 55, blond, medium build, part time psychologist teacher at the local tech.

3

Pretty in a rough sort of way. He checked the 4 photo’s her husband had given him. She apparently had a tattoo of a dolphin above her bum. Frank smiled as he read this and wondered if he would ever see it. Her husband was Paul Turner. The guy was polite on the first meeting. He had respect in the local business community. He was quite a successful business man with many interests including financial services. He owned a few restaurants and was involved in other less reputable business dealings. There had been rumours in the local press and in the pubs that he was having trouble with his financial service business. Many people were having trouble and going under at this time. Lack of capital, dodgy practises and even Ponzi schemes had been mentioned.

Spring sensed that these issues were related to his wife’s disappearance. He had met Paul Turner twice now; once in his office and then at Pauls plush country residence a few miles out of town. He seemed distressed about his missing wife on the first meeting. 2nd time he appeared calm and even distant from the incident when the meeting occurred 2 days ago at his house.

’Mr Turner you seem rather calm about all this!’

‘Oh heck, I’ve been so stressed by it for days now that I decided to appear less disturbed as a kind of front. It’s been affecting my work and business and I find myself getting irritable with people and shouting a lot, and that’s not me!’

‘OK, stay calm, it’s far better that way.’

The police had been informed over a week ago. After 8 days without news Turner had asked around about a Private Detective. Spring’s name had been mentioned by a business colleague, Dave Spong, who Frank had cleared up a case of fraud for.

Nearly 2 years back now and that case being solved was worth more than any advertising. This was his first case for nearly 6 months. Times were difficult and there were many problems. The potential for detective work should have been growing but wasn’t. Not for Spring anyway. Much of society was in the mire and things in general could be said to be on the verge of breaking down. Or was it always this way? There was little money around for private detective cases for the most part. People with money often had too much money, but they hated spending it unless they had to.

4

Turner appeared to be going through the motions. Frank didn’t trust him. The door opened and Betty entered with a smile and a lovely smell of fine perfume, Chanel No. 5 by Coco Chanel.

He was amazed that she could afford this on the pittance he paid her. ’Morning Betty, got the milk I see.’

’Good morning Mr. Spring, bit chilly out but at least it’s not raining. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Not for now, maybe in an hour or so; first thing I want you to check the file on David Spong and find out how long he has known Paul Turner and where they met and anything about their relationship. Try Google, and the stuff on their business websites about the directors. It may be irrelevant but please check it out and see what you come up with.’

Red haired and slender Betty Brown took her coat off and proceeded to start up her lap top. The tight fitting skirt showed up her body in all its perfect contours. She had small but pert breasts. As usual he pretended to ignore them but had his daily Reggie Perrin moments of imagination. She often looked at him with a glance and a smile as if she was reading his dirty mind.

Today he was busy. Betty had a part time boyfriend of sorts. At least she did a year ago. The topic had not come up of late. She was usually available for late work whenever required. No sign of any man picking her up or ringing. Maybe it had petered out. He rang Mr. Turner at his central office in the town.

‘’Mr. Turners secretary speaking; can I help you please?’’ The rather formal and monotonous tones of an elderly woman’s voice asked.

‘Frank Spring; can I speak to Mr. Turner please?’

A silent pause. He could feel the hint of tension from the woman.

‘Yes Mr. Spring, I’ll just put you through.’

There was a longer pause this time and some infuriating light classical music. He recalled the first meeting several days back.

5

’Mr. Spring, I’m desperate. The police are no help and I’ll pay anything to get Christine back; could it be kidnappers? What the hell has happened to me? I’m at a loss. Please help me. Money is no object here.’

‘’ Mr. Turner, calm yourself. I’ll do what I can and I’ll find her, believe me I’ll find out where you wife is or what has happened.’

At this point he had few doubts about Turner. He thought it likely that they had quarreled and she had gone off for a break from him; to her parents of a friend or even abroad for a holiday.

The pertinent questions were asked about this as well as the uncomfortable ones about their private lives and sexual matters.

At one point the detective asked, ‘have you hit your wife, lately or ever?’

Turner looked aggressive for a moment and went red and was starting to explode when he suddenly put on a show of calm and quietly replied; ‘I suppose you had to ask that but no, I have never hit my wife. Oh yes, we have argued and had scenes but no more or no less than average I guess.’

Then not long after he asked if their sex life was good and how often they had it, so to speak. He actually asked how often they made love.

’Fuck you mean?’

’Well yes, if you like!’

‘No problems there pal. 5 times a week and that is after all these years of marriage. What is it now? Coming up to 30 years!’

Paul Turner was 59 now and had married his wife when she was 25 and he was 29. He had been married before. She hadn’t.

The first 10 years or so were fine. They were very happy most of the time. They did have an understanding and liked similar things.

‘Turner here. Any news about Christine?’

’Good Morning Mr. Turner.’

Turner interrupted, ‘Please call me Paul. We know each other a little now; no need for formality with me.’

6

‘OK Paul; no concrete news I’m afraid but I may have a sighting of her 5 days after you last saw her; at least a description of her which sounds valid. I’ll come over this afternoon and discuss it with you if alright.’

‘Well that’s good news. Yes do come over anytime soon.’

He didn’t sound pleased, at least not convincingly, and went quiet on the phone when the sighting was mentioned. This was a hoax, a bluff. A morally questionable tactic. If she was found to have been dead at this time it may prove awkward but then sightings are often wrong. Frank wanted to see Turners reaction. It had already proved interesting. He was prone to go against the grain. He got things done and this sometimes involved taking risks. He would see how this developed when they met later. These sorts of cases were either, mostly solved quickly and simply, or else they became long winded and complex. This seemed, on gut instinct, and after initial scratches at the surface, a deeper and potentially nastier and involved case. It was mainly intuitive at this moment but the odd clue and mainly the demeanor and manner of Paul Turner was flashing a red light.

‘Get the coffee on Betty, could do with one now before I go and see Turner.’

‘OK boss, give me a minute or two. I’m finding one of two interesting facts about Spong and Turner’s association. Apparently they were involved in some big deal together in Iraq. It’s not really clear what this involved but it seems to be some sort of private security work for a UK based oil company.’

‘Good stuff, get it all down and when I return from Turners we’ll look at it. I’ve little doubt on this case that a thickening plot will be the recipe.’

He knew something about Betty’s info from his own findings but the more stuff the better. After a swift coffee, not as good as his at home but not bad, he got back into the Saab and drove to Turners. For some reason, perhaps due to the bluffed sighting soon to be played out he recalled the incident that lead to his dismissal from the police in the London Met.

He was an Inspector at the time and although his record was scratchy there was talk of further promotions due to his successful rate of arrests and clearing up of complex cases.

7

He had arrested a particularly nasty bit of stuff; a proper villain with psychopathic tendencies and a track record as long as your arm. This guy, Joe White, was not particularly bright and was in trouble a lot but always seemed to get away with it. He had expert expensive lawyers at hand. Who paid for them was always a mystery.

This time though Frank thought he had his man. He had caught him red handed beating some poor kid to death. If he hadn’t shown up Paul Case would have been snuffed out of existence. It was outside the Red Lion in Camden on a Friday night around 10 p.m. Frank had been following White for some time on various cases to do with jewelry thieving and drugs. White was involved in most types of crime and worked for the highest bidder. The leaders of these syndicates were almost impossible to find. There were suspects but to prove a connection was a close to impossible thing. White couldn’t have been all that daft. It wasn’t just the lawyers that saved his bacon every time; and he had done time, about 10 years in 3 stretches. Spring suspected that he was involved directly in a dozen or so unsolved murder cases.

They couldn’t pin any of those on White. Spring was determined to get him for attempted homicide and a long stretch; if the weak legal system was capable of offering real justice.

Paul Case was no innocent victim; just one of modern England’s sad stories of a kid from a broken poor family getting into crime early on in his life.

He sold drugs for a local small time gangster and was caught on White’s patch; a normal everyday event in the increasing crime of drugs. Case was black and from Jamaican stock originally and only 19. He was thought of as a hard case locally and carried a gun but White was in a different league and there had been a tussle at first and threats from Case which made White laugh aloud as he pummeled the guys face into a sponge. Most of his teeth had gone and he was in intensive care for a month. Maybe a minute more and he would have been dead. Frank had put White down with one punch. So swift and intense that White flew several yards in the air and hit his head hard on the car park concrete.

The incident however, happened back at the police station in central London. Joe White was making threats to Frank, saying that he was a dead man and was a lucky fucker to have thrown such a fluke of a punch.

‘You’re a dead man Spring, I’m looking at a dead man. You shit. I know where you live you cunt and I’ll fuckin get you.’

8

This sort of drivel went on as he calmly questioned White. Clever questions which almost caught him out on occasions.

White, as usual managed to keep from giving real facts and names out. The detective tried to wind him up, to make him so angry that he would snap and blurt evidence out. Unfortunately it happened the other way round.

Spring’s one weak spot in the banter of wind ups was his ex partner and only true love thus far, Rachael Stevens. They had lived together for 8 years. No children but they had been deep in love and split over a silly fairly minor incident and both regretted it and neither of them had really gotten over each other. Both of them were too proud to back down. Rachael had moved to North Cyprus with another man last year about 18 months after they had broken up. He had heard a couple of times from her but not of late. She lived in Lapta near Kyrenia. He had named his cat after this. White knew of Rachael and suddenly taunted Spring.

‘’I hear you couldn’t satisfy Rachael, couldn’t get it up. She had to be fucked elsewhere to get satisfaction mate.’’

‘Cut that out White, I mean it. Shut it pal.’

‘And guess who satisfied her shit head? Yes, me pal. Fucked her good and proper; up the arse everything. She begged for more…’

He started to loose it.

‘I’m warning you White. ‘I’ll fucking swing for you, you piece of shit.’

‘She begged for more Frank, but I fucked her until I had enough of the dirty whore and then pissed and gobbed on her.’

At this point he lost it and ploughed into White, fists flying and a face of candescent rage. White fought back but was loosing badly as Richard Pamlon walked in. Pamlon was Joe White’s expensive lawyer.

To end a long story the detective was suspended then kicked off the force with a heavily reduced pension entitlement. He was made a scapegoat of in many ways. He was caught red handed in the act.

Due to this intense beating Joe White got away with a suspended sentence. There was some local outrage but it wasn’t that rare an event in the world of the legal jungle where the victim seemed to be the culprit at times.

Frank arrived at the rather plush office of Paul Turner’s; the name writ large outside the 4 storey building, Turner’s Financial Associates.