The Truth About Celia Frost Read Online Free Page A

required a more “hands on” approach. In his prime,
Frankie had the build of a heavyweight boxer – his big bullet head and stubby neck sat atop shoulders so broad they looked like a stretch of motorway. His tree-trunk legs and bulging arms
made the seams of his uniform strain, and his meat-cleaver hands could be very persuasive, especially when clenched in a fist.
    Frankie remained philosophical about the way his career had turned out. If he hadn’t been made to resign from the force he would never have thought of becoming a private investigator, and
therefore would never have found his niche.
    Over the last ten years, Frankie Byrne Investigations, with its eye-catching acronym, had built up a reputation for taking on cases that other, more reputable, private investigators
wouldn’t dream of touching. Word spread amongst his target clientele that he wasn’t one to ask too many awkward questions and was prepared to do whatever it took to get results,
regardless of its legality.
    Of course, Frankie knew that the more “unorthodox” the case, the more generous the clients were willing to be. So he made a good living tracking down bad debtors to feed to loan
sharks and rooting out squealers who should have known better than to inform on the kind of client that Frankie attracted. Occasionally, during dry patches, he’d dabble in “exposing
cheating partners”. While these infidelity cases dented his faith in romance, they didn’t stop him from lamenting the fact that he hadn’t found himself a wife – someone to
share his life with, someone who could sort out his paperwork, and who would keep their mouth shut about his irregular working practices.
    His office was a room above a bakery, a location which he blamed for his ever-expanding waistline. Every day the delicious smell of baking pastries rose up through the floorboards, and every
morning he couldn’t resist popping downstairs to get a supply of artery-clogging delights. However, on this particular morning Frankie decided to open his mail first, as a fat brown envelope
bearing a London postmark had caught his eye. This could be it , he thought, with a frisson of excitement that the prospect of money always induced in him.
    A week earlier he’d received a short, unsigned, typed letter inquiring whether he would be willing to take on a case which involved locating two people. It emphasized that the case
required absolute confidentiality and discretion, and that his reputation had brought him to the client’s attention. The letter promised that, should he take on the work and be successful, he
would be paid very generously indeed.
    Frankie knew that any client coming to him because of his reputation wasn’t going to be some little old lady looking for her cat. He didn’t even have to think twice about it.
He’d written back immediately to the PO Box number provided, informing the correspondent that he was willing and able to take on the case but would appreciate an advance as a sign of
goodwill.
    He pulled out the contents of the envelope: a couple of sheets of paper, a photograph, and a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes tied with an elastic band.
    “Wowee!” he said, counting the wad. “This one means business.”
    Next he turned his attention to the letter.
    PO Box 87
    London
    SW8
    Dear Mr. Byrne,
    Thank you for accepting the case. I now enclose the necessary information. The names of the two people in question are Celia Frost and Janice Frost. The report should provide you with
    enough information to locate them.
    The photograph enclosed may possibly be of Janice Frost. It was taken some years ago. If you find them it is imperative that you supply me with a DNA sample from Celia Frost, taken without
her knowledge. You must not identify yourself or give these people any reason to think that they are being sought. This case will be terminated unless the DNA you supply confirms the girl’s
identity so, once obtained, you must send it