Jennifer was shocked. “Scandalous. Who can you trust if you can’t trust your own organisation?”
Godden nodded. “Yes, Massimo muttered darkly about mafia connections as well as political ones. What he wants to do is get someone on the inside, but without his bosses knowing.”
Jennifer snorted a laugh. “Huh! You threw that one in very subtly. Presumably you want that someone to be me?”
“That’s the idea, Jennifer, yes. When I told Massimo I had an officer who could pass for an Italian and who was an art expert, he was positively salivating. You see, he has no one in his squad he could use who might not be recognised. As he put it, you never know when his director might pay a visit to the gallery to be shown a nicely discounted painting he might just want to buy. The director would be horrified and very embarrassed to find one of his own officers greeting him at the door.”
“Embarrassed! Jeez!” Jennifer let out a bark of derision. Then she grinned. “When do I start?”
Godden wanted to hug her, but he masked his delight by reaching for his grappa and taking another sip. “Well, there’s quite a bit to put into place, not the least of which is getting you employed there.”
Jennifer was puzzled. “Is your Ispettore Felice happy to go ahead on your say so, I mean, that I can pass muster?”
“Very astute of you, Jennifer. No, he quite reasonably wants to talk to you. He’s waiting for a call from me so he can confirm a flight tomorrow morning. Is it all right if he comes for lunch? I thought perhaps you could meet him at the airport, get all the chit chat sorted out in the car on the way back.”
Godden was considering following up his swim in the pool with a sea swim in the tempting waters lapping onto the Fabrelli beach when he heard voices from the house.
“Paul!” called Jennifer, “We’re back.”
Godden looked around to see Jennifer showing Massimo Felice onto the terrace that led to the pool. Felice was exactly as Jennifer had expected from Godden’s brief description: a little under six feet tall, early forties, immaculately cut hair with a hint of grey peppering the otherwise jet black curls and a lightweight pale grey suit that hung perfectly over his slim frame. Only his dark, brooding eyes hinted at something beyond his urbane outward appearance.
“Paul,” said Felice as he strode over to where Godden was standing, his arms outstretched. “How delightful to see you. You look as if you’ve made yourself at home.”
“I could get used to it, Massimo,” said Godden as he accepted Felice’s kisses on both cheeks. “How was your flight?”
Felice shrugged. “A bus ride; forty-five minutes from Roma, followed by an hour of delightful conversation with Ginevra.” He grinned enthusiastically as he dropped his voice, his tone conspiratorial. “Paul, you have made me a very happy man. She is perfect!”
He half turned in time to see Jennifer eyeing him suspiciously.
“Ginevra?” asked Godden.
Felice smiled. “Ginevra Mancini. It will be Ms Cotton’s new name; the papers are almost ready. I thought I should use it from the outset so it becomes natural to me.”
“Mancini,” repeated Godden. “That’s a pretty common Italian surname, isn’t it?”
Felice waggled his head. “Relatively, yes. But there’s no such thing as a really common Italian surname. Even for Rossi, which is the same as your Smith or Jones, there are only a few tens of thousands. But yes, you are right; Mancini is relatively common. We chose it deliberately to make the outcome of any searches by the Cambronis ambiguous.”
Jennifer guided them to the table under the pergola. “I’ll check with Martina on how lunch is coming along,” she said. “Can I get either of you anything? Massimo, an aperitivo?”
Felice sat back and smiled. “So, Ginevra, you speak some English. It sounds good; I think you could almost pass for an Englishwoman!” He turned to Godden, his face now serious. “I must admit, Paul, I was a little nervous about meeting Ginevra, despite knowing her background. You see, like most Italian men, I have a very good ear for accents; it’s a game we like to play.”
“And?” asked Godden.
Felice sighed and shook his head theatrically, his shoulders shrugging automatically. “What can I say? Ginevra’s Italian is better than mine. It has an undercurrent of Milanese, which is to be expected and which we’ve written into her story, but I would defy anyone not to consider her a native Italian.”
He turned his attention to Jennifer, his eyes amused. “What I want to hear more of is your English accent, Ginevra. I’m sure it must have an Italian edge, like mine.”
Jennifer put her hands on her hips and eyeballed both men, lapsing into the Nottinghamshire accent she’d learned and used as a police constable in Newark to help her blend in.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Signor Felice, I’m a Nottingham girl, born and bred. And if you two don’t make up your minds about what you want to drink, I’ll be supping on me own. Now, what’s it to be?”
Paul grinned as Felice clapped in delight. “Brava! OK, I’m convinced. Now, you mentioned a Moscato Bianco in the car …”
They lingered over lunch until four. Felice’s return flight wasn’t until seven that evening, while Godden’s to London left half an hour earlier. Talk over lunch was mainly business, although both the policeman and the Italian in Felice wanted to know as much as possible about the villa and Pietro Fabrelli. Jennifer was used to this; she had grown up with it, and she had a set of standard answers that appeared to be comprehensive but in fact revealed only what she wanted to reveal.
Now Jennifer had a clean bill of health, both Godden and Felice were keen to move forward with their plans. Felice explained that Jennifer’s new identity papers and all that went with them would be ready by the middle of October, by which time he hoped to have made progress on creating a vacancy for her in the gallery. From his own point of view, Godden wanted Jennifer to undergo some specialist training in basic fieldcraft for officers working undercover and a refresher course in unarmed combat. He estimated about a month would be needed to complete everything so November was agreed upon as a probable starting date, assuming the vacancy in the gallery could be created by then.
Once they had finished discussing business, they all sat back, the men wanting to savour the atmosphere before they left.
“It’s a pity you both have to go so soon,” said Jennifer, pouring everyone another glass of the chilled Moscato Bianco from one of Pietro’s lovingly maintained vineyards, this one on Sardinia’s west coast.
“It is.” Godden’s sigh echoed his regret as he held up his glass to study the wine. “I know Moscato isn’t unique to Sardinia, but this vintage is spectacular, don’t you agree Massimo?”
“Divine,” was all Felice had to say as he savoured the wine.
“You must come again, Paul, bring your wife. You too, Massimo. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask. Are you married?”
Felice’s wan smile spoke of the many pressures on him.
“I am, in fact effectively I have three wives.”
Jennifer raised her eyebrows, thoughts of multiple divorce flitting through her mind.
“Yes,” nodded Felice, his face still radiating subjugation. “Stella, my actual wife, and two control-freak teenage daughters. It’s like having three wives.”
“Well, next time you both come, you must bring as many wives as you like,” laughed Jennifer. “And I’ll make sure that Pietro’s here. There’s nothing he likes more than showing off his wines.”
“And there’s nothing I’d like more than to sample them,” said Godden.
As she waved them off, Jennifer thought about the compliments they had both paid her. She was delighted how positive Felice had been, not only about her language skills but also about her art knowledge — much of the discussion in the car had been about their shared passion for Italian art of all periods. And she was equally thrilled to have Godden’s confidence, his faith in her abilities. However, before she got underway with her new role, th
ere were three further hurdles she had to overcome, and the first was arriving the following morning.
Chapter Seventeen
Staying disguised as Chiara Terzi, Olivia took the regular bus to central London and a train to Ashford, in Kent. A ten-minute taxi ride to the small village of Capston-Sur-Marsh left her with a half-mile walk to the caravan site, using a public footpath through farmers’ fields rather than the main road.
As she approached the site, she scanned for anything among the vans or near the gaudily painted cabin serving as office and home for Kevin, the site’s owner, to indicate a police presence. The image from the caravan’s webcam on her phone showed nothing unusual, but just in case, she had also put a low-tech back-up in place. Pulling a pair of binoculars from her bag, she focussed on the curtains on two of the caravan’s windows. She had added roller blinds to both windows, their cords attached with thin cotton thread that she trapped in the door jamb as she closed the door to leave. If anyone entered the van, the cotton would be freed and the blinds unroll a few inches — not enough for an intruder to hear or notice, but enough for Olivia to know someone had been there.
Confident that the van had not been disturbed, she walked closer, constantly watching for anything that would constitute suspicious activity.
An inspection of the heavy-duty padlock on the caravan door revealed no sign of tampering, and once she was inside and had double-checked all the security she had put in place, she was satisfied. Her refuge had not been compromised.
She removed the Terzi disguise and replaced it with one she used when at the caravan site: faded jeans, a black vest and well-worn denim jacket, a pair of fake studs to the side of her nose and tattoo transfers to the left side of her neck and her left forearm. This was followed by a wig of short bleached hair, a black baseball cap and several clunky rings on the fingers of both hands along with a number of equally clunky bracelets on both wrists. She needed to look the part for Kevin since, although bone idle and stupid, he would eventually notice her van was now occupied.
“’allo Sadie, didn’t ’ear yer bike.”
Kevin was slouched in a battered office chair behind the table that served as a reception desk watching a programme on an ancient portable TV that seemed to be picking up mainly static.
“Didn’t come on it, did I,” replied Olivia in her best Eastenders accent as she carefully studied the overweight fifty-year-old’s face for any sign of caution or guilt.
“In the shop, innit,” she continued. “Had to come on the bleedin’ train. Come to fetch me uvver bike.”
“Bugger,” nodded Kevin sympathetically as he reached out to thump the top of the television set. “Wot’s up wiv it?”
“Gearbox.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
She smiled to herself. Kevin was running out of conversation. He seldom said much to her on the rare occasions she showed up at the site: she was taller by five inches and her whole presence intimidated him. It was the combination of the mirror sunglasses she always wore — he had no idea what her eyes were like; he’d never seen them — and the fact that five years previously when she’d arrived at the site and bought the caravan with a wad of cash, she’d informed him in clear, plain language what his fate would be if ever anyone went near her van, including him. He understood — Sadie Smith wasn’t the only dodgy owner at the site, most of them were a bunch of criminals in his opinion, but at least the others were friendly enough. Sadie wasn’t, not by any stretch of Kevin’s limited imagination.
“Everyfin’ been all right ’ere?” asked Olivia, still watching him keenly.
Kevin’s eyes stared into her sunglasses, wondering if it was a trick question.
“Yeah,” he said, finally, his brow furrowing. “Everyfin’s good.”
“I’ll be in and out for the next few days,” said Olivia. “Got some business to attend to. Anyone else around at the moment?” She waved her arm in the general direction of the thirty vans parked at the site.
Kevin shrugged. “Just the usuals, keeping themselves to themselves. Hardly see ’em.” He scratched his face, as if trying to remember something. “Oh yeah. ’Arry was down ’ere coupla weeks ago wiv some black tart. Noisy bitch, she was. But they had a big fight and he slung ’er out. Buggered off himself the next day.”
Olivia had no idea who Harry was, but he didn’t seem to be a problem, and from Kevin’s demeanour, she was confident her caravan remained undiscovered. She left him to the ghostly static on his TV and went to check out the Kawasaki locked up in the small shed next to her caravan.
Although she was pleased to find the motorcycle hadn’t suffered in the months since she’d stowed it in the shed, in reality, Olivia expected nothing less. It was a sealed, dry space and her pre-storage maintenance had been comprehensive.
She spent the evening reviewing her programme for the next day. She would head for West Bridgford, just across the river Trent from the City of Nottingham, and drive past the flat to check for any signs of activity. Depending on how things looked, she’d make a decision on whether or not to go in. If she felt in any way suspicious, she’d have to find an alternative base in the area. Since she wanted to spend several days there before she rolled out her disposal schedule; a reliable command post was essential.
Olivia left the caravan site at five thirty the following morning. Although keen to get to Nottingham, there was a task she had to complete first which involved a wide detour and a long day’s drive that wouldn’t see her at her final destination until early evening.
Steeling herself for eleven hours astride the Kawasaki, much of the journey on motorways, she headed for the M20, turning west towards the M25 to skirt London, from where she followed the M3 until it branched towards Winchester. From there good quality A roads took her all the way to Penzance in Cornwall.
A few miles short of Penzance, Olivia pulled off the main road onto a quiet rural lane with no traffic. At a bend on a rise where she had a good view of any approaching vehicles she stopped the motorcycle, put it on its stand and climbed off to stretch, working her stiff back and neck to ease the tightness in her muscles.
The Kawasaki had two metal panniers, one of which she opened to retrieve a toolkit and a set of fake French number plates. She worked fast in case any traffic appeared, and within a minute she had exchanged the bike’s German plates for the French ones. In the other pannier were a red crash helmet and a set of black motorcycling leathers with distinctive pale blue flashes on the arms and legs. She put them on, stowing the white helmet and dull black leathers she had been wearing in the pannier.
Feeling fresh in the new gear, Olivia jumped back on her bike and headed for a café she had passed earlier. There she had lunch and some much needed coffee, after which she hit the road again for the second part of her long journey.
Rush hour traffic with extra speed restrictions on the M5 and M6 near Birmingham slowed Olivia’s progress, and it wasn’t until eight in the evening that she finally approached the outskirts of Nottingham. Arriving from the south–west, the road took her into the suburb of West Bridgford she was so anxious to visit.
She was tired and sore after so many hours on the road. She longed for a hot shower or better, a soak in a steaming bath, although she doubted the hotel she’d booked ran to baths. But first she couldn’t resist taking a look at the lock-up garage and flat that were the first focus of her trip.
Her drive along Rampton Street, the short, uninspiring road where her flat and lock-up were located, told her only that there appeared to be no activity around the premises, no lights on either in her flat or the ones nearby. The place looked no different from when she had last seen it a year previously.
She turned at the end of the road and looked back down the street, checking every one of the hundred yards ahead of her for cameras on lamp posts, cameras on buildings innocently pointed in the direction of her lock-up or at the windows of her flat, cameras on rooftops. There was nothing.
This was go
od, encouraging, but was it real? After all, the webcam had failed. She had to get closer, preferably go inside, but for that, she needed to be fresh and not in her motorcycle gear.
She took a deep breath as she stretched, satisfied for now, gunned her Kawasaki and headed for the hotel. When she opened the door to her room and found the bathroom did indeed have a bath, she felt it was a good omen.
As she lay luxuriating in the steaming water, the heat melting the tiredness and stiffness out of her aching body, her mind was still working hard, plotting the next twenty-four hours. Or at least the sixteen hours that would follow the eight hours of sleep she was looking forward to after her bath.
Chapter Eighteen
“Tesoro, this is madness. Total madness. You can’t possibly be serious. It’s far too dangerous. These are bad men, tesoro, bad men.”
Pietro Fabrelli was pacing the floor while gazing imploringly through the massive windows of the villa’s huge living room, trying to abstract inspiration from the panoramic view of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Jennifer sat on a large sofa watching him and waiting for the first wave of resistance to pass. She knew he’d come round, as she knew Henry would, and Derek, but Pietro in particular would find it necessary to explore all avenues of potential rejection.
Once Paul Godden had explained his plans for her, Jennifer knew the matter of who could be in the know would be an issue. She had therefore raised it with him immediately, knowing he would resist, and knowing it would be better if he understood her position before heading for his room to sleep on it. He had slept on it, after tossing and turning on it and chewing on it so much his mouth screwed up with the bitter taste. But by the time he emerged for breakfast, he was far more accepting of the situation Jennifer had presented to him.
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