Remorseless

by David George Clarke

Jennifer smiled, although rather than reassure her, Godden’s words brought home the fact that for most of the time, she would be on her own.

  “Thank you, Paul. I won’t let you down. I know how much is resting on this and I want it to succeed as much as anyone. Don’t worry, I won’t take risks and I won’t do anything stupid.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  August — November 2015

  Olivia spent the day of her return to Rome from Brussels allowing the doctor to examine her, stitch and dress the cut to her eyebrow and tend to her other injuries. And even though she hated every moment, she also allowed Connie to cluck around her, ministering to her every need.

  As her face moved through various shades of unattractive yellow and purple, she was pleased she’d gone the extra mile of Kevin’s beating: every time Connie looked at her, which was almost constantly, the sympathy in her eyes increased. If Connie had felt close to her friend before the fictitious departure to Brussels, her conviction now of wanting her to be a long-term companion was total.

  The morning after their return, Olivia was making notes on her secret computer when her phone pinged with a text from Connie.

  ‘Are you awake? Is it too early to call by?’

  Olivia had slept well, exhausted by the activity of the previous two days, particularly the self-orchestrated beating and the nightmare three hours hidden in the tomb-like confines of Kevin’s toolbox, the latter requiring every ounce of her self-control not to have screamed for release.

  But all that was now history; she had the future to plan and had been up for two hours gathering her thoughts and revising her strategies.

  ‘Give me 5m’ she typed in reply, getting up to stow her computer and notebook in the safe before mussing up her hair in preparation for Connie’s arrival.

  “I’ve ordered you some coffee, Diana, I hope you don’t mind,” said Connie once she’d ushered Olivia back to her bed and sat herself down on the end. “Don’t worry about the staff, I’ll collect it at the door. We’ll keep you cloistered away until the worst of the bruising’s gone. I don’t want rumours that we’ve had a fight.”

  She gave a nervous laugh as Olivia responded with a half smile.

  If we’d been fighting, thought Olivia, you’d be in the mortuary by now.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ll be wearing large dark glasses and an excess of powder for a few days if I need to go out.”

  “Are you up to breakfast?”

  Olivia was ravenous but thought it better to suffer it until lunchtime.

  “Just a little toast, I think,” she said, easing her back with exaggerated care into a more comfortable position. “And perhaps some plain yoghurt.”

  After reaching for the room phone and placing the order, Connie returned to the bedside.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry, Diana. My stomach’s ruling my head as usual. How are you feeling? Did those sleeping pills the doctor gave you allow you some rest? You poor thing. I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through. Are you ready to talk about it yet?”

  Olivia had thrown the pills away, never wanting to be in a position where she couldn’t snap awake at a moment’s notice. She set her face with a pained expression. “Actually, Connie, I think I’d rather forget all about it. Put it down to a bad experience owing largely to my own stupidity for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Why do you think they attacked you? Were they trying to kidnap you?”

  Olivia shook her head. “I’ve been thinking through what I can piece together of it. It all happened so fast, you understand. I reckon it was a case of mistaken identity. They were expecting someone else whom I happened to resemble so they grabbed me. They must have quickly realised they’d got the wrong person so they let me go.”

  “Then why beat you up? It seems horribly sadistic.”

  “Maybe it was a warning or maybe they were the kind of men who like beating women. Who knows? Whatever the reason, it’s over and I want to forget it.”

  She reached out to touch Connie’s arm. “I’m sorry to have been so much trouble, Connie. I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d not had you to call.”

  Connie placed her hand on top of Olivia’s. “It was the least I could do for my dearest friend,” she said, smiling. “What’s important now is to get you on the road to recovery. The doctor says while the redness to your face should start to fade in a day or two, the bruising on and around your nose will take longer. What worries me is how it’s affected you psychologically, emotionally. Did you have nightmares last night? Do you think perhaps some trauma therapy would be a good idea?”

  Olivia found it difficult not to laugh in Connie’s face. The last thing she wanted was some analyst getting inside her head. It would be unhealthy territory for anyone who tried, and the more they probed, the more Olivia would need to kill them.

  “I’m a big girl, Connie, I don’t think I’ll be suffering any long-term effects.”

  Over the next weeks, Olivia was pleased to see Connie’s reliance on her increasing. Once the stitches were out of her eyebrow and the swelling to her nose had subsided, the range of Connie’s expectations of her friend began to increase beyond what they had been before the Brussels incident. Connie was now consulting her on just about every non-investment-related aspect of her life, even seeking her advice on her clothes, which was ridiculous given Connie’s far better sense of fashion. Olivia was rapidly becoming indispensable.

  During her ‘convalescence’, Olivia also reflected long and hard over her UK disposal strategy. She had to assume that her caravan bolthole had disappeared along with the West Bridgford garage and flat. She now had no refuge in the UK to which she could head to plan any future exercise and much as it pained her, she reluctantly made the decision to put the outstanding disposals on hold until some unspecified time in the future. Her strategy now must be to get ever closer to Connie, to win her trust and gain access to her wealth. Connie’s money would become her number one priority, her motivator.

  However, no matter how much closer the pair became, Connie kept all matters relating to her wealth totally to herself. Money was merely something she had; how it was managed back in the States was only vaguely hinted at. Her dealings with the highly-paid advisers and financial managers employed to deal with her vast portfolio were conducted twice a week after lunch behind the closed doors of her suite. Olivia was never invited.

  Olivia knew the numbers were huge; she had long since researched Connie and her dead husband online, extracting what snippets were released to the financial press. She was realistic enough to accept that she would never be likely to gain direct access to large amounts of Connie’s cash, so another way would have to be sought. There were several possibilities, all of which involved theft and therefore would have to be perfectly timed, since once the deed was done, there would be no going back. The obvious target would be the works of art Connie had proposed buying on many occasions, but so far, her collection remained only in her head, her prevarication on moving forward endlessly frustrating.

  The weeks dragged for Olivia, the time made more difficult by her having to play the sweet Diana to Connie, a dear friend with all the answers, never ruffled, never bored, always kind, attentive and supportive. Olivia gave vent to her frustration with intensive sessions in the gym where she would stretch her finely tuned muscles to the limit. She took particular pleasure in boxing and kick boxing training where she frequently made even the most seasoned of instructors cower. When this wasn’t enough and the tension in her head threatened to bubble over, she would take herself off late at night to the seediest and darkest back streets of Rome where she would deliberately allow herself to be followed and accosted by a mugger unaware of what he was taking on. If he was lucky, the mugger would be left a pummelled mess of flesh and broken bones in a gutter; the unlucky ones became just more statistics in the unsolved murder list, assumed to be victims of mob retribution.

  Finally, three months after the Brussels incident, light a
ppeared at the end of Olivia’s tunnel of impatience, and when it appeared it offered far more possibilities than she had expected.

  The request came out of nowhere one morning at breakfast. When Olivia made her way to the terrace, she was surprised to find Connie already there sipping her coffee and working her way through what was now a far-more-comprehensible Corriere Della Sera. The wary Mario broke cover to appear at the table in time to pull out Olivia’s chair and spread her napkin, immediately removing himself lest he upset la Signora Fairbright.

  Connie poured Olivia a coffee and sat back, a smile on her face radiating excitement.

  “You’re looking very pleased with yourself this morning, Connie,” said Olivia, reaching for her cup and raising a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I’ve been thinking, Diana, plotting,” said Connie, sitting upright and placing both hands on her thighs as she leaned forward towards her friend. “I’m ready to take my plan to the next stage and I’m afraid, as usual, that I’m going to be asking for your help in sorting something out.”

  Hardly able to contain her avarice as a number of ideas flashed through her mind, Olivia allowed a knowing smile to spread across her face, “You mean you want to start your art collection? You feel ready?”

  Connie clapped her hands, immediately confusing Mario who shot to attention before working out he wasn’t being summoned.

  “Yes! Exactly! I know I’ve talked and talked about it until your eyes drooped with boredom—”

  “Never, Connie!” protested Olivia, laughing as she said it. “It’s a wonderful project.”

  “Isn’t it just?” Connie reached out and squeezed her friend’s arm. “Anyway, I’ve been privileged, thanks to you, to have had the benefit of Alessandro’s brilliant teaching for several months now, and I’ve been stuffed full of just about everything Cesare Contorni has to offer for far longer. No, that’s not fair. If I remained his student for the next ten years, I think he would still find new artists and their work to delight me with. However, although I want to carry on the lessons with Alessandro, I think I’m ready to cut down on Cesare’s to, say, a couple a week, to free up some time. You see, I think I’m ready to start exploring the world of galleries and salesrooms without being ripped off at every turn.”

  “That’s wonderful, Connie, I wondered when you would want to move forward. It’s a very exciting thought. So, how can I help? Do you want me to make a shortlist of reputable galleries here in Rome?”

  Connie shook her head. “As far as Rome is concerned, I’m already familiar with all the galleries I would consider using. What I’d like you to do is look at some elsewhere. Florence would be a good place to start. Or Siena perhaps?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” said Olivia. “I’ll get on to it this morning while you’re with Alessandro.”

  She studied Connie’s face, letting her own register amusement.

  “That’s not all though, is it? I know that scheming look, Connie Fairbright; you’re hatching another plot.”

  “Gosh, am I that transparent?”

  “Only in a good way.”

  Connie squeezed Olivia’s arm again. “I want to move out of Rome.”

  Olivia pursed her lips and nodded. “Why not? Where do you want to go? Florence? Siena? Bologna?”

  “No, not to a city. You see, if my plans work out, I’m going to be acquiring some pretty valuable pieces over the next year or two.” She looked around and let her voice drop. “To the tune of several million dollars,” she mouthed, the words hardly even a whisper. “I’ll need to store them somewhere.”

  “Too right,” agreed Olivia. She couldn’t believe where this might be going. “A very secure vault comes to mind.”

  “That’s the point, Diana; that’s exactly what I don’t want to do. If I buy all these wonderful works, I’ll want to look at them. Every day. Have them on show, for me that is.” She smiled. “For us, I mean, if that’s what you still want.”

  Olivia said nothing, letting what she hoped was an affectionate enough smile speak for her.

  “Don’t you want to be in a city?” she asked. “What about security? Wouldn’t it be easier to burglarproof a house in a city rather than a villa in, I don’t know, Tuscany, for example?”

  Connie was shaking her head. “Not with the sort of security I have in mind. There’d be little difference, and any advantage that being in a city might confer, such as the police being closer, would be totally outweighed by all the advantages of being in the country.”

  “Heavens,” said Olivia. “I think you mean it.”

  “I sure do, honey. You see I’m no novice at this. The house where we lived in Massachusetts was hardly urban. It was on huge grounds and Brad had installed just about every security device known to man. If a mosquito landed on the lawn at night, it would set alarms off.”

  Olivia laughed. “And you think you can get the same here.”

  Connie nodded. “Almost definitely, and if I can’t, I’ll import it from the States.”

  “So that’s another little task for me to research for you?”

  “Actually, Diana, no, it’s not; the security aspect, I mean. I have good contacts in the States who are very well connected internationally in the security world. They are real experts. And, with respect, you probably don’t know too much about it.”

  Olivia gave a nod to indicate agreement. What her face didn’t register was her amusement at the irony of the situation. Police Superintendent Olivia Freneton had made a specialist study of innumerable security systems and been briefed by the top specialists from the UK defence agencies. She had probably forgotten more about security systems than Connie’s people would ever learn, not that she would be telling Connie.

  “So what would you like me to do?”

  “Find me a villa.”

  Connie’s expectations of a villa were ambitious. Its condition didn’t matter since she would be implementing a major renovation. What was important was its size and location. It had to be large, with rooms that could be reliably climate controlled to protect the paintings she intended to buy; it should be set on at least twenty hectares of land, more if possible, land that could be well fenced to keep out hunters, walkers and foragers as well as potential burglars, and it needed to be relatively remote, not easily visible, either from a distance or even from its entrance gate.

  Olivia pulled out a notebook and together the two women compiled a detailed shortlist of requirements.

  “What sort of time frame are we looking at?” asked Olivia, tapping her notebook with her pen.

  Connie pulled a face. “Well, this is Italy, so even if we can find the right property soon, the bureaucracy together with the building work to bring it up to spec could take a year. But hey, we might be lucky and find it takes less. Wouldn’t that be marvellous?”

  “So ideally, late summer next year?”

  Connie’s face lit up. “Do you think that’s doable? Gosh, it would be so wonderful. I mean, this hotel is magnificent and my suite beautiful. But it’s still a hotel. Much longer and I think I’ll be climbing the walls.”

  “If you want to get out of here sooner, you could always consider renting somewhere,” suggested Olivia. “In fact, that would be a good idea once you’ve settled on a property to buy. If you rented in the same area, you could keep an eye on progress, be on hand for any decisions that needed to be made.”

  “Diana, you’re brilliant,” enthused Connie. “And your mention of Tuscany, a place where I know I’d love to live, fills me with excitement. I’d like you to start your search there.”

  Olivia hadn’t just casually mentioned Tuscany; once Connie had expressed her wish to buy a villa, she decided it was the only location. Her own small farmhouse — her secret refuge and centre of operations until she’d met Connie — was in the wilds of Tuscany and it would be far more convenient if Connie’s proposed villa were relatively nearby.

  Nestled in the hills beyond the Val di Chio about fifteen miles from the medieval town of Cas
tiglion Fiorentino, south of the city of Arezzo, Olivia’s farmhouse was on a remote, seldom-used track that went nowhere. She knew of several luxury properties within a twenty-mile radius along with many others in varying states of disrepair. One of them would be bound to fit the bill.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  March – May 2016

  Maurizio Cambroni shuffled from the internal lift into the private second-floor gallery as fast as his failing legs and leather slippers would allow.

  “My dear Contessa,” he called, his lisping Florentine tones overlaid with a whistle of age, “a thousand apologies; a million. I was detained downstairs with a demanding client, you understand how it is, and I failed to notice the time.”

  The Contessa De Santi waved a parchment hand in his direction, the expertly cut carats of her several rings catching the light.

  “Slow down, Maurizio, or you’ll have a heart attack. Surely you know you are supposed to take it easy at your time of life.”

  Jennifer suppressed a smile as she looked at the filigree of lines etched into the ageing contessa’s face. She was every bit as old as Maurizio Cambroni, if not several years his senior.

  “You needn’t have concerned yourself, you know,” continued the contessa, “your Signorina Mancini has been charming her way to my chequebook on your behalf. If she continues to weave her spell, I’ll be in danger of frittering away what’s left of the late Conte’s fortune on these miracles of creativity.”

  She waved the bejewelled hand at the array of paintings on the gallery wall.

  “You’ve excelled yourself, you old crook. A collection of exquisite and rare Rondinos and an even more exquisite young lady to sell them for you. You must be raking it in; I trust you’ll give me my usual discount.”

  Cambroni’s palms turned outwards instinctively as he shrugged his acquiescence.

  “You are taking the entire collection?” He was hardly able to hide the disbelief in his voice.