“Blissful, as always, Derek. Listen, has something happened?”
“Yes, well, that is, no, nothing actually happened in the end. What she was planning didn’t work.”
“She?” said Henry, cautiously.
“Freneton,” replied Derek.
“It wasn’t a bomb under your car, was it?” asked Jennifer. “You’ve continued checking, like I insisted?”
“Every time it’s left somewhere potentially vulnerable, yes. No, it wasn’t my car, it was my bikes.”
“She put bombs on your bikes?”
“Don’t be daft, Jen, of course she didn’t. She cut part way through the brake cables of both bikes so that if I applied the brakes hard, like in an emergency, the cables would snap and I’d have no brakes. I could’ve gone slamming into the side of a bus, or worse. That’s what’s spooked me.”
“So how did you find out?”
“I always check the brakes before I head out for a ride, before I even get on the bike. It’s just something I do, more I think to remind myself which is the front brake than anything else.”
“You find it that hard to remember?”
“It wouldn’t be,” said Derek patiently, shaking his head at her remark, “but I’ve got two bikes. One is British made and the other was shipped over here from the US by the bloke I bought it from. The brakes are the other way round there. It’s important to know so you don’t hit the rear brake too hard.”
“Makes sense.”
“Praise indeed, DC Cotton. So, anyway, each time before I get on, I pull on the brake levers very hard, and this time both cables snapped. When I looked at them, they had been cut through.”
“And you’re sure it’s Freneton?”
“Well, she didn’t leave a note.” He frowned as something occurred to him. “Actually, thinking about it, she did. The lab techs who were here earlier found a couple of her fingerprints. And the bikes were indoors in my flat, not out on the street.”
“Fingerprints? Really?”
“Yeah, she must be getting careless.”
“That I doubt,” said Jennifer, shaking her head. “More likely she’s just waving two fingers at everyone.”
“Bitch,” muttered Derek.
Jennifer looked over towards Henry to see him nodding in agreement.
“Derek,” he said, “Jennifer told me this morning about what happened yesterday. Are the police any closer to finding her?”
“Not that I’ve heard, no,” replied Derek. “They’ve got traffic camera images from last night that are almost definitely her. She can be seen heading down the M42 towards Birmingham, and then briefly on the M5, after which she disappears. There are no more sightings yet from further south. Nevertheless, it all still points to her heading for somewhere like Cornwall or Devon.”
“Why not South Wales?” asked Jennifer. “One of the maps in the van was South Wales, wasn’t it?”
“Could be,” agreed Derek. “But two of the lads have been trawling through traffic cams from a couple of days ago. They’ve got some rapid ID system to speed up the search. Anyway, they found the same motorcycle heading north up the M5 and then tracked it back in time to find out where it had been. The earliest image they have is not far outside Penzance in Cornwall.”
“Same bike? Same leathers?” Jennifer’s mind was whirring.
“Yes.”
“So they’ll be looking for similar sightings from down there in the last few weeks.”
“Months, probably,” added Derek.
“I wonder why the sightings of her from last night stopped once she’d hit the M5,” said Jennifer quietly, more to herself than the others. It was Henry who suggested a reason.
“Maybe she came off the motorway to use A roads, knowing there would be less likelihood of being stopped or recorded on some CCTV.”
“Yes,” agreed Jennifer, “that works. And so does the possibility that the whole thing is a decoy, that she’s set up an elaborate plan to make us think she’s in the South West when in reality she’s somewhere else.”
“Was she put on the stop list at the UK borders?” asked Henry.
“She’s been on it for a year,” said Derek. “Although it’s not likely to make much difference. She’s a master of disguise, as we know from when she tried to screw you.”
“Jennifer said she’s injured,” added Henry. “Her face must be pretty bruised and she has a deep cut over her eye.”
“That extra information has been given out to border police, yes,” said Derek. “They’ll pull everyone with any facial injuries out of the lines and check them out.”
Henry took a reflective deep breath and sat back in his chair. He glanced over to Jennifer.
“What are you thinking, Jennifer? You’ve gone very quiet. I can almost hear the grey cells whirring.”
Jennifer smiled at him and touched his arm affectionately.
“I was thinking about the maps in the van. It seems rather sloppy for Olivia. And who uses maps these days when there’s the same information, often better information, in apps on phones? I think there’s a strong chance all the searching in Cornwall and Devon today and on subsequent days will draw a blank. She’s not there. If she were, I don’t think she’d be leading us by the nose. My guess is she went off into some village, changed the look of the bike by perhaps removing the panniers, maybe even giving it a quick spray job. She could have changed the plates too.”
Henry was nodding in agreement. “Crash helmet as well. She’d know the police were looking for a particular colour, so she could have had a spare in the pannier.”
“Maybe even spare leathers,” suggested Derek.
Jennifer pulled a face. “Bugger. That means she’s effectively disappeared again while watching us waste huge amounts of resources on the pointless exercise of scouring the countryside.”
“She’d be running a big risk in the long term if she tried to continue operating in the UK,” said Henry. “From what you were telling me last night, she’d be strapped for cash and forever running the risk of being spotted. Going abroad is by far the safer option. Does she speak any foreign languages?”
“Nothing on her record that I can recall,” said Jennifer.
“You’re right,” added Derek. “I was looking at her file the other day for something. There’s nothing there about language skills.”
Jennifer checked the time on the phone. Henry had to leave soon in order to make his flight. She caught his eye and tapped her wrist. He checked his watch. “Half an hour,” he said, quietly.
Jennifer turned her attention back to the call.
“How are you feeling, Derek?” she asked.
“I’m fine, Jen, thanks. It has really helped talking it through with you both. I’d better go, I’m supposed to be at work.”
“I’m sure Hawkins will understand,” said Jennifer. “Is Crawford a reasonable man?”
“Yes, he’s good, and bright too.”
“Well, remember we could be entirely wrong about Freneton. She could be fooling us all and living in Nottingham, just waiting for her chance. Don’t skimp on the checks, Derek. Under the car et cetera, and before you fall through your front door at night, look for any signs that someone is there. And remind Hawkins he was probably next on the list after Neil. Maybe you too. Perhaps she was planning a triple whammy.”
“Thanks, Jen. I’ll hold that thought and store it up for my next nightmare.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Connie Fairbright jolted from a deep sleep as her subconscious worked out the shrill tone of her mobile was reality and not part of her dream of floating in fields of sunflowers. She tumbled from the bed and staggered in confusion to the coffee table where she’d left the phone the evening before.
As she rubbed her eyes and let them focus on the screen, she registered two things: the time — 4.30 in the morning — and the caller’s name.
“Diana! What’s happened? Are you all right? It’s the middle of the night. I—”
“Connie.” Oliv
ia’s voice was a whispered croak that she had no need of faking. Her jaw was aching from the three vicious slaps she had demanded from Kevin.
“Diana! You sound hurt. Are you injured? Has there been an accident?”
Olivia waited before answering to allow Connie to continue to work up her state of panic.
Speaking slowly, her sentences in fragments, she said, “Connie. I’m hurt. Don’t worry, it’s not … life-threatening. I was beaten up. I thought … at first … it was a mugging. But now I’m … I’m not sure … although I have been robbed.”
“Beaten up! Where are you, Diana? Are you still in Brussels? Have you called the police?”
“It was the police who did it.”
“The police beat you up?”
“They weren’t in uniform, but I’m pretty sure they were police, yes.”
“Why? What possible motive could the police have in hurting you?”
“I don’t know. I was walking back to my hotel, from my lawyer’s office. I took a short cut. I was stupid. Through a dark and rather dodgy area. They grabbed me from behind. Took me completely by surprise.”
“And they’ve hurt you. How badly?”
Olivia waited, letting her heavy breathing sound before she sobbed her reply.
“They punched me hard on the nose. It hurts like hell; I think it’s broken. And then they slapped me around. One of them must have been wearing a ring because my eyebrow’s cut. My face is a mess, Connie.” She let the sobs mingle with a series of shuddering breaths. “I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid to go out in case they’re waiting somewhere.”
“Do they know where you’re staying?”
“I don’t know. I’m frightened, Connie. One of them held me by the arms, really hard, from behind while the other one twisted my face in all directions.”
“What were they doing?”
“I don’t know. It was … it was as if he was examining a horse. I wondered if they were into kidnapping. You know, for some eastern bloc cartel who want women with very precise specifications.”
“You mean like white slavery?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Maybe. I’m confused. All I know is I was desperate to escape and when the one holding me relaxed his grip, I kicked the other one hard in the balls.”
“Good for you, Diana.”
“Not really; he was wild. That’s when I was grabbed again and the one I’d kicked beat me. Then they ran off.”
“What makes you think they were police?”
“When they first grabbed me, the one who did all the talking flashed me what looked like a warrant card. Said something about the gendarmerie.”
“Probably fake. I think you should report it.”
Olivia turned on more sobbing. “I just want to get out of here, Connie. But I can’t; I’ve got no money. They took what I have from my bag. Cards as well. Fortunately, earlier on I brought my aunt’s things back to the hotel from the lawyer’s office. And the stupid thing is I needn’t have come here at all. When I went back to his office this evening, the lawyer told me he’d finished everything. He even said he could actually have sent the papers and my aunt’s stuff by courier for me to sign. I was livid. I yelled at him and stormed out. That’s when this happened.”
“OK, Diana, just give me the address and I’ll get up there immediately. I’ll fly up. If I rattle a few cages I could be airborne within an hour. Just stay put in your room, bolt the door, put a chairback under the handle and wait for me. I’ll bring a doctor and a nurse; the hotel has them on call.”
Olivia waited impatiently, drumming her fingers on the bed. Finally, after four hours, her phone rang.
“Diana, it’s me. We’ve just arrived at your hotel. It’s a real dump. Why are you staying in a place like this?”
“It was convenient and I stayed here once before, many years ago. My memories of it were better than what it’s become. I’ll open the door for you. I’m on the first floor, room 14.”
Olivia sat on the edge of the bed and waited. She heard footsteps running up the stairs followed by an urgent knock on the door.
“Come in,” she croaked. “It’s open.”
Connie burst into the room followed by two other women, one in a nurse’s uniform, the other a duty doctor from the hotel in Rome.
“Oh my god, Diana, you poor dear! Let me look at you,” cried Connie.
She sat on the bed and threw her arms around Olivia, who allowed her head to sink into Connie’s shoulder.
“Dottoressa,” called Connie, turning her head towards the two women.
The doctor stepped forward and took Olivia’s wrist to check her pulse, after which she put a hand under Olivia’s chin to lift her head and shone a torch into her eyes. She nodded and studied the marks and bruises on Olivia’s face, gently peeling off the plaster Olivia had put on her eyebrow.
“Did they hit you anywhere else, signora?” she asked Olivia. “On your body?”
Olivia shook her head. “Only my face,” she replied through a succession of sobs.
“Good,” said the doctor. “You appear to have a slight concussion; I’ll give you something for the pain; it will only take a few minutes to start taking effect. In the meantime, we’ll clean you up and put a temporary dressing on your eyebrow. It needs stitching but I’d rather do it in my surgery back in Rome. When we’re there, I’ll also give you a full examination, just to be sure.”
“Thank you,” said Olivia. She turned her head to Connie. “Thank you, Connie. I can never repay your kindness. I thought they were going to kill me. I—”
“Don’t try to talk, Diana,” said Connie softly. “The important thing now is that you’re in safe hands. Let’s get you out of this terrible place. Can you walk? If not there’s a wheelchair in the van outside.”
“I’ll be fine if I can lean on you,” said Olivia as she turned to allow the nurse to swab her face.
While the doctor continued with her examination, Connie busied herself with pulling Olivia’s few clothes from the wardrobes and drawers and packing everything back into the rucksack Olivia had hastily pulled them from a few hours earlier. Olivia continued with the suffering victim part while carefully watching Connie’s every move, looking for any indication that she might be suspicious. She needn’t have worried: Connie had swallowed the tale completely, her concern radiating through her actions. She simply wanted to get her friend back to the safety of Rome and the hotel. She hardly glanced at the two holdalls in which Olivia had stowed everything she didn’t want seen, both sealed with substantial padlocks.
After a further fifteen minutes of unwanted attention, Olivia was declared fit enough to travel. Flanked by Connie and the doctor, with the nurse bringing up the rear with all the bags, Olivia allowed herself to be escorted carefully to the street, where the luxury minivan was ready to carry them to the waiting jet.
Chapter Twenty-Six
September – November 2015
Jennifer Cotton skipped down the stairs of her flat in Nottingham’s exclusive Park district, pulled open the front door and turned to call out to Derek.
“Come on, Thyme! I thought you were an Olympic athlete. Surely I haven’t worn you out.”
“You’re joking, Cotton,” yelled Derek as he bounded down three steps at a time, landing next to her with a thump.
“A half-hour tumble in the hay has just warmed me up,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before heading for the door.
“Oi!” she yelled. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back to her, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling his face to hers. “I want more than a peck on the cheek.”
“You’re insatiable, Cotton,” he grinned.
Too late, he realised her ploy was to turn their entwined bodies so she was closer to the door.
“Hey!” he called, but she was gone, racing for the gate.
“Close the front door!” she yelled as she pulled on the gate handle. “And make sure this one’s shut too,” she added as she pounded along the road.
There was a bang as the gate slammed into place and a slap of running shoes on tarmac as Derek sprinted after her.
“I must give you my notes on cheating, Cotton,” he said, easing alongside her with his comfortable stride. “Tricks like that would get you banned from every meet in the country.”
“Gotta have some advantage,” she laughed as they ran towards Newcastle Circus, the larger of the two tree-lined roundabouts in The Park.
Jennifer stopped by a gate at the top end of the circus. “You go clockwise; I’ll go anticlockwise. Three circuits and you take the outside when we pass. OK?”
Derek frowned and looked around. “Where’s my chair?”
“What?”
“I’ll need somewhere to sit and wait once I’ve finished. I’ll be so far ahead of you.”
“Huh!” cried Jennifer, tossing her head as she sprinted off.
Ninety seconds later, Jennifer completed her third loop to find Derek leaning casually against the gate.
“Lose your way?” he asked.
“You only did two,” she countered.
“Actually it was four. That blur was me in overdrive.”
“Yeah right, Thyme. Come on, we’ll head towards the Castle then loop around the top roads.”
Since returning to England in late September and starting her full-time training with the Art Fraud Squad, Jennifer had spent every weekend in Nottingham. In spite of the luxury of the villa on the cliffs overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea, she had missed the tree-lined seclusion of The Park and the comfort of her flat with its spacious, high-ceilinged rooms and carefully chosen furniture, perfect for long lazy weekend days. She had also missed Derek.
Derek had met Jennifer at Heathrow. She had been feeling strangely nervous about returning, and about being met. For the last three months, they had spoken almost daily on the phone and on Skype, but throughout the flight she had questioned whether the magic she’d felt back in June would still be there. Was it real or had it all been an illusion brought on by the spell of Sardinia, the lapping waters and the perfumed breezes?
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