Two hours later, the lounge bar of the Horse and Hounds pub was slowly filling with its normal Friday evening regulars, many of whom were detectives from the nearby SCF HQ. It was now several weeks since Hugh Gregson’s funeral and the initial shock of his sudden death had passed. Life had drifted back to a strained normality as Len Crawford tried to keep things on track as acting superintendent. That he was uncomfortable in the role was clear from the constant pained expression that had settled like a monsoon cloud over his features; he couldn’t wait for the new detective superintendent to be appointed. The problem was that if anything was happening on that front, the DCS was saying nothing.
First to arrive at the pub of the SCF team were Neil Bottomley and Dave Coulson, one of the DCs. Although Rosselli had never seen either of them before, as soon as they came through the door, every nuance of their bearing spelled cop to him. He doubted they would give him more than a passing glance, but if they were any good, they should have at least registered his presence. He repositioned his iPod so that its microphone would target their conversation, separating it from the general background rumble of chatter and laughter. He saw their eyes occasionally scanning the room while they practised the art of quiet, inconsequential conversation. As two local men relaxing after a long week, their accents shifted up a gear to a level that Rosselli found harder to follow. However, they had, so far, only talked about football and more importantly, he was sure their eyes passed over him with no interest whatsoever.
After five minutes, two more detectives joined them and although the conversation became noisier with banter about the relative merits of Forest and County, nothing work-related crept into it. This continued for a further ten minutes with none of the detectives now giving Rosselli a second glance. He had blended into the furniture and was essentially invisible. Goccia dozed on a chair beside him, content with the occasional reassuring ruffle of her head from Rosselli’s fingers. When a tall, fit-looking black guy walked in and made for the group, Rosselli immediately focussed his attention on him. Was this the Derek he had read about in the reports on Freneton, the one also mentioned by Henry Silk?
“Justin, my boy,” boomed Neil Bottomley, “once again you live up to your moniker, and guess what? It’s your round.”
Derek cast a disparaging look at what remained in Bottomley’s glass. “Pushing the boat out tonight are we, sarge? Sure you can drive to Southwell on all that ginger beer without stopping for a leak every hundred metres?”
Bottomley pulled a rueful face. “At three weeks from giving all this up, I don’t want to risk my pension by having some wet-behind-the-ears young bobby stop me and wave a breathalyser at me, do I?”
Derek motioned to the barmaid to fill the glasses. She smiled at him. “Usual for you, Derek?”
“Yes, please, Nancy, gotta rehydrate before the training session.”
“Worried that Jennifer will have the edge on your sprints around The Park, laddie?” said Bottomley, smirking at him.
“You’re joking, sarge,” scoffed Derek, “I could be three sheets to the wind and I’d still beat her.”
“Doesn’t do to steal the limelight from one of your senior officers, DC Thyme,” added one of the other detectives. “Isn’t that right, DS Bottomley?”
Neil Bottomley looked suspiciously at his ginger beer and nodded in mock seriousness. “Aye, laddie, you’re right. Both DS Cotton and I expect full respect at all times, you know that. My advice to you, young Thyme, is to let her win if you know what’s good for you.”
Rosselli sighed silently in relief. He hadn’t understood the joke when Neil Bottomley called Derek by the nickname of ‘Justin’, and had thought that maybe he had the wrong man. But now, the subsequent banter had confirmed his original thoughts and added more information: the black detective was DC Derek Thyme. Rosselli was now so focussed on processing the intense flow of intelligence that he didn’t notice another figure approach the group, half hidden by the swelling crowd, until he heard her voice.
“He doesn’t have to let me win; it comes naturally to me,” announced Jennifer as she emerged into Rosselli’s full view. Turning to Derek, Jennifer continued. “Come on, it’s time for your usual thrashing.”
Derek stood to attention. “If you say so, ma’am. Are we going for a run as well?”
The detectives winced as one at Jennifer’s withering look.
As she made to go, the sudden movement caught Goccia’s attention. In an unusual response, the pug pricked up her ears and barked. Jennifer turned to look; in the few seconds she’d been in the bar, she hadn’t registered the presence of the dog or its owner. She smiled and took a step towards Rosselli.
“What a cutie,” she said, offering the dog the back of her hand. Goccia jumped up, her tail becoming a propeller as her eyes fixed on Jennifer’s.
“May I?” said Jennifer, glancing at Rosselli.
Rosselli forced a smile. “Of course.” He would have preferred to have kept his distance.
Jennifer reached out to rub Goccia’s neck. “Very pretty. What’s her name?”
“Goccia,” said Rosselli, one hand adjusting his tinted spectacles. “ Her name is Goccia.”
“Interesting handle for such a little bundle,” said Jennifer, as something pinged quietly in the deep recesses of her mind.
“It’s just a name,” said Rosselli, “but she seems to like it.”
He dropped his iPod into his pocket and picked up the dog. “Come, Goccia, time for your stroll.”
“Gotcha?” called someone from the group of detectives as Rosselli walked past them. “Police dog, is she?”
Jennifer waited for the man to leave, assessing him as he disappeared into the crowd.
“It’s Italian,” she said, turning to the group. “It means a drop or droplet.”
She touched Derek’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s get home and hit the tarmac.”
She hurried out of the pub, hoping to see which way the man had gone, but there was no sign of him. He had vanished.
Chapter Eighteen
Rosselli felt elated and angry in equal proportions. His stake-out in the pub had provided him with two important pieces of information. Firstly, his target’s name wasn’t Jennifer Silk after all; it was Jennifer Cotton. He didn’t understand why that would be the case when her father was Henry Silk. Unless of course the girl had been married and carried her husband’s name, as was the custom in the UK, a custom he found rather bizarre. Certainly, if she had been married, it was all over since she was clearly attached to the black detective. He shrugged as he hurried away from the pub with Goccia. It was inconsequential detail; the girl’s personal life wasn’t his problem.
The second snippet of information was that Cotton and Thyme appeared to live in or near a residential area called The Park. Rosselli had come across the area when he was researching maps of the city, drawn to it because it was a private estate close to the city centre into which the Google Street View cameras had only been allowed to record two tiny grassed areas. There were no street-level details of the houses or roads to be found. The area stood out like a black hole in the long-distance satellite shots that showed the Street View grid of the city, but given the high quality of the overhead shots now available, much of the detail of the individual houses was still visible from above. Once he had discovered where Jennifer Cotton lived, he could make plans and supplement them with walks around the area during the daytime when the detective wouldn’t be there to spot him.
For this was the essence of his anger; he had been rather too physically close to his target and while, thankfully, he had been disguised, she had heard him speak. He knew his English accent was perfect, but would someone with Jennifer Cotton’s finely tuned bilingual ear detect any Italian in his vowels? He had used Goccia as a distraction and it had slightly backfired on him since using her in the future would only draw attention to him. He hoped the UK TV cartoon channels were as good as the Italian ones; he might need them.
Back in his hotel r
oom, he removed his disguise and relaxed on the bed. After calling Giorgio for his daily update, he opened his laptop and worked his way through a UK electoral register site. For a small fee, he quickly discovered Jennifer Cotton’s full address in a flat that was part of a house on Lincoln Circus. The name puzzled him until he discovered from a map that the circus was a large, grassed roundabout near The Park’s upper end. He noted from the data that Derek Thyme was not listed as living at the same address. Another ten minutes on the register site and he had Thyme’s details as the owner of a flat in the Nottingham suburb of Beeston. He didn’t know if this information would be valuable or not, but he stored it away just in case.
Shortly after ten the following morning, after apologising to Goccia for having to leave her in the hotel room, Rosselli made his way to The Park to examine Jennifer Cotton’s house. His appearance bore no relation to the distinguished elderly man who had been sitting in the pub the previous evening with his dog. Dressed from head to toe in black lycra with black running shoes to match, he ran The Park’s main roads in an elegant stride for over an hour, and, while he touched on many of the roads and junctions, the one he focussed on was Lincoln Circus. While apparently checking his performance on an app on his phone, he stopped to take a series of shots: the entrance gate, the imposing seven-foot wall around the property, bell-pushes and what he could see of the house from the road through trees that partly blocked his view. As he did, the gate in the wall opened and a middle-aged woman walked out and strode off in the direction of the city. By sheer good luck, he had his phone to his face as he play-acted a short-sighted study of the screen while in reality recording the view through the gate.
Later, he would combine the information with that from the bell-pushes to find that there were four flats in the house, two on each floor, Jennifer’s occupying half of the upper floor. And she was the owner. This was an apartment far costlier than a police detective constable or sergeant could afford; she must have had help from her film-star father.
The other useful information from his photographic recce were details of the many security cameras on the house exterior. They were top-of-the range models, again indicating there was money behind DS Cotton. Lucky girl, thought Rosselli. Until now, that is.
The presence and quality of the security cameras indicated to Rosselli that any attempt at breaking into Cotton’s flat would be foolhardy. It would be next to impossible to achieve it and remain unseen. No, she would have to meet her demise elsewhere. Perhaps it would involve her car. Once Rosselli had the details, he could work on a plan to follow her and maybe arrange an accident of some sort. It was only a notion at that point; Jennifer Cotton’s departure from this life was still a work in progress.
Part Four
Trisha McVie
Chapter Nineteen
Jennifer was about to head out for lunch the following Monday when her mobile pinged. She glanced at the screen and smiled.
“Trish! Hi. I’ve been meaning to call you.”
“Yeah, I know how it is. Out of sight and so on.”
“Not true and you know it,” protested Jennifer. “Actually, I got a call from Sofie over the weekend and she said the two of you had had a fun night on the tiles.”
“Yeah, she’s got hidden depths that girl and even though she seems to be infected with the same fitness fanaticism, she’s a better drinker than you.”
She paused before continuing in a far softer voice. “Listen, are you somewhere quiet where you can react to some earth-shattering news with gusto, or do you think you can contain yourself in front of your colleagues?”
Jennifer glanced around the squad room. “Most of them have gone for lunch, and the two that are left are more or less out of earshot, if I keep my voice down. Come on, shatter away. Don’t tell you’ve found Mr Right and he’s proposed?”
“That wouldn’t be earth-shattering, it would be galaxy-bursting. No, nothing new on that front, well, not really.”
“So, what is it? Don’t keep me dangling.”
“I’ve been studying my crystal ball and I have a prediction for you.”
“A prediction? What do you mean?”
“I predict that tomorrow morning, if not before, but I don’t think it will be before, no—”
“Trish, you’re waffling.”
“Sorry. I predict that tomorrow morning, DCS Hawkins will make an announcement to the gathered ranks of your illustrious team.”
Jennifer’s eyes widened. “You mean you’ve heard who’s going to—”
“Don’t say it!” interrupted Trisha. “Remember, if there are ears in your room, they’ll be trying to tune in.”
“Well, you say it then.”
“Hawkins will announce who your new D Super is going to be.”
“And you have some insight into that?”
“I do, yes.”
“And?”
“Ready for this?”
“Stop teasing … oh my God, you don’t mean … Wait! Don’t say another word. I need to shift.”
Jennifer jumped up from her desk, hurried into the corridor and along to the stairs where she knew she wouldn’t be overheard. But just to be sure, when she carried on talking, it was in an excited whisper.
“It’s not you?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“You mean it is?”
“Yes, DS Cotton, I’m going to be your new guv.”
“Madonna e tutti i santi!”
“What?”
“You’re kidding me, right? I thought things were really clicking where you are.”
“They are, but there’s still something about it that’s not right. And anyway, when Hawkins phoned and—”
“He phoned?”
“Yes, to suggest I might like to think about it.”
“When was that?”
“About a week ago.”
“And?”
“I thought about it, and then I talked it over with my boss. He wasn’t over happy about the idea but although I don’t actually like him a lot, he’s a genuine enough guy who thinks about other people as well as himself. He said he thought it would be a good career move, reminded me that Hawkins has about three years before retirement, so if it all works out …”
“Gosh, DCS.”
“Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. The important thing is that in spite of its recent trials and tribulations, your team has a pretty good reputation, so being part of it at a command level can be no bad thing. I mean, for all his gruffness, Hawkins is highly thought of. Rumour has it that he’s turned down further promotion a number of times because he’s so dedicated to what he’s doing now. Sees it as a fitting end to a distinguished career.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about ‘congratulations’?”
“Sorry, yes, of course. I’m thrilled for you, and working with you, or rather for you, will be brilliant. It’s just that …”
“I know, you’re worried about dynamics. We’ll have to work that out. Probably have to keep our piss-ups to your place or mine once I have one, rather than the streets of Nottingham.”
“It wasn’t the piss-ups I was thinking about, it was the office. Working together. That’ll be something new.”
“We’ll sort it, Jennifer, don’t worry. I think we know each other well enough to strike the right balance.”
“What does, er, what’s his name? I keep forgetting.”
“Steven.”
“Yes. What does Steven think? He can’t be over-impressed you’ll be moving out.”
“I haven’t told him yet.”
“What!”
“To be honest, I think it’s run its course. He’s a selfish bugger, which of course I am too, but if there ever was a spark, it’s pretty much gone. When I tell him, there’ll be a monumental row and I’m not ready for it. He was away in the States all last week, gets back tonight. I won’t broach it until he’s got over the jet lag, but I suspect I shall arrive unencumbered.”
“Fairly soon, as it happens. Hawkins, being the impatient sweetheart you know and love, of course wants it to be yesterday. And as it turns out, he has almost got what he wants. I’m at a good point case-wise to hand over without dropping some poor sod in it, so I’ll be able to report for duty in a week or two. But in the meantime, once he’s announced it tomorrow, Hawkins wants me to pop up to be introduced to everyone. You and Derek are the only ones I’ve ever met, apart from Hugh Gregson, of course, and I was as devastated as everyone else to hear the news. He was such a good bloke and a great cop. It’ll be a challenge to step into his shoes.”
“I’m sure they’ll fit you better than they are temporarily fitting Len Crawford. I know I’m not supposed to say this, but you’re not my boss yet so I will. He’s really floundering.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve been told he’s a lifelong lieutenant, not a leader. Of course, I haven’t actually met him, so perhaps I shouldn’t pass judgement.”
“His heart’s in the right place, but he’ll be happy to have an immediate senior officer to make the important decisions.”
“OK,” said Trisha, laughing loudly. “That seems to have everyone sorted and in their place.”
“Which day are you here?”
“I’m driving up tomorrow evening for the meet and greet on Wednesday morning. I’ll stay over until about Thursday lunchtime, but I’ve got to be back for a meeting here late Thursday afternoon with some prat of a politician. I shall be happy to trample all over his pomposity now I know that I won’t be dealing with him again.”
“Attagirl. Do you want to stay at my place, the spare room’s always ready and waiting?”
“Thanks, but Hawkins wants to keep it formal. He’s booked me into a hotel for a couple of nights. Somewhere near the SCF.”
Jennifer laughed. “Probably the Old Nottingham. It’s right outside The Park. Watch out for the ghost of your predecessor, Olivia Freneton. That’s where she spun her web around Henry. It all began there.”
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