Chapter 15: Fran

“Where are you from?” Charity asked as they waited for the café staff to arrange tables.

“Denmark,” the woman replied in her low, gravelly accent. She glanced around, afraid of being recognized or made to leave for her garish appearance.

“Really?” Celeste responded. “Like Copenhagen?”

“Not originally, no,” Fran replied hesitantly. “I was raised in a village called Ravsted to the west. But I ended up in Copenhagen when I ran away with my boyfriend.” She had finished her coffee by the time they returned to the outdoor restaurant. She held onto the cup, nervously taking the lid off and on.

Charity glanced at Pat as they took their seats. The woman returned her look with a raised eyebrow.

“How old were you when you ran away?” the redhead asked as their waiter handed them menus.

The woman took a menu uncertainly and gazed at it longingly, avoiding eye contact with her companions. “I was fifteen when I ran away. I lived in Copenhagen for seven years before friends convinced me to join them for holidays in the UK.” She gently set the menu on the table and pushed it away.

Charity pushed it back toward her. “Fran,” she stated firmly. “Look at me,” she ordered.

The woman lifted her face and glanced back at her, her expression filled with sorrow, fear, and shame.

“Let’s get this out of the way.” She pointed to herself and her companions. “We didn’t come here to eat. We had lunch an hour ago. We brought you back here so that you can eat. I see you’re hungry and haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

“I don’t have any...” she was stopped by the Native girl’s hands gripping hers.

“I don’t care. This is on me. To be clear ... I’m paying for your food. Pick what you want and enjoy it while I work on this sketch. And while you eat, we...” she indicated the rest of them, “want to hear your story.”

Celeste looked stricken as she silently observed their byplay. Pat and Terry sat back, their expressions full of pride.

Fran took the menu back and flipped it open hesitantly. Her eyes darted back up at the young artist, who settled back in her seat and took out her sketch pad. She stared calmly back.

“If you’re uncertain, I highly recommend the bangers and mash,” she added as she opened the pad and flipped through her drawings to the last one. “I felt like I was eating heaven.”

The woman nodded in relief at the recommendation, and Charity let Pat order the food. She ordered hot tea and coffee for the rest.

When her food arrived, Fran lost all pretense of hesitation and attacked it with gusto. They let her eat silently while watching Charity work on the rough draft. It lay flat on the table so they could watch her shade and detail with various pencils and chalk. “How long have you been on holiday in London?”

Fran finished her meal by wiping any remaining morsels with her bread and washing them down with coffee. Her mood lightened as her hunger was assuaged. She grunted as she finished her coffee. “That was early Spring, and I only had money for a few weeks stay, which turned into three months before my ‘friends’ got in trouble and got deported. Now it’s been nearly five months, and I can’t get a work visa because my passport is lost.” Her voice became despondent as she continued until she stopped speaking.

Celeste looked pale, covering her mouth. Charity glanced at her and made eye contact. Her voice was casual as she asked, “What do you recommend for a hearty dessert?”

The blonde girl returned to the present and turned to the waiter, checking on them and offering refills. “Excuse me, do you have any banoffee pie or bread-and-butter pudding?”

“I’m sorry, madam. We don’t carry either at the moment,” the young man replied politely.

“Right, perhaps, could we get a healthy portion of that apple berry crumble? With cream?”

“Very good, coming right up.” The man stepped away.

Thank you, Charity mouthed. “Are you saying you’re stuck here? You can’t get back home?”

The woman nodded quietly, staring intently at the drawing as it increased in detail and depth.

“Why can’t you request a new passport from the Danish Consulate?” Terry asked calmly. He could tell ‘Valkerie’ was ready to help the woman, so he asked the obvious.

Fran chewed her lips and refused to look back at him. Her shoulders seemed to droop as if the world’s weight were suddenly upon them. “It’s ... complicated,” she replied quietly.

Charity paused her work and glanced up at her guards. Pat was sucking on her lower lip with a thoughtful expression. She remained silent as the waiter returned and placed a generous portion of a delicious, steaming crumble before the blue-haired woman. He drizzled cream over it before setting the small silver boat next to her. Fran’s demeanor lightened slightly as she took up her fork and took small bites of the dessert.

“Ma’am,” Pat asked, leaning forward. “Are you in trouble? With the law?”

The Danish woman took a slow breath, waiting for the treat to cool. She set her fork down and nodded. “I was away when the police raided the hostel and took my friends. They were caught up in crimes like marijuana possession, burglary, and vandalism.” She took another bite and blew on it. “When I got off work, I found plainclothes cops waiting. They showed badges and took me to a women’s detention facility for vice.” Her voice broke as she teared up. “They charged me with solicitation and lied about catching me in the act!” she sniffed. “I’ve never...” she paused and took a tentative bite of her cobbler. “But look at me, and it’s easy to think otherwise, right?” she stammered, ashamed.

“So, they seized your passport?” Terry guessed.

She nodded, “I can’t get a work visa without it, so I can’t work until I pay off the restitution.”

Charity felt her heart tearing inside her chest as she set down her pencils and touched the woman’s arm. “What restitution?”

“I can’t pay the £500 fine, so I have to work it off under probation until I’ve completed 400 hours. I’m halfway done. And they keep...” She took another bite and looked over her shoulder nervously.

Charity straightened and scanned the square for anything suspicious. She looked back at Terry, who shook his head, indicating he was also watching.

“Fran?” she asked softly.

“I have nowhere to stay, and if I’m caught squatting or ‘dirtying up the place,’ they haul me away and...” she sobbed. “It’s not fair!” she cried softly. “I’m trying to do right by them, but they won’t let me alone...” Her despair made Charity swallow back her tears. Terry’s slight gesture to Pat caught her attention, and she looked up at them. Fran noticed, too, and looked back into the square.

“Oh fuck!” she gasped, sinking lower into her seat. It wouldn’t matter if she crawled under the table, the way her bright blue mohawk stood out. “I have to go now.”

“What?” Celeste asked fearfully. “What is it?”

Terry nodded toward the crowded plaza and followed his gaze until she spotted two men approaching their table. Their swagger and poorly fitting suits told her they had spotted the terrified woman.

With a resigned sigh, the Danish woman pushed her chair back and made to stand. Charity grabbed her arm tightly and pulled her back.

“I have to go with them,” the woman whispered tragically. “They will only use me for a couple of hours and then let me go as long as I don’t make a fuss.”

“The fuck they will!” the native girl hissed. A feral growl emanated from her throat as she glared at the approaching men. Her expression was hostile and hateful as she regarded the two.

Celeste sat across from her, face drawn and pale and body frozen in terror.

“At ease,” Pat stated calmly as she sat up straight and studied the vice cop’s arrogant posture. One stood taller than the other, filling his drab suit excessively. They resembled a poor Laurel and Hardy duo.

“Well then,” the shorter ‘Hardy’ remarked with a thick accent, “You’re late for your check-in, my girl. Doesn’t bode well with the magistrate when you don’t stay on task.”

“I did my hours, sir,” she replied bitterly without looking back. She gripped Charity’s hand tightly, and her body trembled.

“Tsk tsk,” the Taller ‘Laurel’ retorted. “Best come along quietly, lass.” He never took his eyes off her stooped back. “Come on now, don’t make it worse on yourself.”

Charity rose and turned to the two men, staring at them with a dark and hateful expression. “This woman is going nowhere with you!” she snapped. Behind her, the two dark figures of her security detail rose in unison. She didn’t see Celeste frantically digging into her handbag for her cell phone.

“Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” Hardy replied grimly. “Who are you, and why do you feel compelled to intervene in police business?” He turned toward her and stepped into her space, trying to intimidate her. He couldn’t know how ineffective his tactic was on the hardened Apache teenager.

“Step back!” Terry ordered as he moved behind his charge. Both men stared at him in surprise, and Hardy subconsciously stepped backward. Neither noticed the red-haired woman moving to cover their left flank.

Hardy quickly recovered and puffed himself up with bluster. “I’ll have your identification this instant, old boy!” he snarled.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the Irish ex-cop countered.

“Inspector Reginald O’Day, Scotland Yard, SCD9,” he retorted, briefly fishing a billfold from an inner pocket and flashing his badge. “This is my colleague Inspector Michael Helms.” The taller man repeated the gesture with his credentials. “Show me your papers! And be quick about it. You too, lass,” he ordered, nodding to Charity.

Terry calmly reached into his back pocket, producing a thick folded credential wallet, and handed it to the sullen inspector. “This young lady is a minor, and you can’t demand anything from her without due cause or compelling evidence of crime or risk,” he stated firmly.

“Terrance Gallagher, no middle name. Private Investigator and Personal Security ... Excelsior Security Group, Phoenix, Arizona.” The stout inspector glanced up at him. “Mate, you’re a long way from home.”

“He’s packing, Reg!” his partner declared, reaching for his sidearm tucked in his belt.

“So am I, cupcake,” a low feminine voice said behind him. “Why don’t you just ... keep it in your pants, Mikey,” Pat suggested in a voice that gave little inference it was a suggestion.

The tall inspector froze, and his face turned pale as he glanced at the taller woman behind him. She smiled brightly back at him.

“If you look closer,” Terry muttered distastefully, “you’ll see my Interpol permit to carry a firearm internationally at all times. On or off duty.” He nodded toward the woman behind Inspector O’Day’s companion, “The same goes for my colleague.” He gestured for his credentials to be returned. The Inspector handed them back. “Now let’s take a calm breath and de-escalate this situation before someone gets hurt?” he suggested in a similar tone to Pat’s.

“I don’t care what your business is here, mate,” the chubby inspector retorted. “It has no bearing on our task, so kindly bugger off and let us carry on with our job.”

“You’re free to carry your happy little asses anywhere you like, as long as it’s away from here,” the Irishman replied with a humorless smile. “This woman is our guest and will remain with us.”

“Now you look here!” Inspector Helms bristled. A soft tsking sound brought him up short, and he looked nervously back at the overbearing woman behind him. “This is a police matter, and you are to stand aside and let us carry on with our business!”

“I don’t think so, buddy! I suspect you’re operating out of your boundaries,” Terry replied. “Feel free to call it in.” He tucked his thumbs into his waistband and flexed his arms, nearly ripping the fabric of his sweater. “You’ll need plenty of backup to get through me to her.”

Charity took the signal and grabbed Fran’s arm, pulling her out of her chair and pushing her behind the towering bodyguard.

“Ah, I understand now,” Inspector Helm gloated. “You’re just another rich tourist hoping to sample a little ‘Danish’ before heading back to your princely home.”

She spun around and hissed at the arrogant inspector. “You sick mother fuckers!” she yelled loud enough to be heard around the square. “You get off exploiting helpless women by fucking them into submission and threatening them with horrible consequences if they talk!”

“Watch your tongue!” O’Day snapped as his face turned scarlet.

“Fuck you!” she snarled.

“What seems to be the problem?” a new voice interjected. Everyone turned to see three distinguished men in dark suits approaching from the boardwalk, entering the square. Behind them followed Alistair, Monty, Peter, Kathy, and Maggy. The twins looked decidedly cross compared to their usual flippant dispositions.

“And who are you?” the fat inspector demanded.

“The Right Honourable William Dodd,” the man declared with authority, producing a burgundy placard with his title and sigil embossed. “Minister of the Crown, appointed by Her Majesty the Queen as Deputy Secretary of the Home Office.” He stepped in front of the stocky inspector, who grew pale. “I will have your identifications immediately!” he held his hand.

Both inspectors quickly showed their badges and handed them to him. The dour man glanced at each credential and nodded, tucking them into his pocket. “Right then. You’re both done here,” he stated firmly. “Return to your division immediately!”

“Sir,” Inspector Helm stammered. “We need our credentials back!”

“You’ll be notified when and where to discuss whether you’ll get them back at all. Good day, gentlemen!” He dismissed them curtly with a shooing gesture. “These men will accompany you to ensure you don’t stray or dally.” He nodded to the other two suited men, who took position beside the dejected officers as they were led away.

“Holy shit!” Charity breathed in astonishment as the tension dissipated.

“Apologies for the distasteful shenanigans,” the man stated calmly. He turned to the blonde girl and bowed his head respectfully. “You would be Miss Antignon-Quentin?” he added.

Celeste quickly regained her composure, feeling better with her Uncles present. She nodded. “Yes, minister. Celeste,” she replied softly, extending her hand, which he took gently.

“It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance at long last,” he replied with a crisp smile. “I knew your father. We served together with the 1st Royal Gurkha Rifles.” He held her hand as she gazed back at him in astonishment. “I was commandant of the Malaun regiment when he served as my Attache. He was an outstanding soldier and a fine comrade. His loss was a tragedy.”

Charity moved next to the girl and felt her trembling. She swallowed with difficulty as she shared her friend’s pain.

“Thank you for your kind words, Minister,” she replied sadly. “It means a great deal to hear that.”

“My sincerest condolences,” he replied, releasing her hand. “As you grow into your role as heir apparent to the Quentin estate, we shall meet again. Under more favorable circumstances, I’m sure.” He turned to the tall, decrepit-looking woman with the blue mohawk. “Miss, I owe you a sincere apology on behalf of the crown and wish to make amends for how you have been treated.”

Fran opened and closed her mouth with a fearful expression, feeling scrutinized by a powerful authority figure. “I...” she stammered helplessly, feeling isolated and alone.

Kathy stepped forward, with Maggy close behind. “It’s okay, sweet girl,” she calmly stated as she put her arms around her thin shoulders. You will be okay.”

“We got you now,” Maggy said, touching her dirty, tear-stained cheek. “Everything will be alright.”

Fran sniffed as she glanced at the finely dressed women. They gazed back at her sympathetically, and her eyes filled with tears.

The Minister of the Crown stepped back respectfully and cautiously cleared his throat. “Right,” he said uncomfortably. “I’d take my leave, then.” He produced a small notepad and pen from his breast pocket. “Before I go, would you provide your name and vital statistics so I may rectify this issue with your passport and visa?”