Distracted by her right hand being kicked and the phone flying past her, Olivia’s reaction to the vase was too slow. It crashed into the bridge of her nose and shattered, one of the larger shards adding to the damage by cutting her eyebrow. She staggered backwards as blood welled and flowed down her face, aware of Bottomley now running towards her.
Although her left hand wasn’t as good as her right for throwing a knife, she had trained with both, and her left arm was strong. She hurled the knife at him hoping to find his heart, but instead, the knife sank into his left shoulder. It was enough to stop him in his tracks, his right hand clutching at the injury.
In spite of her spinning head, Olivia wanted to finish her work. She reached for the other knife in her belt. Two steps and she could slash his fat throat and leave.
But Bottomley wasn’t beaten. To Olivia’s surprise, he reached for the handle of the blade sticking out of his shoulder and made to pull it out. He knew the bleeding would increase, that it was a dangerous move. He also knew he had little choice.
Olivia stopped and as she did she heard a thump to her right. Pam had rolled off the sofa and was intending to try to trip her.
The decision-making process took only microseconds. This fight was getting messy and by now Olivia was convinced Bottomley had called for help. She had to leave. Every second counted. Resisting the temptation to kick Pam in the head, she backed away towards the door at the rear of the living room that led to the kitchen.
Wiping blood from her face with the back of her hand and feeling dizzy from the impact of the vase with her head, she turned and ran through the kitchen and out into the back garden, through the back gate and down the path to where she had parked her Kawasaki.
She flipped open a pannier to retrieve her bright red helmet, pulling out a scarf at the same time and folding it into a wad to press on her bleeding eyebrow. With her helmet and visor holding the scarf in place, she fired the engine and revved it loudly. She wanted to be seen, she wanted someone in one of the houses to get a description of the motorcycle, of her, of the panniers.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some curtains move in the house opposite the Bottomleys’. It was enough; she kicked the bike into gear and roared off towards the M1 motorway.
When the first of the police patrol cars arrived at the end of the Bottomleys’ road, their flashing lights were off, their occupants awaiting orders. As they pulled to a halt, a message came through: Neil Bottomley had called in again; the suspect had escaped. With no more need for caution, the two officers ran from the car towards the Bottomleys’ house.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After her dinner with Henry at the villa in Sardinia, Jennifer went to bed late, somewhat light-headed from a few too many glasses of her favourite red. She was pleased to have told her father about her posting to Florence, although from his reaction she was more than a little concerned he would turn up unannounced in some disguise or other while she was working in the gallery.
On her bedside table was the thick file of notes left by Paul Godden. She had been slowly working her way through them, but tonight she knew she wouldn’t be receptive to the finer points of art fraud. Instead, she wanted to think back over her evening with Henry. Their meetings were rare enough and she wanted to savour this one as she drifted into sleep.
Half an hour after laying her head on the pillow, her reaction to being jolted awake by a ping from her phone to announce an incoming message was teeth-grinding irritation. Until she realised it was her own fault: she had meant to switch the phone to silent. Who the hell was texting at this hour? She stretched and reached for the offending device, fully intending to turn it off without reading the message.
But she knew in her heart she couldn’t; she must at least read what was on the screen. When she saw Derek’s name against the two-word text, ‘call me’, her mind focussed immediately.
She punched the call symbol and waited impatiently for the reply.
“Jen, hi. Sorry for the late hou—”
“Derek! Are you OK? You never contact me this late. What’s happened?”
She heard a dry chuckle from the other end. “Stop working yourself up, Jen, I’m fine, believe me. Frustrated, but fine. I just couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“Why are you frustrated?”
“She’s slipped through the net, Jen, last seen heading south west. It was close though. I reckon the sarge nearly had her.”
“Freneton?”
“Yes.”
“Is Neil OK?”
“Nothing a few stitches won’t sort out.”
“Oh God! Tell me.” She was now fully awake and sitting up on the edge of the bed. She glanced around for a notebook, saw one on a side table across the room and ran over to fetch it. She sat back on the bed, juggling phone, pen and notebook.
“She was waiting for him when he got home from work, holding his wife hostage.”
“Pam?”
“He’s only got one wife, Jen.”
“Is she OK?”
“She’s not hurt although she’s pretty shaken up. She was very brave, actually; they both were. They’d devised a clever warning system, so as soon as he got through the front door and called out to Pam, Neil knew Freneton was there.”
“Good for Neil.”
“Yeah, he figured he was on her list, that it was only a matter of time before she showed up.”
“You said he was injured.”
“Freneton threw a knife at him. Fortunately her aim was off and it went into a fleshy part of his shoulder. A lot of blood but no permanent damage, according to the doctor at A&E when I went to see him.
“And Pam was amazing. Even though her wrists had been bound behind her back with rope, she managed to roll over on the sofa she was sitting on and kick out at Freneton.”
“She was lucky Freneton didn’t retaliate.”
“Yeah, but they both knew if they submitted or otherwise failed, there was only one outcome: she would have killed them.”
“So what happened? Why did she stop?”
“Neil managed to hurt her, injure her. He lobbed a glass vase at her which thumped her on the nose. It broke and glass from it cut her quite deeply, according to Neil. That’s when Freneton threw the knife at him.”
“Wow!”
“Yeah, and after that she ran. Neil reckons she’d worked out he’d called in, which he had before he went into the living room where Freneton was holding Pam. She’d know there’d be squad cars arriving within minutes. As it is, we reckon she’d only just disappeared when the first car arrived. They saw nothing and headed in to check out the Bottomleys.”
“I’m amazed she didn’t try to injure Neil more.”
“He reckons the vase really shook her; said she looked pretty groggy. He reckons if she hadn’t thrown the knife at him, he’d have had her.”
“Not so sure about that; she’d have fought like a demon.”
“You’re right; I think they are extremely lucky. The other thing is they got sight of her as she roared off. She was on a motorcycle with panniers. She was wearing smart leathers, which, of course, the Bottomleys saw close up, and she had a red crash helmet on. There have been a couple of possible sightings and it looks as if she’s heading south west.”
“Rings a bell.”
“The maps in the van, you mean?”
“Yes. How did she look?”
“What do you mean? Healthwise?”
“No, idiot. Hair. It’s been a year, Derek. Has she grown her hair or does she still have that cropped, boyish style?”
“Oh, right. That was interesting. Neil said she looked exactly the same as the last time he saw her in Harlow Wood. Same short hair, same slim, athletic build.”
“Same colour hair?”
“Yes, but when we asked Pam about it, she said she was pretty sure the hair was a wig.”
Jennifer stared out of the window to the moonlit sea, thinking through the information.
“Pam’d notice tha
t, of course, being a woman,” she continued. “It’s interesting, it sounds as if she’d made herself deliberately look the same as a year ago, whereas she’s probably now quite different. You know, grown her hair, styled it differently. Worth getting an artist to come up with a few hairstyles with longer hair, don’t you think?”
“I do, yes. In fact Crawford is already on it, as a matter of routine. Anyway, Jen, that’s not all. Olivia had a busy day.”
“What else did she do?”
“She almost definitely killed Clive Peters, the owner of the lock-up in West Bridgford.”
“Peters has been murdered?”
“Yes, although there’s an outside chance he fell down the stairs.”
“Right, tell me more.”
“I mentioned last week when I first told you about Peters we would be checking the flat every day. Well today was my turn and this evening—”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Jennifer, “when you say it was your turn, did you go there on your own?”
“Yes, I—”
“Derek, we discussed this. You should never have gone on your own.”
“I called the nick, Jen, just before I went in, and of course, called again almost immediately because as soon as I got through the door from the street, there was Peters’ body.”
“So you’re thinking Peters went there — alone — and Freneton was waiting, and, what, pushed him down the stairs? Was there any sign of a fight?”
“No, none.”
“That could have been you, Derek.”
There was silence from the other end.
“Derek?”
“There’s a difference, Jen. Peters wouldn’t have been expecting her to be there. She’d have taken him completely by surprise, whereas every time I’ve been there, I’ve gone in cautiously. I was ready for her.”
“Doesn’t make any difference; two of you would always be better. How did Peters die?”
“Broken neck, almost definitely from the fall.”
“No other injuries?”
“None visible. And he was a pretty powerful bloke; fit with no flab on him. She must’ve got quite a drop on him for him not to have fought back.”
“Make sure the pathologist examines his testicles. You might remember they are something of a target for Freneton.”
“No need to remind me, Jen,” said Derek with a grimace, a hand instinctively dropping to protect himself.
Jennifer was tapping her pen onto the cover of the notebook as she thought through everything Derek had told her.
“OK, let’s think about her day. How long had Peters been dead?”
“Several hours, according to the pathologist. Reckons it would’ve been around nine this morning.”
“Makes sense. As you said last week, she’d’ve wanted to know whether the webcam failing was accidental or because it’d been discovered. And although she was probably reassured to find it had burnt out, she must’ve also worked out the place had been processed by the lab. Freneton’s no fool; she’ll have left certain things placed in very particular ways. As for Peters, it was probably just bad luck he turned up when he did. I wonder why he went back. Do you think there could’ve been something hidden there the forensic team missed?”
“It’s possible, yeah. Perhaps we should make another search.”
“Yes, although if there was something, Freneton will most likely have taken it away, knowing she can’t possibly return there again. I wonder where she stayed, assuming she didn’t drive up overnight from wherever she’s hiding out. Are the hotels in the area being checked?”
“As we speak.”
“Good. Now let’s think about what she was up to. She didn’t go to Nottingham to kill Peters, that was unexpected and possibly buggered her plans, since she’d know he’d be found. She definitely came to kill Neil. I wonder if she intended to target others. You, for instance, and Hawkins.”
“Perhaps she’s waiting for me.”
“Where are you?” cried Jennifer in alarm.
“I’ve just pulled up in the street along from my flat. Stop worrying, Jen, I told you, there have been sightings of her hot-footing it away from here. And she’s injured, remember? Whatever plans she had to occupy the rest of her evening, they’ve been scuppered.”
“Nevertheless, you shouldn’t underestimate her,” said Jennifer. “Stay on the line as you go in. Make sure everything is as you left it this morning. And don’t talk me through it until you’re sure she’s not there listening.”
She heard Derek’s keys jangling and, after a long pause, the sound of a key being pushed into a lock followed by a grunt from Derek. After the sound of a key being inserted into another lock, there was another grunt followed by the characteristic sound of a Yale key being pushed home.
After another pause of about a minute, Derek’s voice came back on the phone.
“All clear, Jen. She’s not here, but I reckon she has been. Someone most certainly has: both deadlocks were unlocked. And a couple of things I placed very deliberately have been moved.”
“As well as finding more out about your movements, she’ll almost definitely be looking for something to tell her where I am,” said Jennifer.
“Yeah,” replied Derek, “She’s had a look at the computer. Let me call up the login record. Yes, here it is. There was a failed attempt at eleven this morning. That extra security your friend Ced Fisher put on this machine is paying off. She hasn’t got past it. The system works, Jen!”
“Presumably there’s still nothing on there about me, even if she had got in?” asked Jennifer.
“Nothing at all, as I’ve told you before. The only record of you is on my phone, which I always have with me.”
“You should leave your flat now, Derek, immediately. Check into a hotel. Better still, go to my place in The Park.”
“I’ve told you, Jen, she’s long gone, and injured.”
“I don’t mean that. Your flat is now a crime scene. It needs to be examined and you shouldn’t do anything to compromise it.”
“Jeez, that’s just what I need.”
“She’s a mass murderer, Derek, a serial killer. I know the chances of her leaving trace evidence are slim, given her forensic knowledge, but a search has to be made. Everything should be checked.”
“OK, you win, but I’m knackered, I’ll stay near here. There’s a place down the road I can use. I’ll call you in the morning when the lab’s released the flat.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Livid with anger that her plans had been ruined once again, Olivia was nevertheless congratulating herself for taking the trouble to set up the false trail that was now essential for her escape to succeed.
Fighting waves of nausea from the blow to her nose, she headed south down the motorway to the turnoff for the A42. She knew there would be cameras recording her leaving the M1, but she couldn’t be certain there would be any more until she reached the M42 a few miles farther on. Once on that road, she needed to run the gauntlet of any traffic police looking for her, be prepared to outrun them. It was important her route pointed to her heading south west, for Cornwall, and the farther she could go in that direction, the more the police would be led along the false trail she’d given them with the maps in her white van.
She felt the adrenaline coursing through her with every mile, the pain of her bruised nose and her dizziness banished as she constantly scanned for any indication of police vehicles. She knew the many cameras on the gantries above the heavily monitored complex of motorways around Birmingham would record her passing. If she could get as far as the M5 and head towards Bristol, even if she then left the motorway, the police would join the dots. Tomorrow would see hundreds of officers scouring the wastes of Cornwall and Devon for her non-existent hideaway, especially once they’d found images of her from her journey north the previous day.
As she passed the turnoff for Worcester, the telltale blue flashing lights of a police car appeared in her right mirror, the vehicle approaching he
r at high speed. She braced, ready if necessary to turn round into the on-coming traffic and race back along the hard shoulder to the slip road only a few hundred yards behind her. But the car with its siren screaming roared past her to disappear into the distance.
Twenty miles farther on, she saw the same police car, its lights still flashing. It was stopped on the hard shoulder in front of a large Kawasaki with panniers similar to hers. One police officer was searching the rider, who had removed his red helmet and was clearly protesting his innocence; the other police officer was talking earnestly into his radio, his eyes fixed on the innocent motorcyclist.
It was time to quit this particular episode. Two miles on, Olivia took the slip road from the motorway at junction 11a. She knew the road from there past Cirencester to Swindon was a good dual carriageway. At Swindon, she could pick up the M4 and head towards the M25 around London and her caravan in Kent. But first she had to become invisible.
A mile after leaving the M5, she pulled off the main road and headed into the village of Little Witcombe. Here she turned into a quiet lane and in the now near darkness she stopped the Kawasaki.
She had to work fast; this time she didn’t want to be spotted. In under two minutes, bolts were removed, both panniers were lying alongside the motorcycle and the German number plates were back in place. To complete her disguise, Olivia took off her red helmet and dark-blue leathers, replacing them with the worn black ones and white crash helmet.
A few yards along from where she had stopped were three large rubbish disposal bins into which she dropped the panniers, the red helmet and discarded jacket and trousers.
Finally, she retrieved a first aid kit from her back-pack and fashioned a crude dressing for the cut to her eyebrow, wincing with pain as she pressed it into place. Back on the bike, she took the A417 towards for Swindon, an anonymous German tourist of no interest to the police.
Arriving at the site in Kent soon after ten thirty, Olivia stowed the Kawasaki in its shed and did her best to patch herself up. A large blue-black bruise now spread from the bridge of her nose to under both eyes, making her look like a startled panda.
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