“And your role?”
She sighed, sitting up again. “This is all highly confidential, Henry. I’d rather not be telling you, but I realise for many reasons I have no choice.”
Henry waited, concerned he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say.
“There’s an investigation under way into a massively high-value art fraud,” continued Jennifer. “It involves some brilliant forgers and a lot of super-rich people, some of them innocent victims, although I think I’d also call them gullible, and some of them anything but innocent.”
“That doesn’t explain your role.”
“They want me to go undercover, get on the inside of the gallery that’s behind it.”
Henry was shaking his head, the concern he’d felt all along now showing on his face.
“I knew there was something you weren’t telling me, Jennifer. This sounds really dangerous! And why you, for heavens sake? You’re new to their squad; there must be other police officers who have a good knowledge of art.”
Jennifer shrugged, ignoring the rise in his voice. “È facile, signore,” she said, holding out her palms. “Parlo italiano.”
“This scam is centred in Italy? Now you most certainly do have me worried. Whereabouts?”
She pursed her lips. “Look, Henry, there’s only so much I can tell you, you understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, but I’d need to know where you are, in case you need me to come running.”
“That’s exactly what you mustn’t do. I’ll have excellent support in this; I won’t be operating in isolation.”
Henry shook his head. “The question ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ comes to mind. Don’t you think a plan B would help? I’m not sure how much confidence I’d have in the Italian police.”
“If it were the ordinary cops, I think I’d agree with you. But this is a specialist squad who are dedicated and good. I’ve met their boss and I was impressed. However, having said that, although he’s leading the operation, he’s doing it without the blessing of his bosses, for very good reasons.”
“Which means, presumably,” said Henry, “you are going to be operating in a foreign country without official approval.”
“Hardly,” disagreed Jennifer. “Massimo Felice, the boss, will take the fall for anything that goes wrong.”
Henry was clearly not convinced so Jennifer explained the problems Felice had had with his own organisation.
“Never goes away, does it?” sighed Henry, once she’d finished.
“No,” agreed Jennifer. “There are too many powerful people who could end up being embarrassed, people in business, the civil service and in politics.”
Henry nodded. “So when your boss told this Felice about you, that you are a UK police officer with mother-tongue Italian, someone who could not only pass for an Italian but who is also something of an art expert, and in addition someone with no connection to the Italian police, he must have thought all his birthdays had come at once.”
“Certainly got his attention, yes. He said that by necessity it would be a long slow job since first of all they had to find a way of getting the gallery to give me a job, although he had some ideas on that one. I got the impression a light had come on for him.”
Henry gave a rueful nod. “I’m sure it did. A bloody great beacon, more like.” He sighed. “No point in my objecting then? You sound as if you’re pretty set on the idea. I get the impression you like putting your head on the block.”
“It’s in my DNA,” said Jennifer with a cheesy grin.
“Must be your mother’s side,” countered Henry, his face deadpan. “OK, what stage are you at now?”
“Well, as soon as I’m declared fit, I’ll head back to England, and while the ID and so on are being set up, I’m undertaking all sorts of training. I’ve seen the synopsis. It’s fascinating, so I won’t be kicking my heels.”
“And the apartment you’re going to be living in once you arrive in London, it’s secure? I’m thinking of Freneton now. She seems to pop up out of nowhere.”
“It’s one of Pietro’s and comes with typical Pietro hi-tech security and a live-in housekeeper who could take on an army in unarmed combat and win. I’d hate to be on the wrong side of her. I’ve known her for several years; she used to work in one of Pietro’s houses in Milan. Being Italian and about forty-five, she sees herself as a sort of mother figure, so I imagine she’ll be clucking around me given half a chance. I’m not actually sure I’ll like all the attention, but it won’t be for long. Once I get back to Italy, I’ll be on my own in my own place, one that will have had the Pietro makeover too.”
Henry raised an eyebrow at her. “Back to Italy? It’s a big place, Jennifer.”
She sighed. “OK, to Florence. I’ll be based in Florence. But I don’t want you turning up, seeking me out.”
“Don’t worry, I can be very discreet. And I am a master of disguise.”
“That’s what I told Felice.”
“And where you’ll be living in Florence, it’s definitely secure?”
Jennifer nodded. “No question, Pietro will make sure of it. What about your house in London? You’re one of Freneton’s targets too.”
Henry laughed. “Yes, I know, but most of the time these days I’m in the US now my star has ascended. And as with your flat in Nottingham, Pietro has kindly made my house impenetrable. The security’s amazing: micro-cameras everywhere, all movement-triggered, all on independent circuits. I have to move fast when I come home from somewhere or all the alarms go off and I find myself trapped in the vestibule between the main front door and the inner front door.”
Jennifer stretched and sighed. “All because of one crazed psychopath. At least the official story is that I’ve been in the UK all the time. And although there’s nothing to suggest to Freneton I’ll be working in Italy, that doesn’t stop me wondering where the hell she is.”
Chapter Twenty-One
After leaving Derek Thyme’s flat, Olivia drove back into Nottingham city centre where she parked Peters’ car in the Broadmarsh shopping centre car park. She knew the entrance camera would record the car’s number plate; it might even take a shot of the driver. She didn’t care. She knew the police would soon be searching for her again, and just to rub salt into the wounds she had already inflicted, she intended to become the Olivia Freneton her targets remembered, one with close-cropped, expensively cut dark brown hair. She had just the wig to reproduce how she had looked a year before.
Since she had no further use for the car, she was tempted to look up and smile in case her face was being recorded. Instead, she left the keys in the ignition and walked away. Her evening disposals would see her back on the Kawasaki, parked close to whichever of her targets she was dealing with and ready for a quick getaway should anything go wrong.
As she walked back to her hotel, Olivia thought about that. What could possibly go wrong?
Each of her three disposals were to take place at their respective homes. Both Bottomley and Hawkins were married so their wives would also have to be dealt with in some way. She didn’t want to kill the wives — she normally killed women only if they were part of an overall scheme, such as the prostitutes she’d killed in the framing of victims like Henry Silk — instead, she wanted them to suffer by witnessing the deaths of their husbands and having the brutal images etched in their minds for the rest of their lives.
Cotton, of course, was different: she had to die, but normally Olivia’s targets were men, and the more men she could dispose of, the better. Her father had taught her that lesson by subjecting her to eight years of abuse until ironically, he provided her with the skills to kill him. His total betrayal of his responsibilities as a single father had warped her mind — Olivia’s mother had died when she was born — and very few men she had met since had given her any reason not to think that almost all men were like him. She sometimes wondered if he’d realised what she’d done when his brakes failed and he hurtled to his death,
not that he featured often in her thoughts.
At six that evening, Neil Bottomley and Derek Thyme were ready to finish for the day. Both had spent most of the morning and the entire afternoon at their computers checking CCTV footage and stills from security cameras in and around the East Midlands for vehicles involved in a high-value wages snatch that had occurred two weeks previously at a factory in Hucknall, north of Nottingham. It was tedious work requiring a great deal of concentration, and they were tired. Also, for both of them, at the back of their minds was the ongoing possibility that Olivia Freneton might turn up following the failure of her webcam.
Checking Peters’ flat was to be Derek’s last task for the day; he had tossed a coin with Neil for the duty and lost. Neil was heading straight home and looking forward to a night out with his wife Pam.
Derek was about to switch off his computer when a result he’d been waiting for flagged a message on his screen.
“Bugger,” he muttered, stabbing at his keyboard. “I knew I should have turned this thing off two minutes ago.”
He called up the file the message related to and started reading the contents. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Neil putting on his jacket.
“Don’t be too long, laddie,” said Neil. “Whatever it is can probably wait until the morning. You need to get some beauty sleep.”
“Face like that, he’ll need to be comatose for a couple of years for it to improve,” called someone from across the room.
“Better than looking like a cadaver, Scottie,” replied Derek as he carried on scrolling his screen.
“See you in the morning, lads,” said Bottomley.
A chorus of ‘G’night Sarge’ followed him through the door.
Thirty minutes later, Derek had finished all he needed to do. He closed down his computer and locked his notebooks in a drawer. After checking Peters’ flat in West Bridgford, he was intending to go for a long bike ride along a Trent towpath.
Neil Bottomley’s drive to his home in the village of Southwell took around twenty-five minutes. As he drew up outside the house, he frowned in surprise — his wife’s car was occupying the driveway, she must have forgotten about it since normally she’d have put the car in the garage by now.
Strolling from his car towards the front door of his three-bedroom, two-storey semi, he glanced along the road, his attention caught by a large motorcycle parked two doors along next to the gravelled path that led to the rear of the row of houses. The bike had two large panniers either side of the rear wheel. He squinted, trying to read the number plate, but it was too far away in the fading light, although he could make out the blue EU circle and yellow stars. His frown deepened briefly before he remembered his neighbour, Joe Pawton, had been complaining about his teenage daughter’s succession of biker boyfriends. Good luck with that, thought Neil, it looks like a serious touring bike.
He shrugged and turned to admire some freshly pruned roses. Roses were a passion for the Bottomleys, their garden a catalogue of varieties, all lovingly tended.
He nodded appreciatively and walked to the front door. Before the Freneton case, the door was always on the latch. The house was in a quiet road in a quiet village; security was hardly ever an issue. But now, with the bitch still out there and knowing how ruthless she could be, Bottomley had insisted to Pam that all the doors to the house remain locked, especially when she was at home alone.
He opened the door with his key and called out to his wife.
“It’s me, Pam. The Glorious Tisdale pinks are looking wonderful, Mrs Green Fingers.”
“Thanks, darling, I’m in the lounge.”
Bottomley froze to the spot, his senses on high alert. Two coded words. One: darling. Pam never, ever, called him darling, so they’d decided long ago to use it as a code for her being in trouble with an intruder. Two: lounge. For Pam, lounges were in pubs; her house had a sitting room. In their prearranged code it meant one thing: Freneton.
Bottomley willed himself to remain cool. He had to summon help but he couldn’t use his phone in the hallway in case Freneton heard him.
“Just going upstairs to change, Pammy, won’t be a second.”
There was a moment’s pause, then Pam called out, “Come in here first, darling, I’ve got something to show you.”
Bottomley gulped; he could hear the edge to his wife’s voice. Freneton was probably threatening her. Every instinct told him his wife needed him right now, while all his experience said wait, call in.
“Be with you in a mo,” he called and bounded up the stairs.
He rushed into their bedroom at the front of the house, punching a speed dial number combination on his phone as he did. The call answered in two rings.
“Neil, I—”
“Boss, she’s here, at my house. She’s got Pam.” Bottomley was speaking in a hushed tone, his hand cupped in front of his mouth. There was no doubt in either man’s mind who ‘she’ was.
Hawkins reacted instantly, knowing the sergeant couldn’t stay on the line.
“Got it, Neil. Be there ASAP.”
“Tell them no sirens,” urged Bottomley, and rang off.
Bottomley slipped off his jacket and tossed it on the bed; he needed to move his arms freely. He looked around for a weapon but there was nothing sensible upstairs. While he was totally against guns and arming the police, it didn’t stop him wishing he had one right now. He wondered if Freneton had a gun.
He walked back down the stairs, every step cautious, his eyes searching for some indication that Freneton might have moved position and be waiting for him.
He turned the handle to the living-room door and strolled in, wanting his arrival to appear natural, not giving Freneton any sign her presence was known to him, that he might have summoned help.
“That’s bett—” he began, pausing mid-sentence as his eyes fell on Olivia and his wife.
Pam was perched on a sofa, leaning forward, her hands roped at the wrists behind her back. She looked uncomfortable but her eyes were alert, searching her husband’s. Olivia stood to one side of the sofa, her right hand clutching a knife that was hovering near Pam’s throat. Her smile was hard and victorious. “Neil, how nice to see you. How are the teeth?”
“What the hell? What do you want, Freneton?”
“I should have thought that was fairly obvious, even for a tub of brainless lard like you.”
The knife in her hand was one of the two in the bag Peters had pulled out from under the sink in the lock-up; the other was in her belt. She caught Neil’s eyes on the weapons and sneered.
“I shouldn’t get any ideas, Neil, if I were you,” she added, weighing the knife in her hand.
Bottomley held his hands up in submission. “Let’s just keep calm, shall we? There’s no need for anyone to get hurt.”
Olivia’s laugh was scornful. “That’s where you’re wrong, Neil. There’s every need. You’re on my list, you see. My disposals. I should have finished you off in Harlow Wood when you got in my way, but given you’ve suffered greatly since, I’m rather pleased I didn’t. This little interlude of personal attention will be very pleasurable.”
She lifted her right hand threateningly, adjusting her grip on the knife.
His hands still held out from his body, his palms upwards, Bottomley tried to control his breathing. He needed to engage this madwoman in conversation, stall her for long enough for Hawkins’ back-up team to arrive.
“OK,” he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, “I can understand why I might be among your … what did you call them? Disposals? But there’s no need to hurt my wife. She’s an innocent. Why should she be on your list? What purpose would it serve hurting her? This is between us, Freneton, the SCF squad and you. Who else—”
“I want to see your phone, Neil,” she barked, interrupting him. “Take it out of your pocket and place it on that side table, then move back.” She had seen through his desperate attempts at conversation.
“I left it upstairs in the bedroom,” lied Botto
mley.
“I can see the bulge in your pocket, you idiot,” snapped Olivia. “Just do it!”
Bottomley dropped his right arm and put his hand in his pocket, slowly pulling out the phone. He hadn’t deleted the call to Hawkins. If Freneton found it, she’d kill him immediately and probably kill Pam as well. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
“There,” he said. Ignoring Olivia’s order, he tossed the phone high in her direction, but to her right, making it difficult to catch with the knife in her hand.
Olivia was fast. In a flash, she transferred the knife to her left hand and had her right hand out to catch the phone.
Pam Bottomley had been waiting for her moment. She was seething. This woman had taken her by surprise, overpowered her and was now threatening her husband’s life for the second time. She was determined they wouldn’t give in without a fight.
She had been horrified at the injuries Neil had received in Harlow Wood, while at the same time proud of his bravery in facing up to Olivia Freneton.
Ever since the murders of Mike Hurst and the Chinese woman, and the shocking attempt on Derek Thyme’s life, Pam had been expecting something to happen. She may be a short, round, middle-aged housewife, overweight like her husband, but she had grit. She had boosted her fitness with twice-weekly sessions at a gym and regular jogs around the village, and she had lain awake for many a night as Neil tossed and turned beside her, his mind torturing him with troubled dreams. During those hours of darkness, she had rehearsed many scenarios, all of them aimed at subduing Olivia Freneton.
As Neil tossed the phone towards Freneton, Pam made her move. She rolled sideways on the sofa, falling onto her back while at the same time she kicked her legs high in the air, aiming at Olivia’s right arm.
Bottomley saw Pam react, but wary of the knife now in Olivia’s left hand, instead of diving at her, he reached out for a glass vase standing on a bookcase to his right, grabbed it by the neck and threw it hard at Olivia’s head.
Remorseless Page 15