“Of course, Signora Fitchley. It is ‘signora’ isn’t it?” he said, still interested in learning more about this enigmatic woman.
“Actually, it’s signorina, but at my age I take no exception to ‘signora’,” replied Olivia. “It is normally how I am addressed.”
“Thank you for your cordiality,” replied Cambroni, translating his formal Italian rather awkwardly. “The bathroom is that way.” He pointed back to the corridor. “Turn right and then immediately left through the swing door.”
Following the instructions, Olivia pushed her way through the swing doors. To the left along the short corridor she could see a door marked ‘Bagno’, to the right another door that was half open. She peered in and saw the security control room for the gallery, a bank of monitors linked to a number of CCTV cameras displaying high-resolution images of various rooms on both the first and second floors, as well as the corridors and main entrance, where she could see Thompson lurking. There was no one in the room so she walked forward to study the system in more detail. She glanced at the first floor images, the gallery just along the way, where on monitor 1-C she saw Connie as she passed close to a security camera. There was no sound, but as Connie’s image passed, she was clearly calling out a friendly greeting. On the next monitor, 1-D, was the group of three people Olivia had seen in the distance from the doorway to the first floor gallery. One of them, who must be Signorina Mancini, had her back to the camera and was turning in response to Connie’s greeting.
Olivia moved closer to the monitor, interested to get a look at the brilliant young lady Connie had been describing. As she did and the young woman’s face appeared large on the screen, Olivia froze in her tracks, her eyes wide in disbelief. The young woman was the main target of her vendetta in the UK. She was looking directly at Jennifer Cotton.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Olivia Freneton looked around anxiously to check there was no one behind her — a guard returning from a break perhaps, or another employee. Satisfied she was alone, she turned again to the bank of monitors, her mind already racing through various courses of action.
She stared in continuing disbelief at the image on the screen 1-D. DC Cotton. What the hell was she doing here? The girl was clearly comfortable in her surroundings so she must have been working in the gallery for some time and have the confidence of the Cambronis. Was there a possibility that the injuries Olivia had inflicted on her had proved too incapacitating for her to continue on active service? Had they condemned her to a desk job if she stayed in the police? Olivia studied Jennifer’s movements on the screen as she spoke firstly to Connie and was then introduced to Cesare Contorni. She didn’t look incapacitated in any way; she looked to be bounding with energy. So she must be a plant, a police officer working under cover.
Olivia thought back to what she knew about Cotton, to the file she’d studied on her during the disciplinary inquiry into her conduct over not revealing that her father was Henry Silk. Yes, that was it. She’d been brought up in Italy so it was only natural she would speak fluent Italian. And she’d studied art! Of course she had. Olivia nodded, her face grim. What a gift Cotton must have been for the authorities. Clever, articulate, fluent Italian and knowledgeable enough in the field of art to work as a sales assistant in a prestigious gallery. Then the final piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Her name. According to Connie, she was called Ginevra Mancini. If she had left the police and was genuinely working as a sales assistant, why would she change her name? She obviously wanted the Cambronis to think she was Italian. And yes, Connie had commented on her slight accent when she spoke English. Her whole presence in the gallery was a façade.
The question now was what to do about it. When was she going to kill her? She studied Jennifer’s face, her animation as she talked to Connie and Contorni, the ease with which she brought her other clients into the conversation, perhaps using Connie to help soften them towards a decision over a purchase. Certainly Connie’s endless enthusiasm combined with her recently gained knowledge of Renaissance art could only help the process.
Olivia felt her nostrils flaring involuntarily as the thrill of the chase consumed her. She had dreamed of this moment, dreamed of the time when she finally caught up with Cotton, dreamed of the time when she’d have her helpless in front of her as she slowly, meticulously, put her to death. But the girl had been so incredibly elusive that Olivia certainly hadn’t dreamed of her being presented on a plate.
She walked quickly back into the small corridor. It was imperative that Cotton remain unaware of her presence, imperative there was no introduction. Cotton was nobody’s fool; she’d see through Olivia’s make-up, dark glasses and Gucci scarf in an instant. She stopped as a thought struck her. What would Cotton do with that information? She certainly couldn’t announce to the Cambronis or indeed to Connie that they had a wanted criminal in their midst. That would blow her own cover immediately. More likely she would have a phone with a number of coded text messages ready to send, one of which would call in the troops.
Olivia slipped quietly into the first floor gallery, almost bumping into Contorni as she did.
“Ah, Diana, there you are. Connie was wondering about you. She’d like to introduce Signorina Mancini to you.”
He turned, as if to escort Olivia down the gallery.
“Actually, Cesare,” whispered Olivia conspiratorially as she rubbed her forehead with the fingers and thumb of her right hand, “I’ve still got that damned headache. There’s something about the atmosphere in this gallery, a sort of cloying stickiness to the air. Don’t you feel it? If I don’t get some fresh air immediately, I think I’ll throw up, which would be rather embarrassing for all of us. Would you mind giving Connie and the others my apologies and tell her I’ll meet you all outside?”
Without waiting for the surprised Contorni’s reply, Olivia turned and made her way quickly to the stairs, disappearing from view just as Connie turned her head in question to Contorni.
Olivia brushed past the bowing Thompson and hurried into the street. She glanced around, taking in doorways, windows and parked cars. What would whoever was controlling Cotton have in place? How close was her backup? She looked upwards, checking windows overlooking the gallery entrance. There were too many and they could all hide a surveillance team with no difficulty at all. She needed to get out of sight. Where was the damned car? Then she saw it, parked about fifty yards along the street, deep in the shadow of a building. She hurried over and banged on the windscreen, jolting the dozing driver into life.
Settling in the rear seat, she instructed the driver to stay where he was. She needed to be out of the sun and out of sight.
As she waited, Olivia thought again about her strategy. She was angry since this development had taken her by surprise, had taken at least a layer of control from her, probably a number of layers. But as she regulated her breathing, she realised that as long as Cotton remained unaware of her existence, nothing had changed. She simply needed to ensure that the guileless Connie hadn’t contrived a meeting, perhaps invited Cotton to lunch, although it wasn’t Connie’s place to do so. Lunch was supposed to be on Ettore Cambroni. However, she couldn’t remain in the car in case Cotton emerged from the building alongside Connie.
She opened the door and slid out, making sure the movement was minimal and well in the shade.
“Tell Signora Fairbright I’ve gone for a walk,” she instructed the driver. “I won’t be long and she has my number.”
Without waiting for his answer, Olivia slipped along the cobbled street, staying in the shadows. There was a small leather shop about thirty yards along that would have a reasonable view of the gallery entrance. Before she went in, she stepped into the shade of another entrance to check the windows on upper floors near to her in case anyone was straining a neck trying to see where she had gone. She also watched doorways for anyone leaving in a hurry, hoping to follow her. But there was no one. She took a deep breath. It would appear she hadn’t been noticed.
She crosse
d into the leather shop where she was immediately greeted by a smartly dressed, middle-aged woman. Summoning up her best Diana persona, Olivia smiled at the woman and asked to look around.
“Of course, signora, please take your time. We have only the best Florentine leatherwork in this store, straight from our exclusive artigiani.”
“Thank you,” said Olivia, picking up a bag while keeping her attention focussed on the gallery entrance, “the craftsmanship is impressive.”
After five minutes of browsing, picking up and putting down belts, bags, purses and shoes, Olivia eventually saw Connie walk from the gallery, her arm held by the fawning Ettore Cambroni. Contorni followed, but much to Olivia’s relief, there was no sign of Cotton.
The limousine driver had the car alongside Connie almost before she’d had the time to look up the street. Olivia thanked the shopkeeper and hurried back along the street to the car, climbing in through the offside door just before Connie got in from the street side, followed by Cambroni. Contorni, as was his habit, settled himself in the front passenger seat.
“Diana!” exclaimed Connie. “There you are. I was worried. How are you feeling? Are you up for lunch? Signor Cambroni tells me that the restaurant he wants to show us is one of the best in Florence.”
“Thank you, Connie, I’m fine now. I don’t know what came over me. I just had to get some air.” She forced a laugh. “I think all those amazing portraits made me giddy.”
“They are rather special, aren’t they,” beamed Connie. “And I am so going to enjoy seeing every one of them in the third gallery at the villa.”
“Every one of them! Connie Fairbright, does your love of art know no bounds?”
“Every single one,” giggled Connie. “I simply couldn’t resist. Signor Cambroni has agreed to hang on to them until all the tagging is in place, then we’ll have a very exclusive opening ceremony for the third gallery.”
It was not what Olivia wanted to hear.
“Actually, Connie, do you think that’s the best idea? From what I understand of Signor Cambroni’s tagging system, each painting requires many weeks of intensive work. The collection you’ve just bought could take as much as a couple of years before it’s ready. Are you sure you want to be without all those paintings for so long?”
Connie frowned at the thought. “This is why you are absolutely indispensable, my dear Diana. I hadn’t thought about it like that. Of course I couldn’t be without them for that length of time, not now I’ve experienced them close up. It’s going to be hard enough waiting until the villa is finished.”
“And that’s only one short month away now, Connie. Can you believe it?” said Olivia. “Why don’t we arrange for the bulk of today’s purchases to be shipped to the villa, leaving a couple for the gallery to work on. What do you think, Signor Cambroni? Would you agree with that?”
Ettore Cambroni didn’t care. One way or the other and at one time or another, Signora Fairbright’s collection was going to be replaced with totally convincing forgeries while the originals would disappear into Russia and China.
While they were talking, the limousine was quietly taking them the few streets to Il Latini, a traditional Florentine restaurant in a narrow side street close to the Arno.
“It was a pity you weren’t feeling well, Diana,” said Connie, “I should so like you to have met Signorina Mancini.”
Olivia’s mouth formed a smile, but behind her dark glasses, her eyes shone with malevolent delight. “There will be other exhibitions, other collections to tempt you, Connie. I’m sure Signor Cambroni will be inviting you to another private showing before long. And as for Signorina Mancini, I’m sure our paths will cross very soon.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The discovery of Jennifer Cotton working in the Cambroni gallery was a game-changer for Olivia, a development even she had not considered. As she sat in the car with Connie and Contorni after lunch while it sped back towards their rented villa in the hills near Monte San Savino, she tuned out from Connie’s chatter as she mentally sifted through a succession of new plans aimed at taking full advantage of this new and exciting situation.
She had been tempted to make some excuse for staying in Florence, to wait around near the gallery and follow Cotton when she finished work, but that would have been foolish, precipitous, and may have aroused suspicion. To think that she had almost not gone with Connie and Contorni to Florence at all that morning; she certainly had only accompanied them reluctantly on Connie’s insistence. As it was, she had been lucky; it could have worked out very differently if an unwitting Connie had introduced her to Cotton in the gallery. That would have been interesting. How would Cotton have reacted? she wondered. To have seen the look on her face would almost have been worth it.
No, this was a better outcome and she must capitalise on her good fortune.
As she stared at the blur of passing traffic, she became aware of Connie’s voice penetrating her thoughts.
“Don’t you think so, Diana? Diana?”
Olivia clenched her teeth, groaning inwardly.
She forced a pained smile. “Er, sorry, Connie, I was miles away. This damned headache, I can’t seem to shake it off.”
Connie squeezed her arm. “It was nothing, dear, just twitter. Have you taken something for it, your headache? Perhaps you should see a doctor. You can’t be too careful with headaches, you know.”
“Acqua, Diana,” said Contorni as he turned from his position in the front passenger seat and passed her a bottle. “Water. You should drink plenty of it. Best thing for a headache. You are probably dehydrated.”
Olivia took a swig from the bottle. “I expect you’re right, Cesare,” she said, continuing her role play. “This summer heat can be horribly draining.”
She put the bottle into the door pocket, leaned back and closed her eyes.
“Would you mind if I just took a little doze, Connie,” she said, quietly. She was desperate to get back to her train of thought, to revise and review her plans.
“Of course not,” said Connie, “I might just do the same myself. It’s been an exhilarating day and I suddenly feel quite tired.”
Olivia sighed, nodding in agreement. Her mind was already back on track, no longer distracted by her employer’s drivel. An idea was forming, developing fast like a time-lapse sequence of a plant growing from a seed. She had been increasingly concerned that her plan to steal the bulk of Connie’s paintings once the woman had been killed, whilst a good one, still had a potential flaw in that it shouldn’t be the only route to getting access to Connie’s fortune. As it stood, the success of the plan hinged on Olivia being able to sell the paintings to her contact in Amsterdam. She knew her profit should be substantial even if she didn’t get anything like the market value. But would it be substantial enough? Did her fence have the contacts himself? Were such high-value paintings out of his league? It was a potentially dangerous situation since by the time Olivia got the collection to Amsterdam, her fence would have seen the news, have heard that a rich American woman had been killed and her valuable art collection was missing. He would know Olivia was involved and he would use that knowledge to beat down the amount he was willing to pay her.
But now, quite unexpectedly, a gift from the gods had arrived. Jennifer Cotton. Once Olivia had captured her and locked her away in the cellar of her farmhouse, she could use her to force Connie to transfer a large sum of cash to an account Olivia had set up in the Caymans. It was so simple, so elegant. Transfer the money or sit and watch as Olivia subjected Cotton to excruciating pain while threatening to kill her.
She smiled to herself. She would, of course, kill her anyway. In fact, they would both die, once Olivia was sure the transfer had been effected.
Her first course of action must be to abduct Cotton and take her to the farmhouse. For that she needed time alone in Florence to follow the girl, find out where she lived and seize her. In her mind she ran through Connie’s agenda for the next week. There were a couple of local visits
to catch up with gallery owners she’d got to know. Although trips of no more than a few hours, there would be time enough for Olivia to head up to the villa site to check on construction progress and to continue to her own farmhouse to set up her cellar for her anticipated guest. The cellar had been a masterstroke. Designed principally to stop any intruder getting in and finding her stock of explosives, detonators, weapons, documents and disguises, once secured, the rooms were equally impossible to get out of. And Cotton could scream and yell as much as she liked; there would be no one nearby to hear her.
For her drive to Florence, Olivia needed Connie to be away for longer. And in five days’ time, there was the perfect opportunity. Connie had plans to go to Naples on an overnight trip, two nights possibly if the promised collections proved good enough. Of course, she wanted both Contorni and Olivia to go with her, but Olivia had the headache excuse mastered, switching it on and off as required.
The following few days saw Olivia impatient with anticipation. Finally, on the morning of Connie’s departure for Naples as she sat in the shuttered darkness of her room, she knew she was ready. She had visited her house twice to fine-tune her set-up for Cotton and now she was waiting for Connie, her excuse ready to be rolled out once again. As expected, there was soon a gentle tapping on the door.
“Diana? Are you awake? Is everything OK?”
Olivia waited, lying back on the bed, her palms covering her eyes. She heard the door open.
“Diana? Oh dear, you’re still in bed.”
Olivia stirred and groaned softly. “Connie, I’m so sorry; I don’t think I’ll be able to go anywhere today. I took some tablets an hour ago, but this headache just won’t shift.”
She felt Connie’s hand on her brow. “I don’t think you’re running a temperature, but I still think I should call the doctor; these headaches are becoming just too frequent. In any event, I’ll postpone the trip. I can’t leave you here like this.”
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