“Was this today?”
“Yes, this morning, just before I texted you. Anyway, Crawford, that’s the new DCI, sent me and Bottomley round—”
“Bottomley and me.”
“What?”
“Nothing. He sent you round …”
“Yes. We took a quick look and requested a full forensic team to search the place. It’s so good having the lab in Nottingham now; they were round within half an hour.”
“Impressive.”
“Yeah, and they quickly came up trumps. They found traces of blood in the van which they’ve already done a preliminary DNA test on. It matched Freneton’s, so this is definitely the right place. They’re testing swabs from all over the flat too, of course, and they’ll have the DNA on those tomorrow, but there’s not much doubt it’ll be hers.”
“What about the van’s plates?”
“The number’s fake, not stolen but made up. Not in the system, never has been. So this afternoon, Crawford got everyone in on checking the videos from the traffic cameras that were taken on the night of the Harlow Wood case, checking for any sign of the van. And, ba-boom, there is.”
“That was quick.”
“It’s amazing what you can do when you’ve got ten people determined to get a result. We can now put the van in several places near Harlow Wood and on the way back to Nottingham, all of it consistent with Freneton driving it back to West Bridgford after the incident. There’s even a couple of shots that could show her face even though it was dark. Those have gone off for enhancement, but we’re hopeful.”
“Great stuff, but nothing we didn’t already know.”
“Right, but there’s more in the flat. The forensic people found a modem attached to a webcam that activates when someone walks in front of it, but guess—”
“Derek, that’s really worrying,” said Jennifer, cutting in. “She’ll now know the flat’s been discovered and that you’re back on the SCF team. You mustn’t forget you’re a target — how could you? — along with Bottomley and Hawkins.”
“You too, Jen, and Henry, but—”
“Was there anything to indicate where she might be?”
“Jen, let me get a word in. I was trying to say that although the modem was there and plugged in, it wasn’t working; the camera wasn’t live. The techies reckoned it could’ve cut out in a storm — a power surge or something. Apparently there was one that hit a few places around here about a week ago. So even if she’s checking the webcam regularly, she’ll only know it’s not working. She won’t know it’s been found.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Yeah. What we’re hoping is that when she discovers it, she’ll risk coming back to check the place, since the flat is probably very useful to her. And she might want to retrieve the white van.”
“How will you know?”
“Regular beat patrols; a uniform will drive past every three or four hours, plus someone from the SCF will look in several times a week. We’re putting all her stuff back too, so she shouldn’t know the place has been searched. You never know, she might even move in.”
Jennifer grunted. “I shouldn’t rely on it, and there should be two of you checking when you call in. She’s dangerous, Derek.”
“Don’t worry, Jen, we’ve got it covered, and to answer your question, no, there was very little else in the place apart from some maps of places in the South West and Ireland.”
“Interesting. Anything on them? Marks, indentations, a ring around the remote cottage she’s holed up in and her phone number in the margin?”
“You wish. No, there didn’t appear to be anything, but we’ve sent them to the forensic document people for checking.”
“Weren’t there any clothes in the place?”
“A few, yes, including some motorcycle leathers.”
“Of course, there had to be. How could I forget the motorcycle she intended to escape on, the one I put out of action a few minutes before she put me out of action. Was there a ramp in the van for her to run a motorcycle inside?”
“Yes, there was, although of course she didn’t get to use it since you buggered her bike for her.”
“I wonder where she is. Has the van’s number, fictitious though it is, been run through the UK traffic computers for records of any infringements anywhere in the country? Speeding, parking and so on?”
“It’s under way, but nothing’s come up so far.”
Jennifer stared absently through the huge picture window as she thought over the information, the moonlit view of the Tyrrhenian sea in surreal contrast to the mental images flashing through her mind.
“What’s up, Jen?”
“Nothing, just musing. Look, I know I said this just now, but you have to be extra vigilant over your security. All of you. If by any chance Freneton has got wind of this, she might be more determined to finish what she started. You have been checking under your car, haven’t you?”
“Of course I have, ever since I got back. It’s become a routine, a compulsion almost. Some of the lads are referring to me as OCD Thyme instead of DC Thyme.”
“And your flat?”
“Well, I’ve beefed up the locks, got an alarm, but I couldn’t get all the stuff Pietro’s security people recommended; it would be too expensive. If I installed it and anyone broke in, they’d be better off stealing the alarm system; it would be worth more than the contents of the flat.”
“That’s not the point. And Pietro would have underwritten the cost.”
“Can’t accept that, Jen, as you well know. It’s different for you; he’s a relative and therefore he can pay for things. Anyway, there are other things I can do that also come under the OCD umbrella. You know, like place stuff in a very specific way, stuff someone is likely to pick up and move. And as far as info about you is concerned, I’ve made sure there’s absolutely nothing. Not on my computer, not in my desk, no written records. Nothing. As you know, I make all my Skype calls on my phone, and I have that with me at all times. And since I’ve turned off the cloud thing, nothing on my phone gets shared anywhere else.”
“Just as long as she’s not just sitting there waiting for you when you get home, like she was with Mandy Gwo.”
“I wouldn’t let her get the same advantage over me that she got the last time. I’d be ready for her kicks.”
“Make sure you are.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I wonder where she is, Derek. The West Bridgford flat could be one of any number of boltholes she’s got. What about the maps? Is there anything in her force records to link her with the South West or Ireland?”
“Not that I know of, but she’s got to go somewhere. And they would be good choices. Lots of remote locations.”
“Yeah, but, you know, I don’t buy into the idea of her sitting on her backside festering in her hatred. Even if she were broke, she wouldn’t do that; she’d be doing something about it. Which does raise the question of what she’s doing for money. It’s not as if her income as a detective super would have left her with a fortune stashed away for a rainy day. She can only have limited resources. And probably no bank account, credit card etc.”
“I don’t know, Jen. After all, she had alternative IDs when she was on her killing spree, the Taverner and Doughthey ones. Perhaps she has others.”
“Possible, I suppose. But I’m still finding it hard getting my head around her being holed up somewhere remote for months on end. She’s got to be plotting our collective murders, surely. I mean, it’s been months since she killed Mike Hurst and Mandy Gwo; I’m surprised she hasn’t gone after Neil Bottomley and/or Hawkins. She knows where they are and from what you’ve told me they’re doing nothing to hide from her.”
“Well, at least you’re probably out of her clutches while you’re over there. Talking of which, any more news from your doc? You said last week you reckon he can’t hold out much longer.”
Jennifer laughed. “You’re right. I’m convinced Pietro is leaning on him, telling him to keep me here for as long as
possible. He’s coming over to give me a check-up tomorrow and I intend to bully him into letting me go. I want him to show me all my charts and explain how they differ from a normal healthy person. And once I’ve forced my doctor’s hand, I’m pretty confident I’ll be given a clean bill of health, which is perfect timing.”
“Why’s that?”
“My new boss is paying me a visit in person to discuss my role.”
Derek didn’t even try to hide his surprise. “You mean he’s flying over to Italy for a meeting with you? You, a DC? Unless they’ve made you a chief super and you forgot to tell me.”
“Very funny. But, yeah, it’s interesting. He made a point of saying it’s important we meet here.”
“P’raps he fancies a weekend away from the crap weather we’re getting in the UK at the moment. September is normally good, but it’s done nothing but rain for the last two weeks.”
“We could do with some of that here.”
“Yeah, I feel sorry for you. All that sun, sea and sand gets very boring, couldn’t wait to get away from it myself.”
“Well, I’ll be leaving it behind pretty soon too, if I have any say in the matter.”
“When’s he arriving, your new boss? Who is he, anyway?”
“His name’s Paul Godden and he’s arriving in a couple of days’ time.”
Chapter Thirteen
In the two months since Olivia had contrived her meeting with Connie, things had gone well. The sensible and controlled Diana side of Olivia’s personality had come to the fore and kept the wilder, angrier needs of her Olivia side in check. The lessons had helped. Both women were improving daily with their language skills, Olivia more so than Connie since her innate ability was greater. But Connie’s determination and eagerness made up for much of the shortfall in her ability.
Every day after their respective language lessons from Rossi, and Connie’s art class from Signor Contorni, they would sit down on the terrace of the hotel or on Connie’s substantial penthouse balcony and talk through what they’d learned. Olivia would encourage Connie by getting her to explain in Italian what Contorni had shown her. This would inevitably result in peals of laughter from both women as first Connie and then Olivia invented words and phrases, followed by Connie impersonating Cortorni’s liquid but serious tones while Olivia would reply with a passable take on Rossi’s persistent and persuasive style. Connie was constantly adding to her substantial collection of art books, a large number of which would end up scattered around them as she dived from one to another showing Olivia an example of this artist’s work here and that artist’s there. Olivia would quietly and, she hoped, inconspicuously clench her jaw, resisting the desire to yawn, determined to mask her total lack of interest in art.
Dinner would follow, often in the hotel’s superb restaurant, which was one of the finest in Rome, or at somewhere Olivia had discovered from discreet conversations with Lorenzo, the maître d’. She knew this was far more reliable than going online: the type of restaurants they visited were seldom written up by people like Connie — people who preferred exclusivity to sharing, people who had people to handle their computers for them rather than tapping on keyboards themselves.
They normally restricted themselves to a single bottle of wine, always a fine vintage, always Italian, while nightcaps in the bar or in Connie’s room varied depending on how Olivia perceived Connie’s mood. An exclusive limoncello with plenty of ice was a definite favourite.
There was occasionally a faraway look in Connie’s eye as she said goodnight that made Olivia wonder about her physical needs. They rarely discussed men, except in disparaging terms, or women, and Olivia certainly wasn’t inclined to make any move. If there were to be one, it would have to come entirely from Connie, and while she was prepared to accommodate Connie’s needs if she perceived it necessary, Olivia doubted it was. She was fairly sure the faraway look was simply one of trusting friendship rather than a yearning for anything sexual. She hoped that was the case: she was concerned that if they did end up in bed together, the Olivia in her would take over and throttle Connie.
Connie’s sessions with Cesare Contorni and Alessandro Rossi not only gave Olivia a welcome break from her target and her alter ego of Diana, but also the opportunity to plan possible scenarios for her yearned-for return to England to complete her disposals. She filled notebook after notebook, consolidating their contents onto her laptop using mind-mapping software. She delighted in immersing herself in the task of crafting one contingency plan after another, all of which she knew were brilliant, all of them flexible and dynamic. It was at these times, when she was using her considerable intelligence to process her schemes, that she felt most alive, the taut strings of her mind in perfect resonance with the flow of ideas.
Integral to many of her plans were her two boltholes in England: the West Bridgford flat and the caravan on the Kent coast. And because of the key role they played, it was essential to know they had not been discovered — the last thing she needed was to turn up at one of them to find a welcoming committee from the SCF.
To monitor them, Olivia had installed webcams. Of the two, the West Bridgford one should have been the more reliable: it had a good power supply, the bills were all paid up front and there was even a back-up rechargeable battery in case of mains outage. By contrast, power supply to the caravan was strung across several poles in a field, looping from van to van and always subject to the idiotic and unpredictable behaviour of occupants of other vans. It was, therefore, a shock when on a routine daily check of the feeds on her computer, Olivia discovered the West Bridgford webcam had failed the previous afternoon.
Given there was no indication of an intruder on the feed from the West Bridgford flat, the question was why had it failed. Living in Italy, where the power supply is capricious at the best of times and often destructively excitable in electric storms, Olivia was used to the inconvenience of power surges and she strongly suspected the failure was weather-related. The UK weather report for the previous afternoon confirmed her suspicions: violent thunderstorms had been recorded in the West Bridgford area as a mini-tornado wreaked havoc across the region. Several buildings had suffered direct lightning strikes with residents complaining of burnt-out modems.
Olivia sat back in her chair to ponder the situation. She was loath to implement a different, less convenient set of plans for the sake of a simple modem. It seemed ridiculous to discard the flat if its location hadn’t been compromised, especially when it contained a well-hidden stock of explosive devices, some weapons and stolen identity documents. But without the live feed, she could no longer rely on its integrity. And while it was unlikely to have been discovered so quickly, she had to be certain. Which meant one thing: she must visit the flat.
She took a deep breath, a surge of excitement flowing through her. With respect to her disposals, she had completed her plans. She could go at any time, she just needed to contrive a situation where she could excuse herself from Connie for long enough. It would all be happening far sooner than she had expected, but that didn’t matter. Her plan was logical and elegant, and with luck should result in her completing all five outstanding disposals.
The final piece of her plan had fallen into place two weeks previously while she was reviewing the problem of Derek Thyme and his whereabouts. It had now been five months since his brush with death at Oxford Circus Station and even with his extensive injuries, he should be well on the way to recovery, if not already back on active duty. Would he go back to the SCF? There was an easy way to check: call and ask. When she did, an obliging young lady had answered her request to speak with DC Thyme by telling her he was out of the office. If the caller would like to leave a name and number, she’d get him to call her back. Olivia had politely declined, saying she would call again later.
With this intelligence, she could act. She would dispose of Thyme, Bottomley and Hawkins on the same day, moving swiftly from one to the other, before retreating either to the flat or the caravan to await the fu
nerals. Unless she was at death’s door, Cotton was bound to go to Thyme’s even if she didn’t attend the others. But what if her attendance were perceived as a risk and she was barred from going? What if she were still too incapacitated? Thyme was closest to Cotton, probably in regular communication, and the answers to many of Olivia’s questions about Cotton would probably lie in his flat. A minor adjustment to her plan now included two visits to Thyme’s flat on the same day. The second one would be to kill him after she had disposed of Bottomley and Hawkins, while the first would be to check his computer as well as search for anything else that might lead her to Cotton.
All that remained was for her to make sure that Connie raised no objections to her being away. To do this, she invented an aged aunt who had just died, an eccentric old lady who for many years had lived in Brussels. They had seen little of each other in recent years, but the aunt had been good to Olivia when she was young when her mother was seriously ill. She was more than just obliged to go, she would explain, there could be complex legal matters relating to her aunt’s estate to be resolved with her aunt’s lawyer. She felt confident the gullible Connie would swallow the story.
Chapter Fourteen
Detective Superintendent Paul Godden arrived at the Fabrelli villa in the heat of the late afternoon as thunder clouds stacked themselves into soaring mountains over the Tyrrhenian Sea. Greeting Jennifer with an enthusiastic shake of her hand, he eyed the sky.
“Hope I haven’t brought that lot with me from England.”
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