She sighed. It was late, she was tired and she knew that even if whatever Godden wanted to discuss only took five minutes, with the convoluted route she was committed to take to ensure she wasn’t being followed, both on the way to the apartment and on her return, she wouldn’t be in bed until at least two in the morning.
However, she knew better than to take shortcuts — especially as a couple of Felice’s watchers were probably keeping an eye on her just in case — and it wasn’t until nearly an hour after the text message arrived that she was standing in front of the entry phone’s video camera tapping the prearranged sequence of knocks onto the apartment door to indicate she was alone and under no threat.
The door opened and she walked in to find Paul Godden and Massimo Felice sitting opposite each other on two large sofas, both men looking very pleased with themselves.
“Jennifer,” said Godden as he stood. “Sorry for the late hour but a little while ago I got some good news that enables us to move forward significantly.”
Jennifer sat in an armchair, glancing at Felice as she did. There was a large box file open on a coffee table in front of him and a couple of documents from it balanced on his knees. His grin as he looked at her was triumphant.
“You both look like you’ve won the lottery,” said Jennifer. “It better be good if I’m losing my beauty sleep over it.”
“It is, Jennifer,” said Godden. “More than good.”
She waited, watching while Godden opened up a folder he was holding.
“We’ve had the results back from the tests Ced Fisher performed on Varinelli’s painting of you,” said Godden. “And they’re positive. The artist has the same style signature as the artist who painted the forgery reported to us by the Scottish collector.”
Felice leaned forward. “This clinches it, Jennifer. It’s definite proof that the gallery is crooked. The Cambronis should be going down for a long time. Obviously we’ve got to play it carefully, get everything just right before we raid the place, but I can tell you it will be soon.”
Jennifer sat back, smiling. “That’s brilliant. What’s your plan now?”
“Well,” said Felice, “the first thing we need to decide is what happens to you. It’s important for your protection that the Cambronis don’t suspect you. We’re dealing with well-connected, dangerous people, and you’ve penetrated the heart of their organisation. They will want revenge if they discover the truth about you.”
“You’re not suggesting I disappear right now, are you?” said Jennifer.
Godden shook his head. “No, we’re not. We’ve been discussing it and we reckon on balance it would be better if you’re picked up with the rest of the employees. There will be bail posted, probably for everyone. There’s not much we can do about that. And that’s the dangerous time. We can easily get the charges against you dropped later, although to do that we’ll probably have to drop the charges against Signora Renzo as well.”
“What about the forgers?” asked Jennifer. “I told you Varinelli is out of his depth. Can’t something be done for him?”
Felice scratched his chin. “We’ll have to see. He has definitely broken the law so it depends on the public prosecutor and the court.”
Jennifer stared at the box file as she thought through the conversation, a niggling doubt teasing her.
“Are you sure there’s enough?” she asked, finally. She looked up to see indignation registered on both men’s faces. “To prosecute them, I mean,” she added, hurriedly.
“Of course,” snapped Godden, suddenly irritated. “Do you see a problem with it?”
“Well, the issue of the painting being a fake has already been addressed by the gallery. There’s no proof that the painting supplied to the Scot wasn’t a fake all along.”
“But Jennifer,” objected Godden. “We now have Ced’s results. The painting was produced by Varinelli.”
“Isn’t there a danger,” countered Jennifer, “that the Cambronis will say he painted it elsewhere, that it’s nothing to do with them if they happen to employ a rogue painter? In other words, use Varinelli as the fall guy and walk away.”
Godden was shaking his head. “We’ll undoubtedly find other fakes by Varinelli and the other forgers the Cambronis employ when we raid the gallery.”
“Sure,” agreed Jennifer, “but they are just paintings in the gallery. No claims have been made about them. The Cambronis could say they have an arrangement with, I don’t know, shops and other galleries that specialise in copies of famous paintings. With the right lawyer, it could all appear completely innocent.”
“And there’s no doubt their lawyers will be top notch,” said Felice, looking concerned.
“What we need,” said Jennifer, “is a waterproof chain of evidence connecting the fake paintings to the gallery. We need to catch them as they’re being shipped. And that’s something of a problem since it would involve the buyers, most of whom wouldn’t be interested in cooperating with the police, given they are probably crooks themselves.”
She paused to think through her argument before continuing. “No, we need a bona fide buyer whom the gallery is cheating big time.”
“I felt good about all this until you arrived, Jennifer,” muttered Godden. “Now it all seems to have slipped away again.”
Jennifer laughed. “It’s not the end of the world, but neither is it the end of the case. We need that little bit more to make it watertight. Actually, there’s been a new client at the gallery recently whom I’ve met and like. I think she’s totally honest and I know the Cambronis are intending to cheat her with security-tagged fakes.”
Felice was shaking his head. “I can see your point, Jennifer, but surely there must be good evidence from the records the gallery is bound to have. They can’t keep all their transactions only in their heads.”
“You’re right,” agreed Jennifer, “they don’t and there are plenty of records. But for older swindles, before the tagging started, the fakes are all deniable, even if we can link them to the gallery, or at least to the forgers. For the tagged pictures, the Cambronis will have a harder time denying their involvement since it’s their system.”
“Then we should go ahead,” said Felice.
“Well, you’re the boss and it’s your call,” said Jennifer, “But I don’t agree. There are too many holes. We need to catch them in the act. Now, I happen to know that the Russians’ paintings — the Russians I went to see in Moscow — are almost ready. What I mean is that the tagging is done and the fake that Varinelli is preparing from the genuine painting we conned the Russians into providing is almost finished. With those and the con they’re setting up for the American woman—”
“American woman?”
“Yes, the woman I mentioned. She’s a rich American widow. The Cambronis have already sold her a couple of genuine paintings and are eager to sell her a lot more. Some will be top quality and totally bona fide, some won’t.”
“Who is she, this rich widow?” asked Felice.
“Her name is Connie Fairbright. Her late husband was the billionaire Brad Fairbright of Fairbright International fame.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Olivia Freneton sat alongside Connie Fairbright in the rear of the black limousine as the gleaming vehicle cruised at 150 km/h along the A1 autostrada in the direction of Florence. Her jaw was set and her eyes behind her large dark glasses glared angrily at the back of Cesare Contorni’s head. She was there under sufferance largely because Connie had insisted, and Olivia hated being told what to do. Meanwhile, Connie was bubbling with an enthusiastic glee that Olivia found nauseating.
“This is such an exciting day, Diana,” gushed Connie for the fifth time in an hour. “I have a good feeling about this gallery. I think this trip will mark a big step forward in the establishment of my collection. A watershed, don’t you agree?”
She turned and put a hand on Olivia’s arm. “It’s what we’ve been working towards; Signor Cambroni and Signorina Mancini were both exceptionally helpful. Not only
am I confident that Cesare will be most impressed by their knowledge, I’m also sure you will be too. Signorina Mancini is such a dear; a real gem.”
Olivia remained silent. She was trying to tune in to Contorni’s conversation with the driver from his position in the front passenger seat. However, their muted tones and use of Roman dialect were making it virtually incomprehensible.
She felt Connie’s hand squeeze her arm. “Are you feeling unwell, Diana? You’re very quiet.”
Olivia regulated her breathing. For two pins she could strangle this woman with her bare hands. Patience, she thought, patience. It won’t be long now until I’m free of all this.
“Just a slight headache, Connie,” she lied. “I’ve never suffered from them before, but since … Brussels,” — she paused for dramatic effect — “they’ve become something of a problem.” She pulled a brave smile to show Connie what a trooper she was. “It’s nothing serious. I’m sure it’ll soon be gone. Now, tell me, how come someone as young as you say this Signorina Mancini is knows so much about Renaissance art?”
“She said she specialised in the period during her university studies. Spent some time at a college in London, which is presumably why her English is so good.”
Olivia didn’t care. She had been meticulously reviewing her situation in the past weeks, revising plans, making new ones, working through the contingencies and applying all her brilliant skills to bringing this operation to a satisfactory conclusion. With her purchases over the past few months, Connie’s art collection was now substantial; it just needed the final boost that the Florence gallery might well give it. And the sooner Olivia judged the portfolio of paintings to be valuable enough, the sooner she could relieve Connie of it, along with her life.
However, there was a concern flagging itself in her mind. The tagging system. Was it going to slow things down? Was she going to have to wait for months while it was applied to whatever Connie bought from the Cambronis?
Ideally, of course, she didn’t want anything tagged. Ideally she would convince Connie that tagging was just icing on the cake, superfluous to requirements given the nature of the villa’s security system. Tagged, a painting was traceable. If she couldn’t talk Connie out of tagging, she at least needed her to take possession of the paintings first with a plan to release them in batches for tagging later. That would give Olivia the opportunity to pounce, kill Connie and disappear with the untagged paintings.
What had also helped move Olivia’s plans forward was Connie’s decision to give her access to the collection, which for the time being was housed in a huge safe Connie had installed in their rented villa.
“I think it’s important, Diana.” Connie had explained. “If something were to happen to me, I want the way to be smooth for the paintings to be accessible, retrievable. I don’t want them tied up in probate for years while lawyers argue over their value. It’s very important to me that the charities named in my will have access to the money that will be realised from their sale as soon as possible, not years in the future. I know you’d organise that so well, Diana,” she said, squeezing Olivia’s arm in what had become a frequent expression of her affection.
It was the realisation that she could simply walk into the study and walk out with Connie’s collection that had focussed Olivia’s thoughts. The contents just needed to be worth it and the timing perfect. For Olivia, that would pose no problem: she had total confidence in her own planning skills.
The limousine purred to a halt outside the gallery door and Thompson, the huge doorman, emerged to escort them, his welcome in stark contrast to his first meeting with Connie.
As the party of three passed through the doors, Ettore Cambroni came rushing down the stairs.
“Ah, Signora Fairbright, how delightful to see you again,” he said, taking Connie’s proffered right hand in both of his as tenderly as if it were priceless porcelain. “My entire gallery is at your service; your every wish our deepest pleasure to fulfil.”
He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I know you will not be disappointed with what we have to show you today, signora; it is a collection without parallel in recent years. We feel privileged to have the honour of assembling such a collection. It is … ottima.”
He turned his eyes towards Olivia. “And this must be the friend you told us was coming. Signora … Fitchley? Did I pronounce your name correctly?”
Grovelling toad, thought Olivia.
“Perfectly,” she said, dismissing him with the slightest of nods.
As a consummate criminal, Ettore Cambroni prided himself on being able to judge a person’s character with a minimum of verbal and physical signals. His life had depended on his judgement on several occasions. Without making it obvious, he studied Olivia’s face for clues, but with her deadpan expression and many of her features obscured by a designer scarf, huge dark glasses and more make-up than was fashionable, he found even his powers challenged. There was something rather theatrical about the woman, like a fugitive from the cinema of the sixties. But it was more than fashion, there was a darkness about her that set alarms screeching inside his head. And what concerned him most, more than just fashion, more than her looks and stance, was the tone of the one word she had spoken. Behind it were freezing chasms of ice, a hostile terrain raising hackles on the back of his neck.
Trying hard to quench his concerns for the present, Cambroni turned to Cesare Contorni.
“Signor Contorni,” he said, all obsequiousness once again. “I believe I have not had the pleasure. It is always a delight to welcome another expert in our noble endeavours.” He took Contorni’s right hand and shook it vigorously.
Continuing to hold Contorni’s hand, he circled his left arm around the bemused Roman and guided the party towards the lift.
“Before I introduce you to the wonderful works I have assembled for you, Signora Fairbright, may I offer you all some refreshment? You must be thirsty after your journey.”
Connie shook her head. “Maybe later, Signor Cambroni. For now, I can’t wait another second to see these paintings. None of us can.”
She glanced at Olivia, hoping for support, only to find she was staring straight ahead, apparently oblivious of the conversation.
The lift took them to the first floor gallery, the limit of its capabilities. As the party walked into the main ‘public’ gallery, Connie asked after Signorina Mancini, surprised to find she wasn't waiting for them.
Ettore Cambroni waved an arm along the gallery to where, some thirty yards away, Jennifer was standing with her back to the group, deep in conversation with two wealthy Dutch clients who had come to view.
“She’ll join us as soon as she can, signora,” reassured Cambroni as he glanced again at the mysterious and aloof Signora Fitchley.
The party headed for the internal lift that would take them to the upper gallery. Once there, Connie took one look along the carefully arranged display of fifteenth- and sixteenth-century portraits and gasped. Thoughts of meeting Signorina Mancini were put to the back of her mind, replaced with a total focus on the works before her.
“Oh my heavens, Signor Cambroni,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her in delight, “these are exquisite. How clever of you to have anticipated my tastes so precisely. I want you to tell me everything about each one.”
Cambroni tilted his head in deference and walked her towards the first of the paintings, noting as he did the scrutiny Contorni was already giving each work. He had anticipated this, although he had never heard of Contorni, and he was pleased with himself for displaying a full set of genuine portraits for the rich American; the substitutions with the copies produced by Varinelli and his colleagues would come later. However, what puzzled him and distracted him slightly from his normally effortless delivery of information was the almost complete lack of response to the paintings shown by Signora Fitchley, her reaction to the works in total contrast to both Connie and Contorni. He began to wonder if she was more of a bodyguard to the rich American than an int
erested party, muscle rather than brain. Now that he looked at her more closely, he saw that she carried no excess weight, that her movements were smooth and athletic. That would certainly explain it. He should have realised: Fitchley was the Fairbright woman’s version of Thompson. He gave a mental nod as he relaxed into his main routine. His mistake was easy to explain: the mob would never give such responsibility to a woman. Ever. It wasn’t the way things were done, so the explanation had eluded him. How strange these foreigners were.
Given the detailed and excited scrutiny Connie gave every painting, with a seemingly endless set of questions, together with the interest she showed in the tagging process Cambroni demonstrated with great pride, the viewing took longer than anticipated. Cambroni had arranged to take the party to lunch at his favourite restaurant, Il Latini, a few streets away, and as the morning wore on, he was concerned that the popular tourist destination would be filling up. For while his table was assured — a corner position in one of the smaller rooms he always reserved — he wanted to ensure his guests had the best attention.
Returning finally to the main floor, an elated Connie was deep in conversation with Cesare Contorni about several points she’d noticed. She was thrilled that his general impression of the paintings was more than positive, his main concern only the huge amount of money that Connie would be spending if, as he suspected she might, she bought the entire collection. Turning into the public gallery, Connie held up a hand to Contorni.
“Excuse me, Cesare, we’ll continue this in a moment. I want to say hello to Signorina Mancini. I was rather hoping that she would have joined us, but I can see she’s still busy with those people down there. I hope she’s had as successful a morning as our Signor Cambroni.”
She smiled and walked off in Jennifer’s direction.
Sensing Connie was going to take at least several more minutes, Olivia turned to Ettore Cambroni.
“Signore, is there a bathroom here I can use?”
Remorseless Page 23