"The best laid plans..." (Bring Out Your Dead series - Part 11)

 Continued from Episode 10 - "Threats and Promises?"

The story so far (you can read from the start at 'Board Stiff!'):  Josiah and Archibald, our two Undertakers, are on a mission to Spain to collect the mortal remains of Sir Lewisham Carnock.  At the same time, Detectives Wood and Stone are due to extradite Frankie 'Nighty' Knight back to the U.K.  Meanwhile, on La Manga, where both Sir Lewisham and Frankie have recently been staying...

Chantelle Lace (née Doreen Filbert) flicked listlessly through her book on research methods, a book she had been trying to develop an interest in for the last hour.  Soon, she would have to accept the fact that her heart just wasn't in it and probably go for a swim instead.   At the moment, however, she clung on to the pretence that she was actually doing some useful work.

It was a beautiful day on La Manga, the exclusive strip of land populated by celebrities, footballers (and their wives) and those with the funds, however gained, to be able to afford a luxurious holiday home.  Then again, it nearly always was a beautiful day.  Chantelle wondered if you could ever get tired of a constant diet of sun, sea and sangria?  She decided you probably could, but she was willing to risk it.

If asked, Chantelle would tell you that she was engaged in some preliminary work for her doctoral studies.  In reality, if she was honest with herself, she was marking time.  She had completed her Masters' degree nearly a year ago and should really have been continuing with her studies before she got out of the habit, but there was the age-old problem of funding. 

Chantelle had decided on a rather novel approach to educational finance.  'SugarPops.com' had been the key to this and a revelation to her, a web site which linked men with more money than sense with young ladies with the same attributes, but in reverse order.   A rather provocative photo and a titillating description had generated a slew of very enthusiastic, erstwhile 'sugar daddies', all willing to fund her studies in return for a little discreet affection.  Of all the applicants, she had somehow wound up with Frankie Knight, probably because of the completely untrue description of himself and his prospects but also, in reality, because of the promise of a life spent in cosseted luxury on the Iberian Peninsula.

Chantelle had decided, some time ago, that Frankie had probably more than reached his sell-by date.  As a replacement, she had harboured high hopes of an English aristocrat who had seemed to enjoy her talent for 'massage'.  His regrettable, and rather disconcerting, demise whilst partaking of her ‘therapy’, had rather put paid to those plans. 

Still, there was no urgency as yet.  Accessible funds were still there, she had the run of the villa and more rich men within massaging distance than you could shake a rubberised sex toy at.  As an added bonus, there was a complete absence of Frankie, due to his unfortunate detention by the forces of law enforcement.  It just showed, she smiled to herself, what could be achieved with an innocent post on social media.

The combination of the heat of the early morning sun, the sound of the water lapping in the pool nearby and the less than riveting descriptions of positivist and interpretivist research methods she was attempting to read about, all contributed to Chantelle's eyelids beginning to droop.  She was just in that fuzzy area, between sleep and wakefulness, when she felt fingers sliding around her beautifully tanned throat.  They continued their journey until the fingertips were pressing lightly, but firmly, on her larynx.  She stayed absolutely still, not daring to move a muscle.  The grip on her throat tightened by degrees and she decided she may as well risk opening her eyes and taking a look at her assailant.  The face she now viewed, albeit upside down, was well known to her.

"Frankie, sweetheart!"  She managed to gasp.

"'Ello Lacy, how's it going?"  Frankie grinned at her discomfort, "Still pounding the pages, eh?"

The pressure of nine and a half fingers (the result of a regrettable encounter with a Police Dog) eased on her throat.  She swivelled off the lounger and bounced up to hug her benefactor.  After a touching encounter, which went on for some time and involved a good deal of touching, she felt able to ask some questions.

"What are you doin' here love?  I thought they'd got you banged up?"  In Frankie's company, Chantelle thought it prudent to adopt the speech mannerisms she had studied, at length, on Eastenders.

"There ain't no jail can hold your Frankie now, is there?" Frankie leered at her deeply tanned and lissom body, "'Ow about a proper welcome home from my Lacy, eh?"

"'Course Frankie," She said, disentangling herself from his grip, "but what about the Old Bill, won't this be the first place they'll come looking?"

"Yeah, you're right" He agreed, despondently.  "I'd better make tracks.  Look, I need you to do something for me"

"Anything, Frankie, just say the word" Chantelle offered, enthusiastically, now that she knew he would be going again soon.

"I need you to pack up your things and get yourself on the next ferry to Morocco"

"Morocco?  Why Morocco?"

"It'll keep the coppers off your tail for a bit and give me time to get things sorted.  A mate of mine's got a villa out there we can use" He produced a wallet from his back pocket, fished around in it and retrieved a dog-eared business card "Get yourself down to Almeria and get the ferry to Nador, there's one every day.  When you get there, just show the taxi driver this card and he'll get you to my mate.  He'll sort everything out…he owes me" He added, darkly.

"But, what about you, Fwankie?”  Chantelle felt disgusted with herself for the use of such baby talk, but needs must. “Lacy will be fwightened without her big, bad Fwankie to pwotect her"

"Don't you worry about me, sweetheart.  I've got a plan!"

If there was one thing that Chantelle relied on to ensure an untroubled life of riches and study, uninterrupted by Frankie, it was his plans.  You would think that someone who had spent most of his adult life behind bars might have realised that he was no criminal genius, but self-delusion was a big part of Frankie's, admittedly dubious, charms.

"What you gonna do, Fwankie?" Chantelle asked, innocently.

"You don't need to trouble your pretty little head, darling.” He chucked her under her pert chin, “I've just gotta get back to Blighty."

"But, ain't that where the coppers were going to take you anyway?"  Chantelle pointed out, reasonably.

"Yeah, that's right" Frankie chuckled, "but I wanna get there under my own steam, don’t I?  Not in handcuffs!  I've got some cash to pick up and a couple of passports I've been promised.  Then I'll come and meet you in Morocco and the world's our whelk!"

"Oyster, Frankie, it's oyster"

"Yeah, well, I knew it was seafood didn't I?  Just 'cause I don't do all the reading you do…"  He sulked.

"How you gonna get back to England then?"  Chantelle hoped that a quick call to the relevant authorities might put a stop to all of this.

"Never you mind, sweetheart.  Just you make sure you're on that ferry.  Leave all the tricky stuff to your old Frankie" He beamed at his own brilliance.

Chantelle suddenly swivelled her head, as if she had heard an unexpected noise "Did you hear something then?" She asked, breathlessly.

"Right, I'm off."  Frankie made a bee-line for the back gate of the villa, "Just remember, get the ferry and don't forget that card"

The gate rattled on its hinges as Frankie departed swiftly.  Chantelle sank back on her lounger and cradled her forehead in her hands.  If there was one thing worse than Frankie Knight with a plan, it was Frankie Knight with a plan that she didn't know about.

Now read on in Episode 12