Derek’s grin as she appeared immediately dispelled any thoughts she’d had of doubts on his side, and when she felt his arms fold around her and her face snuggled into his neck, she knew nothing had changed.
However, the banter was strangely missing as they drove up the M1 motorway. It had been nearly a year and England looked strange, different. It wasn’t just the light or the muted shades of green of the woodland, hedgerows and fields when compared with the vivid Italian landscapes; everything seemed alien, foreign, and incredibly busy. She felt like an observer rather than a participant, strangely out of place.
“That’s why I want to get to the flat,” she said as she tried to explain her feelings to Derek. “I need the feel of my own stuff, familiar surroundings. I’ve really missed it.”
She turned, putting her hand softly on his arm. “I’ve missed you too, Derek, more than I thought was possible.”
She raised her eyes to his. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
He grinned. “Why not? You always say it like it is.”
He reached over and stroked her hair.
“Missed you as well, Cotton.”
Later, extracting herself from the duvet and their tangle of legs, Jennifer sat up and laughed. “Christ, Thyme, two minutes in a place and you’ve turned it into a tip.”
He reached out and took her arm, pulling her down on top of him.
“You know what you said about not being able to keep our hands off each other …”
“I don’t remember saying that,” she said, nuzzling his neck.
“Pants on fire, as you’re fond of saying.”
“I’m not wearing any,” she giggled.
On that first, long weekend, they had hardly left Jennifer’s flat, except for a brief visit to Beeston for Derek to show Jennifer what he was now starting to call his country residence, since it was twenty minutes out of town rather than two.
“I’m trying to look at this place from Freneton’s eyes,” said Jennifer, once Derek had given her a tour. “She’ll have stood here, near the door, worrying about hidden alarm systems, wondering when you might show up, wondering where to start searching for any information you might have on me, and hoping that you haven’t taken your computer into work with you.”
Derek shook his head. “No, she’d remember that’s not allowed. We can only use the official desktops or authorised tablets. Nothing personal. The DCS is very rigid on that.”
“You could have chucked it into your car for safekeeping.”
“But I didn’t, and she found it. I’d love to have seen the frustration on her face when the security Ced installed cut in.”
Jennifer smiled. “Yes, it’s great to have a friend like Ced in tow. What he doesn’t know about computing isn’t worth knowing.”
“Yeah,” agreed Derek, “he’s a total genius. He was appalled when I called and told him about what Freneton had done to my bikes. I’m glad he and his family are completely off Freneton’s radar.”
“Have you upgraded your locks since she broke in?” asked Jennifer.
“They were already upgraded. The locksmith reckoned they were the best.”
“Well, either she’s exceptionally good at picking locks or your locksmith’s rubbish. I’ll get Pietro’s guys onto it.”
As Derek drew a breath to object, she cut him off. “No objections. I insist. You can pay the bill so there’s no acceptance of favours. I know it’s unlikely she’ll come back any time soon, but I want to be reassured that when I’m not around to hold your hand, you won’t have any unpleasant surprises waiting for you when you come home. And you must look into getting somewhere to garage your car. It’s too vulnerable out on the street. Look what she did to Hurst’s. It was all way too easy.”
Derek held up his hands in submission. “OK, boss, you win. And I agree, you’re right. I can’t trust the old dears downstairs not to let her into the building, so the locks have got to be good.”
He took her hand. “Now, I don’t think you paid enough attention to the bedroom.”
Having assigned Jennifer to work undercover for his specialist unit in the Art Fraud Squad, Paul Godden was determined she maintain a low profile. Secrecy was essential and although he trusted his officers completely, his main offices in the large police complex near Canary Wharf were far too public for his liking. Not only were many other police formations housed in the building, there was some public access, and certain art dealers had the annoying habit of dropping in uninvited on the pretext of having some useful snippet of information for the squad. If Jennifer were seen there, she would be bound to attract attention. Godden knew that several of his successful cases had ruffled feathers among the more unscrupulous dealers, particularly those who dealt with high-value sales of paintings of dubious origin. They had eyes at all the auctions, checking on any new faces whose connections appeared blurred; they wanted to know precisely who could be trusted and who might arrest them. For Paul Godden, anonymity for certain of his officers was paramount, Jennifer included.
For this reason, on her return from Sardinia, Jennifer had spent her weekdays training in a palatial house set in large grounds in Surrey, a specialist training centre used by both the security services and the police, whose activities were hidden from the outside world by high walls. It was here she met up with Nicole Turner, a specialist in interviewing and behavioural techniques she had previously spoken to at length on Skype while still in Sardinia. Turner was an expert at crafting young officers into playing the roles demanded of them while undercover, ensuring their natural tendency towards acting like police officers was well hidden. Jennifer wondered who she actually worked for; certainly it wasn’t the Art Fraud Squad as she’d originally thought.
After six weeks, Jennifer was ready. She had covered all she needed to with the added bonus of getting up to scratch with her unarmed combat skills. While she thought there would be little need for these in the refined world of art galleries, she was more than grateful for the opportunity — for as long as her nemesis, Olivia Freneton, was still at large, a burrowing worm of worry would be forever present at the back of her mind.
Her normal practice on arriving at the Surrey house every morning at eight from Pietro’s apartment in Wimbledon was to warm up for the day with a run through the grounds with one of the resident physical trainers.
The mid-November morning was verging on frosty, a lacklustre sun making little headway in penetrating the mist rolling in from the Downs to the south. Both Jennifer and Jim Smith, her companion that morning, were in full track suits and insulated ski hats, their breath billowing away in clouds as they sprinted from the woods towards the house at the end of their session. Arriving at the main door, Jim pulled it open, moving aside to let Jennifer through.
“Thanks, Jim,” she panted, peeling off her scarf as the warmth of the entrance hall set her skin tingling. “That got the circulation going.”
“Always a pleasure, Jennifer,” replied Jim. “Now, you should get in a hot shower to keep those muscles nice and warm.”
“You betcha,” she said, turning towards the corridor that led to the changing rooms.
“DC Cotton,” called one of the two receptionists. “Got a message for you.”
Jennifer broke her stride and walked over to the desk.
The woman smiled at her. “Superintendent Godden called to say he’s on his way down from London. Asked you to meet him in the cafeteria at nine thirty.”
“Thanks, Siobhán,” said Jennifer, her mind now full of expectation. She had been waiting for Godden to get in touch for over a week, knowing that things were starting to fall into place in Florence.
“As you know, Jennifer,” said Godden as he settled in the uncomfortable plastic chair in a quiet corner of the cafeteria, “while you’ve been completing your briefing down here, Massimo Felice has been preparing the way for your potential placement in the Cambroni gallery in Florence. For that, a vacancy in the gallery for new staff was required. Massimo told me
he’d handle it and his plan is now moving forward.
“Basically, there are two admin assistants in the gallery. One is a lady in her early sixties, Maria Renzo, who isn’t in the best of health. In fact she’s been taking more and more time off owing to sickness. Although we haven’t ascertained exactly what she does in the gallery, we do know she’s been with them for more than thirty years, so she must be at the heart of much that goes on there. There’s not a lot can be done about her, given her history, but it should be safe to assume that she’ll continue to be absent from the gallery quite often.
“Now the other assistant is altogether different. She, to quote Felice, is an arrogant bitch of thirty-one called Gabriella Panella whose uncle got her the job a few years ago through connections with the elder Cambroni. She’s known to be disliked by the gallery staff and losing her job will not cause her any pain since her family’s rich. Apparently they find her equally obnoxious; they just wanted to get her out of their hair. Felice has come up with a scheme to set her up, which should be happening in the next day or so. Panella has a penchant for expensive clothes and accessories that are way beyond her salary. She’s often in exclusive Florentine fashion stores where she loves to throw her weight around because her uncle is important. Felice has a female officer tailing her who, when Panella next goes shopping in a particular store, will lift a couple of very expensive scarves from the display and pop them into Panella’s bag. Since the scarves are tagged, an alarm will sound when she tries to leave the shop. The store in question always calls the police in shoplifting cases and has a policy of pressing charges. The local police will try to dissuade them, given Panella’s connections, but the store will insist. There’s also a tipped-off local journalist who’ll arrive on the scene and the outcome will be a minor scandal for the family. This will give the gallery an excuse to sack her since they won’t want to be associated with any adverse publicity.
“So, Jennifer, your name, or more precisely Ginevra Mancini’s name, is now with the exclusive recruiting agency the gallery uses on the rare occasions it needs their services. Your superb qualifications should ensure that you’ll get an interview.”
In spite of this being the news she had been waiting for, Jennifer was still shocked. “So it’s all falling into place. When do I leave?”
Godden pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Here’s your ticket for a flight later this afternoon. You’re travelling on your ordinary British passport, which we’ll then store for you at the safe house. Your apartment, rented in Ginevra Mancini’s name, is all set up, as you know. Once you’re there, you’ll be contacted by Felice or one of his squad. Sorry it’s short notice.”
Jennifer nodded. “Yes, even though I was expecting it, it’s still a surprise. This is presumably why you insisted on my having a bag here packed and ready.”
“Exactly.”
Godden checked his watch. “Now, we still have some time and I need to brief you on a couple of important matters that have arisen since we last spoke.”
Jennifer took a deep breath. “Wow, it’s really happening.”
Godden grinned. “Yes, Jennifer, it is. OK, I want to give you a heads-up on what we’ve got so far about how the gallery is organised.”
He sat back, crossing his legs. “Basically, there are three parts, so far as we can see. The first, the public part, for want of a better phrase, is located on the first floor of the building up a flight of internal stairs that lead only to the gallery. Here collections of mainly modern paintings are exhibited for sale. They generally feature the work of well-known artists, but even for this public shop front, casual tourists and other visitors are discouraged by the presence of a large African security guard posted on the street-level door. If he doesn’t like the look of anyone, he refuses to let them in. The clientele tend to be moneyed Italians — Florentines mainly — and rich foreigners who are either old clients or who have introductions from previous clients. The main reason there is a public gallery at all is that there have been several high value sales over the years to walk-ins who for whatever reason chose not to make an appointment. Business is business.
“The second part of the gallery is more private and accessible only by invitation or appointment. This we know is on an upper floor accessed only through the first-floor gallery and some more internal stairs or a lift, also internal. This private gallery is for well-heeled clients who wish to remain anonymous or who do not wish to mix with people they don’t know. These clients, as far as we can ascertain, are basically honest collectors who want to have access to valuable paintings that have come onto the market either through sale or because they are the latest works of a highly sought-after living talent. This happens in various ways in top-end galleries in this country too, as you now know from your briefings. OK so far?”
Jennifer nodded. “All sounds straightforward enough. I should assume that if they take me on, it would be in what you’re calling the public part of the gallery until either I’ve earned their trust or perhaps dire necessity requires me to be in the more private areas.”
Godden smiled. “Exactly, and to that end, Ms Renzo’s ill health might just be encouraged if we can find a way. However, you don’t need to concern yourself with that.”
“I don’t think I want to,” said Jennifer, raising her eyebrows. “You said there are three parts to the gallery.”
“Yes, and perhaps more. The entire building is owned by the Cambronis and being several hundred years old, is something of a labyrinth. We’re pretty sure there is a third, extremely private inner sanctum on the top floor just below the roof. From the building plans it seems to be quite separate from the main gallery and is probably accessed by a lift from a discreetly placed door on a side street that leads into a secure lobby. Neither we nor Felice have been able to get anywhere with that except for observing who enters and leaves. You must also remember that since this is an old building, there are very likely hidden passageways and possibly even back stairs that are not on the plans.
“Now, what is also interesting is that Felice’s information indicates the artists the gallery uses to produce forgeries have a studio somewhere in the building, possibly also in this top floor private sanctum. And somewhere in the building there’s also what’s been referred to as their laboratory for installing the security microchips. We don’t know how many forgers there are, but from Ced Fisher’s results and the observations of Felice’s team, we know there are at least two. Their guise will be as restorers. It’s the forgers who are the final point I want to raise with you.”
Jennifer gave Godden a suspicious look. “If they are elderly and set in their ways, I don’t think I’ll be their type,” she said, her face deadpan. “However, if one or more of them is young, cool and good-looking, I assume you’re thinking of a honeytrap.”
Godden laughed, shaking his head. “No, far too risky. If you, as a newly employed assistant in the gallery, start dating one of their master forgers, they will immediately be suspicious. It could be dangerous for you. You’re trying to blend in there, not be under the spotlight.”
Jennifer smiled to herself. Could be dangerous for the forger too, she mused, thinking of Derek.
“So one of them is young, cool and handsome?”
“Yes,” said Godden. “One of the two we know of is. He’s a thirty-year-old called Tonino Varinelli. He was a brilliant student at art college but that was ten years ago and since then he’s gone off the radar. He’s had no further connection with the art world or with his former fellow students. Any information you can find out about him and his colleague or colleagues will be very useful. Something that Fisher could analyse would be ideal since that would link the fakes to the gallery.”
“Someone’s taken a look at where he lives, presumably.”
Godden shook his head. “Lives with his mother who never leaves the apartment. Felice hasn’t been able to get close. Not that there’s likely to be anything lying around there; these people are too good for that.”
/> “Not even an early work la mamma has hanging on the wall?” mused Jennifer. “Anyway,” she added, “it could all take a while, given that it’s bound to take some time before I can build up trust.”
Godden agreed. “Operations like this can’t be hurried. No, what we need, as was in the briefing papers we discussed last time I was here, is to catch the Cambronis in the act of moving some fakes to somewhere else rather than back to the owner of the original painting, or even better, transporting genuine works they should no longer have on their books. By that I mean they’ve given a fake back to the collector who thought he’d had security installed in his genuine painting.”
“I’ll keep a careful record of anything and everything and get it to the safe house.”
“Of course, and remember, they’re going to be watching you. They will almost definitely have internal security cameras which could be trained on you. We also strongly suspect that once they’ve taken you on, someone will visit your apartment when you’re not there to look for anything to indicate you’re not who you say you are.”
Jennifer smiled. “Everything’s in place, all Ginevra’s memories, mementos and so on. And don’t forget the apartment is now bugged with two or three micro-cameras in every room, movement triggered, so if someone does take a look around, I’ll know.”
“Yes, the additional security courtesy of your stepfather is first rate. We can’t normally justify installing it in an operative’s apartment, so it’s a real added bonus.
“Now, Jennifer, before I send you on your way, I want to remind you that your safety in this operation is of the utmost importance; nothing justifies compromising it. You’ve been instructed and briefed on all the exit strategies. Remember, they are in place for your protection. If you get any indication that you are suspected in any way, you must not hesitate to follow your training and abort your placement in the gallery.”
Remorseless Page 19