Tomorrow's Ghost

Book 792: Murder Room

by Anthony Price

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries; Spy Thrillers

Synopsis

“We want you to lay a ghost,” Frances Fitzgibbon is told as she is ordered to investigate the past of her superior, Colonel Jack Butler, at a decisive moment in his career. But why? For as Colonel Butler pursues an elusive IRA/KGB assassin, Frances finds herself confronting dangerous questions, when more than one spectre is raised from the dark past.

Release date: September 6, 2012

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 208

Sample

After only a week of exposure to her, Gary the Messenger Boy was ready to die for Marilyn the Temporary Secretary, Frances judged. So it was his good fortune that the scenario
did not envisage his role as being self-sacrificial.

‘Any urgent letters, Miss?’ he inquired, leaning hopefully over her desk as far as he dared. He had invented several extra collections a day since her arrival, and this was the first
of them. The secretaries had never had better service.

‘Thank you, Gary.’ Frances smiled at him and threw out Marilyn’s chest for his entertainment as she sealed the first of Mr Cavendish’s morning letters into their
envelopes. The gratification of Gary’s adolescent daydreams was not the worst thing she had ever done, if hardly the most admirable: it was simply the best and quickest way of doing what had
to be done.

‘Thank you, Gary.’ She offered him another smile with the sealed letters, leaning forward slightly as she did so. Although she lacked the measurements for a really spectacular view,
the top three buttons had been carefully left undone to offer what there was.

‘Thank you, Miss.’ Gary wiped his sweaty paw on the seat of his jeans before accepting the gift. But then, instead of turning to Mrs Simmonds at the next desk, he lingered in front
of her, rocking on his three-inch heels until she began to wonder if the lungful of over-applied April Violets which he had inhaled was about to knock him out.

‘Yes, Gary?’

He summoned up his courage. ‘Got another story for you, Miss – true story.’

Mrs Simmonds sniffed disapprovingly, though whether it was at Gary or the April Violets, Frances wasn’t sure.

‘Yes, Gary? A true story?’

‘The letters, Gary!’ snapped Mrs Simmonds.

Frances ran the tip of her tongue deliberately over Marilyn’s Glory Rose lipstick and gazed expectantly at Gary. Mrs Simmonds rated nowhere, compared with Gary; she was just a secretary,
and (which was more to the point) she didn’t gossip round the office like Gary.

‘I read it in this book,’ began Gary breathlessly. ‘There was this Indian uprising, see – ’

It had been an Indian uprising last time. Gary’s reading was either limited or highly specialized.

‘Comanches, they were. In Texas – ’

Perhaps Gary’s mother had fancied the hero of High Noon so much that she had imprinted him with an obsession to go with his name.

‘And there was this girl they took prisoner – a blonde like you, Miss – ’ His eyes feasted on the dyed curls ‘ – and they started to take . . . to take her
clothes off, Miss – ’

‘Gary!’ Mrs Simmonds fired his name like a warning shot.

‘But she was wearing this – this thing – ’ he floundered ‘ – it’s all laced up, with bones in it – ?’ He blinked desperately at Marilyn.

‘Whalebone,’ said Frances. ‘A corset?’

‘That’s it, Miss – a corset!’

‘Charming!’ murmured Mrs Simmonds, her back now as rigid as if it was also whaleboned and laced up, but interested in the Texan maiden’s fate against her better judgement.

‘And they couldn’t get it off, see – the Comanches couldn’t. So when they got her down they couldn’t – ’

‘That’s enough!’ snapped Mrs Simmonds. ‘Quite enough.’

Gary shook his head at her. ‘But it’s true, Mrs Simmonds – honestly it is. I can show it to you in this book.’

‘I believe you,’ said Marilyn encouragingly.

‘But that isn’t the end of it, Miss – ’ the words rushed out ‘ – they shot arrows at her, only the arrows stuck in the – the – in the bones
– an’ she was saved by the Texas Rangers.’

Before Mrs Simmonds could draw a bead on him he snatched the letters from her hand and scuttled out of the door.

Mrs Simmonds traversed her sights on to Marilyn. ‘Miss Francis . . . I know you’re only a temp . . . and you won’t be here with us very long . . . But you
really should know better – ’

The door swung half open and Gary’s grinning face appeared in the gap. ‘If they’d caught you, Miss – the Comanches – you wouldn’t have stood a chance!’
he delivered his punch-line.

‘Don’t be cheeky!’ Mrs Simmonds’ anger bounced off the closing door. She turned her back to Marilyn. ‘There! That’s exactly what I mean. If you give the dirty
little beast a chance – but you positively encourage him!’

Marilyn examined her Glory Rose nail polish critically. That was also exactly true, thought Frances, making a mental note to uproot any roses in her garden at home which might ever remind her of
this particular shade of red. And (looking down past her nails to what Gary had tried to see) Marilyn certainly wouldn’t have stood a chance with the Comanches either, that was also true.

Marilyn shrugged. ‘He’s harmless.’

‘Nothing in trousers is harmless.’ Mrs Simmonds caught her tongue as she stared at Marilyn, and Frances knew what she was thinking: that anything in trousers was as much Target for
Tonight to Marilyn Francis as Marilyn Francis was for anything in trousers.

Well, that was the trick – since there was no time for a more unobtrusive approach, in order not to be seen she had to be obvious. And there was nothing more unimaginably obvious than the
pink, red, blonde, brazen and bra-less Marilyn, with her eyes on all men from sixteen to sixty.

‘It’s all very well for you – ’ Mrs Simmonds began bitterly, and then brightened ‘ – you won’t be here very long . . .’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that . . .’ Frances toyed with the idea of touching up Marilyn’s lipstick. The trouble was, it would mean looking at her face, and that was not
something she particularly enjoyed. ‘. . . I quite like it here.’

Mrs Simmonds bristled. ‘Mr Cavendish’s proper secretary – ’ there was a heavy emphasis on the adjective ‘ – will be back from hospital in a
fortnight.’

‘There are other jobs that come up. Girls are always leaving, as I should know . . . I’m a bit cheesed off with this temping I think it’s time to dig in somewhere comfy,
like here.’ The time was just about right to plant the shape of things to come, anyway. ‘I hear there’s a secretary leaving in Research and Development – ’ she
winked at Mrs Simmonds ‘ – where all those groovy scientists are.’

Mrs Simmonds regarded her incredulously. ‘You’re joking – ?’

Marilyn gazed into space. ‘Some of them are quite young. There’s one that’s got a smashing sports car – I’ve seen him in the canteen. And he’s seen me,
too – ’

That was true. She’d made sure of that. And groovy Dr Garfield also worked right alongside ungroovy Dr Harrison, who just might be selling out British-American’s research and
development to Other Side, what was more.

‘Hmm . . .’ Mrs Simmonds’ lips were compressed so tightly that she found it hard to speak. ‘Well . . . you may not find that so easy. They don’t take just anyone in
R and D, you know. You have to have a security clearance, for a start.’

Marilyn giggled. ‘No problem, dearie. I’m absolutely secure.’

And that was also true. With the Security Officer already primed by the Special Branch, Marilyn’s translation to the rich pastures of R and D was a fait accompli, whatever the
opposition.

‘No problem.’ But that wasn’t the reason which Gary would put into circulation. ‘With my qualifications I can push ’em over any time – no
problem.’ Marilyn fluttered her false eyelashes and decided to examine her lipstick.

‘Hmm . . .’ What drove Mrs Simmonds beyond words was the knowledge that Marilyn’s shorthand and typing speeds, not to mention her actual secretarial qualifications and
efficiency, were as far above reproach as her morals were beneath it. And it was nettling her more than somewhat, thought Frances, that she also suspected the unspeakable Marilyn was relying on her
almost-see-through blouse and three undone buttons as much as 140 words a minute.

‘Hmm . . .’ Mrs Simmonds drew a shuddering breath. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, you won’t help yourself by making up to young Gary, I can tell you. He’s a
proper little chatterbox, that one – and what he says doesn’t lose in the telling, either. You know he’s already going round, telling everyone that you are – ’ Mrs
Simmonds clenched her jaws ‘ – “hot stuff” – do you know that?’

When it was all over, decided Frances, she would pad her expenses and buy Gary a copy of Jack Schaefer’s The Canyon, and maybe Howard Fast’s The Last Frontier
too. Not even the KGB’s disinformation experts could have done better.

‘He can say what he likes, I don’t care.’ She rummaged in her bag for the tawdry compact and the Glory Rose lipstick.

‘Well, you ought to.’ The phone buzzed at Mrs Simmonds’ elbow. ‘He fancies you. And you can’t possibly fancy him.’

‘That’ll be the day! He should be so lucky . . .’ Marilyn opened the compact, and Frances examined the ghastly little painted doll’s face. There was no accounting for
male taste, as she knew by bitter experience. She could only hope that the thing wouldn’t drag on so long that Marilyn took over completely, because then she would only let her down in bed,
as always.

The phone was still buzzing, unanswered. Which only went to prove that the prospect of a temporary Marilyn converted into a permanent one was as unnerving for Mrs Simmonds as it was for her.
Because it wasn’t like Mrs Simmonds to ignore the phone.

‘Hadn’t you better see who it is?’ said Frances without turning from Marilyn’s reflection. The eerie fact about that little face was that it no longer belonged to a
stranger, it was her face now. A week ago it had been an awful might-have-been; now it was a real face, on the way to becoming a should-have-been.

‘The way he looks at you – and not just him, either. I think you’re asking for trouble, young lady.’

‘I can look after myself.’ It’s looking at myself that frightens me, thought Frances.

‘I’ve heard that before.’ Mrs Simmonds reached for the phone. ‘All right, allright!’ She lifted the receiver. ‘British-American Computers –
’ she began with uncharacteristic abruptness, then caught her breath and shifted into her secretarial purr ‘ – Mr Henderson’s personal assistant, can-I-help-you?’

Frances put the compact back into her bag and picked up her desk diary.

‘No – ’ said Mrs Simmonds in her severest voice, dropping the ‘sir’, ‘ – no, it isn’t. I’m afraid you’ve been put through
to the wrong extension.’

Miss Francis relaxed. It was her contact, deliberately asking for Mrs Simmonds’ number in order to establish himself as one of the string of Marilyn Francis’s boyfriends.

‘Is this a business call?’ Mrs Simmonds’ voice was like a carving knife.

Frances concentrated on the schedule. Cavendish was actually interviewing two R and D men at 10.30, presumably to brief himself on the sales pitch for the Saudi Arabians at 11.15 tomorrow. It
would be advisable to double-check the booking at the Royal County Hotel, and the menu there too –

Pink, red, blonde, brazen, bra-less, but also efficient.

The opportunity for demonstrating the last in front of the R and D men was not to be missed. Perhaps she might even purchase some real coffee out of the petty cash for that 11.15 meeting: the
Saudis would not know much about advanced guidance systems, but they would certainly know their coffee . . . And after that it would be an easy day, with consequent opportunities for further
voyages of discovery and Marilyn-flaunting with the British-American labyrinth.

Contact was taking rather a long time, but judging from the grave and serious expression on Mrs Simmonds’ face he wasn’t actually being offensive.

‘Oh . . .’ Mrs Simmonds gave her a strange look. ‘Yes, of course I will . . . It’s for you, dear – that switchboard is hopeless . . . Yes, of course I will,
don’t worry. I’m putting you through now.’ She punched the extension numbers and then turned again to Marilyn, still wearing the serious expression. ‘It’s your father,
dear.’

‘My father?’ Miss Francis did not have to simulate surprise. It was contact’s job to handle all routine communications up to and including Alerts. ‘Father’
himself would never intervene except in cases of emergency.

Emergency.

Frances grabbed her phone. ‘Dad? Is that you?’

‘Marilyn, love?’

‘It’s me, Dad. What’s the matter?’

‘Marilyn, love – ’

The recognition sign was repetition.

‘It’s me, Dad. What’s the matter? Are you all right?’ For once the recognition jargon rang absolutely true.

Emergency.

‘It’s your mother, love – she’s been taken very bad. You must come home at once.’

‘What!’ Frances piled shock on surprise.

‘I’m sorry, love – springing this on you when you’ve just started your new job . . . But she needs you, your mother does. We both need you. You must come home to look
after her.’

Sod it! Sod it –

‘Home – ?’ Frances caught her anger just in time and transformed it into concern. ‘Right now?’

‘Yes, love. Right this minute. The doctor’s coming again this afternoon, and you must be there for him.’

Frances looked at the clock. Home – right this minute was a categorical order which left no room for argument: after all the time and careful planning that had gone into Marilyn
Francis, and just when things were shaping up nicely, they were pulling her out and aborting the operation.

‘Yes, Dad – of course. I’ll leave this minute.’

There’s a good girl. I knew you wouldn’t let your old Dad down.’

Sod it! thought Frances again. Something had gone wrong somewhere, but it couldn’t be anything she’d done, or not done, because at this stage she’d done nothing except be Miss
Marilyn Francis, and Miss Francis as yet hadn’t gone anywhere near Research and Development.

‘I’ll get the bus to Morden, Dad. I can get a tube from there.’

‘No need to, love. A friend of Tommy’s is coming down to collect you – young Mitch. You’ve met him, when he was in the army. He’ll pick you up at that cafe where
Tommy came that time, in about half an hour, say. Okay?’

‘Okay, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll be there.’

‘Goodbye then, love.’

‘Goodbye, Dad.’

She replaced the receiver automatically and sat staring at it for a moment. She had wasted a fortnight of her life as Marilyn, but now it was over and done with, and Marilyn was fading away, a
gaudy little flower who had blushed unseen and wasted her April Violets and Fabergé Babe on Gary’s nose. It was enough to make her weep.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ asked Mrs Simmonds solicitously.

But there was no time for tears: Marilyn Francis could not die just yet. Or rather, she must die as she had lived.

‘Yes . . . I’m okay.’

Mrs Simmonds reached across and patted her arm. ‘Of course you are, dear.’

So Control had already planted the information.

‘But my Mum’s very ill, my Dad says.’

‘Yes, I know. Your father told me.’ Mrs Simmonds nodded. ‘But you mustn’t worry. There are these drugs they’ve got now . . . and they’re finding new ones all
the time, you know.’

Plainly, he had gone even further: in order to remove the daughter convincingly and quickly he had made the illness terminal. Nothing less than such a confidence could have turned Mrs
Simmonds’ anger into sympathy.

But that was the last thing Marilyn Francis would have noticed at this moment, with a sick mum and an inadequate dad on her hands, and young Mitch to meet in half an hour.

She turned to Mrs Simmonds. ‘I’ve got to go and look after her – my Mum. My Dad’s dead useless.’

Mrs Simmonds winced at the adjective, but managed to keep the Awful Truth secret. ‘Yes, dear – naturally.’

‘I mean, I’ve got to go right now.’ Miss Francis reached for her typewriter cover. ‘The doctor’s coming to see her this afternoon. So I haven’t time to see Mr
Cavendish. Will you tell him?’

‘Of course I will. Don’t worry about that.’ Mrs Simmonds frowned suddenly. ‘Are you all right for money . . . to tide you over, I mean?’

‘Money?’ Frances realized suddenly that tomorrow was pay day.

Go directly home. Do not pass Go. Do not collect £58.55.

Mrs Simmonds reached for her bag. ‘I could let you have five pounds, dear.’

In the circumstances that was true sisterly generosity.

‘And I’ll phone up the Agency and tell them what’s happened,’ said Mrs Simmonds. ‘So don’t worry about that either.’

It wasn’t sisterly generosity at all; the old bitch had decided that the instant departure of Marilyn was cheap at £5, especially when the chance of ordering a better class of girl
from the Agency was included in the price.

Frances wondered whether Sir Frederick Clinton had a better class of female operative to hand on his books, complete with 140 words a minute Pitman’s.

But that was his problem now. More to the point, she wondered whether little Miss Marilyn Francis, painted and dyed, would have enough cash to tide her over at this stage of the week, and what
she would do if she hadn’t, and her Mum was very ill and she was having to throw up her job.

Poor little Marilyn!

Marilyn burst into tears.

In fact, poor little Marilyn revenged herself twice over on Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon before Paul Mitchell arrived at the transport cafe, once in the person of an elderly
lorry-driver who obviously feared that she was running away from home, and advised her against seeking her fortune in Central London, and the second time by a leather-jacketed youth of
indeterminate age who obviously hoped she was running away from home, and offered to bear her to the bright lights on the back of his Kawasaki.

So she had been forced to re-animate Marilyn briefly, first to shake her head at the lorry-driver and then to send the Kawasaki owner about his business –

‘Bug off! I’m waiting for someone.’

‘Suit yourself, scrubber!’

‘You’re late.’ The lorry-driver’s concern and the youth’s knowing contempt combined with the strains of the morning to fray Frances’s
nerves.

‘Christ! You look awful!’ Paul planted a kiss on her cheek before she could avoid him. ‘And what’s more – you smell awful too!’

‘And you’re still late. I thought there was an emergency of some sort?’

‘There is. But I’m not James Hunt – and if I was it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’ve come all the way from Yorkshire this morning, non-stop except for the
times the Police flagged me down for breaking the speed limit on the motorway – they should have sent a chopper for you, but all they had to spare was me. So get moving, Frances dear –
’ Paul picked up her cup and finished off its contents ‘ – Ugh! Because there are leagues to be covered ’ere 14.30 hours.’

He held the door open for her. The lorry-driver frowned and the Kawasaki youth gave her a jeering look.

‘Where are we going?’

Paul pointed to the yellow Rover directly ahead of them. ‘Back to Yorkshire again double-quick, if Jack Butler’s new car holds together so long. I would have preferred mine, but like
you say – it’s an emergency.’

She waited until he had settled down into the traffic. ‘What’s the emergency in Yorkshire?’

‘Ah . . . now there you’ve got me, sweetie. So far as I was concerned, everything was going according to plan. By now there’s probably total confusion, without Mitchell to put
things right. But when I left everything was A-Okay.’

Frances thought for a moment. ‘You know they pulled me off a job?’

Mitchell shook his head and put his foot down. ‘Nope. Or, at least, I didn’t know you were working until I saw you just now . . . and from our past acquaintance I’m assuming
that you don’t normally spend your free time dressed like a two-bit dolly-bird. Not that it doesn’t suit you – ’

‘Don’t be offensive.’

‘I wasn’t being offensive. I was just admiring the skilful way you have thrown yourself into your cover, whatever it may be, respectable Mrs Fitzgibbon. In fact, if I hadn’t
have known you, I wouldn’t have known you, if you see what I mean – even apart from the smell, that is.’

Frances took hold of her temper, recalling Paul’s technique of old. Once upon a time he had fancied his chances, and this was his juvenile response to being brushed off; but she must not
let it blind her to the knowledge that he was clever and efficient, and ambitious with it.

The effort of exercising will-power was steadying and soothing. They hadn’t pulled her out of British-American because anything had gone wrong there, but because something more important
had come up elsewhere. And, by the same logic, they wouldn’t have wasted Paul on a chauffeur’s job without good reason when he was involved in that same more important something.

‘Are you supposed to be briefing me – is that the idea, Paul?’

He grinned at her. ‘Good on you, Frances! That’s Jack Butler’s idea exactly.’

‘Colonel Butler?’

‘Colonel Butler as ever is, yes. Fighting Jack, no less – the Thin Red Line in person.’

‘He asked for me?’ Frances frowned at the road ahead. She knew Colonel Butler by sight, and a little by reputation, but had never worked under him.

‘No-o-o. Fighting Jack did not ask for you.’ This time he grinned privately. ‘Not for this little lark, he wouldn’t.’

‘What lark?’

‘What lark . . .’ Paul tailed off as he waited to leave the slip-road for the motorway proper. The Rover coasted for a moment, then surged forward across the slow and fast lanes
straight into the overtaking one. Frances watched the needle build up far beyond the speed limit.

‘What lark.’ Paul settled back comfortably. ‘I take it you’ve heard of O’Leary, Frances?’

‘Michael O’Leary?’

‘The one and only. Ireland’s answer to Carlos the Jackal.’

‘The Irish Freedom Fighters, you mean?’

‘Sure and begorrah, I do. De Oirish Fraydom Foighters – yes.’

Frances swallowed. ‘But I’m not cleared for Irish assignments, even in England.’

Paul nodded. ‘So I gather. But apparently there’s a Papal dispensation in the case of Michael O’Leary and his boyos. And on the very best of grounds, too, I’m telling
you, to be sure.’

‘On what grounds?’

There was a Jaguar ahead hogging the overtaking lane – far ahead a moment ago, but not far ahead now. Paul flashed his lights fiercely.

‘Get over, you bastard! Make way for Her Majesty’s Servants, by God!’ Paul murmured. ‘You’re breaking the bloody law, that’s what you’re
doing.’

The Jaguar moved over, and flashed back angrily as they swept past him.

‘On what grounds? . . . Well, for a guess, on the grounds that O’Leary is about as Irish as – say – the Russian ambassador in Dublin. Or if, by any remote chance, there
is a drop or two of the old Emerald Isle stuff in his veins . . . then because he’s not really concerned with foightin’ fer Oirish fraydom – at a guess, quite the reverse, if you
take my point.’

Frances took his point. It was what her poor romantic Robbie had always maintained, she recalled with a dull ache of memory: to him the Irish had always been more victims than villains, even the
psychos whom he hunted, and who had hunted him – hog-tied by ancient history which was no longer relevant, financed by Irish Americans who had no idea what was really happening to their
dollars, but ultimately manipulated by some of the very best-trained KGB cover-men in the business. It didn’t help the ache to recall that she hadn’t believed him, because he found Reds
under every bed; though at least she hadn’t argued with him, because it helped him to fight more in sorrow than in anger, even after three beastly tours of duty; she’d even been oddly
relieved, that last time, to learn that they hadn’t been responsible, his victims – at least not directly – for what had happened to him.

‘It’s not surprising really,’ mused Paul, taking it for granted that she had taken his point. ‘Whenever there’s trouble in Ireland, someone else has to cash in
– you can’t blame the buggers. The Spaniards did, and then the French, and the Germans. The KGB’s only bowing to history.’

Frances thrust Robbie back into his filing cabinet in the furthest corner of her memory, where he belonged. ‘We know that for sure?’

‘Not for sure. Nothing Irish is for sure. But it was the IRA that told us.’

Frances waited. Because she wasn’t cleared for Ireland she didn’t know much about the tangle of Irish security beyond what she had read in the weekly sheets in the department in her
secretarial days, when she had had to type them out. But in those days the IFF had amounted to little more than an abbreviation for Michael O’Leary’s expertise with the booby-trap and
the high-velocity rifle.

‘They don’t quite know what to make of O’Leary. They smell sulphur, if not Vodka – though Vodka doesn’t smell, does it! Say caviare, then . . .’ He nodded to
himself, watching the road. ‘They’ve been prepared to take the credit for his hits – in Ulster.’

‘But now he’s come to England?’

‘That’s right. “To take the war into the enemy country”, as he puts it. We think they think he may make the war a bit too hot for them – so they’ve
dropped us the word. Only they don’t know where he is, and nor do we.’

‘He’s pretty elusive, then.’

‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’s got nothing on Michael O’Leary. But we do rather think he’s using some of the KGB ultra-safe houses in Yorkshire, as a matter of fact. Just a
hint we’ve picked up.’

Back to Yorkshire double-quick.

Frances nodded. ‘And just what is his war, exactly?’

‘Ah . . . well, you see he’s got a little list. Of Criminals Sentenced by Military Tribunal for Crimes Against Ireland, as he calls it.’

‘But that’s old hat.’

‘Sure it is. So everything in Ireland is old hat – it’s all just a re-run of the same old late-night films we’ve seen half a dozen times before. Only this time maybe the
KGB has bought the natural breaks to advertise their product.’

And that did make a difference, thought Frances grimly. It might even change the end of the film itself.

‘I see. And the top name on the list is to be found in Yorkshire, presumably – is that it?’

‘Yes . . . and no – ’ Paul stopped as he glanced in his mirror.

‘What does that mean – yes or no?’

‘It means . . . hold on to your seat-belt, Frances dear. We are about to be flagged down by the Police – ’ Paul gave her a quick reassuring smile as he decelerated and began to
pull across the lanes towards the hard shoulder ‘ – but nothing to worry about.’

The car crunched on loose gravel. The silence inside it was suddenly unnerving, punctuated as it was by the intermittent roar and shock-wave of passing lorries labouring their way to the
industrial north. Frances watched the sleek police car pull in just ahead of them, a Rover identical to their own except that it was white and ornamented with a dashing blue-red-blue stripe along
its flank.

A tall young constable got out cautiously and came back to them. Paul wound down his window and fumbled inside his jacket.

The policeman bent down and peered in at them. Frances saw his eyes widen and was instantly aware that Marilyn’s split . . .