Remorseless

by David George Clarke

“Twenty? It’s not enough.”

  “It’s the best I can do, and beating me, torturing me or even killing me won’t change it. I’d give you more if I could, believe me. Anything to stop you hurting that girl again.”

  Olivia sighed. She had been fairly sure that twenty million would be the limit from a discussion she’d had with Connie in more relaxed circumstances some months earlier. She just needed to be sure. With the additional profit from the sales of the paintings she’d be picking up shortly from the safe in the rented villa, she’d have plenty.

  “Do it!” she instructed.

  “I have to make a call,” said Connie.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way it works. I don’t deal with some high-street bank, you know. Mine is a private organisation that exists for a very few clients. It’s … different. I have to speak to a certain person to authorise the transfer. It’s not difficult, and there will be no problems, but it has to be done that way.”

  Olivia knew she had no choice. “If you give any indication of the circumstances, scream for help, anything, I’ll forego the money and break your neck. Do you understand?” said Olivia, thrusting her face at Connie’s.

  Connie nodded, pulling back as far as she dared.

  Olivia called up Skype. “Do it!” she ordered.

  Connie didn’t move. “Diana,” she said, gulping her words, “I need to be calmer. May I have some water? Please?”

  Olivia grabbed a bottle from a table in the corner of the caravan and handed it to her, balling her hands threateningly into fists as she waited.

  Connie finished the water and took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said, “I’m ready. Where is the money going?”

  Olivia handed her a piece of paper.

  “Who are you calling?” she said. “What name?”

  “His name is Charlie Lisscombe. He’s my account director.”

  “OK,” nodded Olivia.

  Connie dialled and waited as the call connected. There was a slight echo as a female voice answered.

  “Mr Lisscombe’s office. How may I help?”

  “Hello. This is Constance Fairbright. May I speak with Mr Lisscombe?”

  “Of course. Please hold.”

  There was a click and a confident voice boomed down the line.

  “Connie, how are you? What can I do for you?”

  “Hi Charlie. I’m good, thanks. Sorry to bother you. I need to make an urgent cash transfer.”

  “Of course, Connie. How much?”

  “Twenty million.”

  “Top limit, huh?”

  “That’s still OK, isn’t it?”

  “Of course. As per our regulations. Where’s it going?”

  “The Cayman Islands,” replied Connie and she read out the details.

  Lisscombe read back the information. When he’d finished, he added, “Listen, Connie, as you know, under the new rules I have to send you a text with a code number that you read back to me. Do you have your cell there?”

  “Yes,” replied Connie, reaching into her jacket pocket.

  A few seconds later, the phone buzzed. “Two seven six, three one eight,” read Connie as she held up the phone to show Olivia.

  “On the button, Connie. That’s all done. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Nothing, thank you, Charlie. Have a nice day.”

  She hit the red button on the screen and sat back.

  “There,” she said. “You have your money. Can you please let that poor girl go now?”

  By way of reply, Olivia grabbed Connie’s right hand, hauled her into a standing position and twisted her arm up her back. In two seconds she was handcuffed again and Olivia was pushing her to the back of the caravan.

  “Sit there,” she said, indicating a battered armchair. Connie hesitated. Olivia shoved her hard, making her fall awkwardly onto the chair.

  “Don’t move,” she said as she focussed her attention onto the computer.

  She typed fast, calling up her bank in the Cayman Islands and checking her account. After typing several instructions, she punched the return key and stood up.

  “Your man is right. It’s all there. Thank you, Connie, your bequest is much appreciated.”

  “Bequest?” said Connie as she tried to turn into a sitting position. “What do you mean?”

  Olivia laughed loudly.

  “Oh, Connie, my dear,” she cackled. “Do you honestly think I could let you go free after all that’s happened this morning? No way! You’d have your hounds on me in a flash. At least with what I have planned, I’ll maximise my chances of getting away. It’s all been carefully and meticulously calculated, you see.”

  “You scheming bitch!” yelled Connie. “You’ll never get away with it.”

  Olivia laughed again.

  “Yes, I will. You see, I’ve been getting away with it for years. I’m simply too good for them. I’ll be out of the country by this evening, by which time you’ll be long dead, along with your little friend in the villa.”

  “Why, Diana? Why?”

  “It’s a long story, Connie, far too long to relate now, and why bother. However, in spite of your rudeness, I have decided to repay your generosity by making your death painless, unlike Jennifer Cotton’s. She will feel every flame as it works its way towards her, hear her skin blistering as she screams. It’s all she deserves for the trouble she’s given me. But you,” she said, walking up to the armchair where she had flung Connie, “I’m going to knock you out for a while with a little injection. Nothing too strong, just enough to keep you quiet for a couple of hours while I sort things out at the villa and get on my way.”

  “Diana,” pleaded Connie, “There’s no need for any of this. We can work something out. More money. As much as you want. A new identity; I’m sure it can be arranged.”

  Olivia snorted a cynical laugh. “Already done, my dear, already done. I agree that more money would be good, but I’ll get by. Now, let me explain what’s going to happen.”

  She bent down to reach into a cupboard next to her and carefully retrieved a rectangular plastic box of about twelve inches by ten. She placed it on the table near the computer and turned to Connie.

  “In that box is your passport to oblivion. It’s a bomb that will go off in about two hours’ time, about ten minutes after a similar but smaller device sets a fire in front of Jennifer Cotton. This one will destroy the caravan and you with it; it will be completely painless, I can assure you, although I suppose the anticipation won’t be fun if you’ve come round before then. You see, I’m hoping you’ll at least hear the device go off in the house and know that as you listen, Jennifer will be dying.”

  “You are completely and utterly mad. May you rot in hell,” snarled Connie as she tried to get out of the chair.

  “Tut, tut, Connie. Not trying to escape, are you?” said Olivia. She took a step forward and punched Connie full in the face, knocking her out.

  She hauled her out of the armchair and sat her slumped body onto an office chair. Taking a length of rope from a cupboard, she tied Connie’s ankles together and fed the rope around the chair to the handcuffs, effectively hog-tying her to the chair.

  She stood back and considered Connie’s unconscious form. She’d hit her hard; it would be a while before she came round. Her attitude towards her ex-employer was hardening. When she woke up, she could sit and watch the minutes ticking away until her death. She would forego the injection, Signora Fairbright didn’t deserve such compassion.

  Olivia’s final chore at the villa was to set the other explosive device. She retrieved it from where she had left it during her preparations the previous evening and carried it into the room she now regarded as the Jennifer Cotton pyre.

  “Recovered from my little kick, Cotton? You know, for two pins, I’d finish the job I started that night in Harlow Wood by methodically crushing your skull. I have the boots for it.”

  She placed the bomb amongst the paper and wood scattered around the room before wa
lking back to Jennifer to stand over her.

  “It’s tempting, Cotton, believe me. What’s stopping me is the knowledge that the fire in here will be slow, full of flame and extremely hot. I’ll be thinking about you. In fact, I’d very much like to watch, but needs must, I’m afraid. I have to be elsewhere.”

  She turned and walked out of the room, down the stairs and out of the villa. Her work done, she climbed into her car and drove away from the Villa Brillante without a backward glance.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Olivia took the most direct route across the Val di Chiana, using mainly minor roads to return to the rented Villa Luisa. She’d driven the roads a hundred times, knew where she could speed and where she must take care. She didn’t want some over-enthusiastic carabiniere or polizia officer stopping her and, because she was a woman, insisting on trying to charm her while unsubtly letting his eyes explore her body — on two separate occasions now she’d been invited for dinner while at a routine roadside check. She snorted her derision: these dullards had to occupy themselves with something since there was little crime in the area. Then she smiled in satisfaction. All that’s about to change, she thought.

  As she turned onto the narrow single-track road leading to the villa, she pressed the remote on her dashboard and the gates swung open. She parked by the main entrance and ran indoors.

  She had packed the previous evening after Connie had gone to bed, after which she had made her way quietly to the large study on the ground floor where she walked directly over to the massive safe Connie used to store her art collection. The thing weighed a ton, literally, so the chances of its being stolen were zero. It had been a nightmare to install. Connie had initially insisted it should be in a small room next to her bedroom, but there was no easy way to get it upstairs. So a compromise was struck and the ground-floor study agreed upon.

  For Olivia, the most important feature of the safe was not so much that it had one of the most advanced locking mechanisms available, making it almost impossible to break into, it was simply that Connie had shared the combination with her. And it had been at Connie’s insistence.

  During that previous evening, Olivia had wanted to be sure the paintings were ready for stowing the following day into the extra-large rigid suitcases she had prepared for them. There would be a need for her to work fast when she returned to the villa after setting the bombs that would eliminate the distractions of Connie Fairbright and Jennifer Cotton from her life. Ah, DC Cotton, how sweet that would be!

  In the darkness of the study, she had silently turned the dials on the safe door. There were two and the sequence had to be carefully followed. She had practised and practised when Connie was away, so now the operation was swift and automatic to her.

  She had turned the main handle and the door swung open. She shone the torch from her phone onto the contents of the safe, checking the labels, making sure they were stacked and ready. She touched the edge of the nearest one, smiling as she did. With her cherry-picked selection in her possession, her future was secured. Satisfied that all was well, Olivia had closed the safe, made sure it was locked, and quietly made her way back to her room.

  As she ran up the stairs from her car, Olivia once again checked the time. Thirty-five minutes had elapsed since she set the timers; the first bomb would go off in an hour and fifteen minutes. She only needed ten minutes at the villa to get her bags and the paintings, another five minutes to change the number plates on her Audi to a German set, then she would be off, heading for the French border at Ventimiglia. From there she would drive to Lyon and fly out of Europe.

  In her bedroom, she opened the large wardrobe and reached through the hanging clothes to where her two small bags were hidden at the back. She grabbed them and took them to the car where she stacked them in the footwell of the front passenger seat — she needed all the luggage space in the rear for the paintings. Returning to her room, she retrieved the five empty suitcases also hidden in the wardrobe and, in two journeys, carried them down to the study. She opened all five on the floor and walked over to the safe.

  In the same practised operation she had used hours earlier, she spun the dials clockwise and anticlockwise according to the well-rehearsed sequence. After positioning the final number, she grabbed the large handle and turned it.

  Except she didn’t. The handle wouldn’t move.

  Surprised to have made a mistake after so much practice, she ran through the sequence again and grabbed the handle. Again it wouldn’t turn. Had she made a mistake twice? This had never happened before.

  She repeated the sequence for the third time, now turning the dials slowly and carefully, ensuring she made no error. And still the safe wouldn’t open. She stared at it in disbelief until realisation dawned. For some reason, Connie had changed the combination without telling her.

  Olivia clenched her jaw as she considered her options. Had Connie found out about her? No, impossible. She wouldn’t have played ball that morning. Had she changed the sequence and simply forgotten to tell her? More likely; Connie could be forgetful. And given she was forgetful, she had a habit of writing things down. Olivia smiled. The new combination would almost certainly be in Connie’s bedroom in one of the drawers of her dressing table. That’s where she kept everything.

  She rushed to the bedroom and began searching. She pulled out every drawer, tore out the contents of the wardrobes, lifted the mattress and up-ended several handbags. There was nothing. She stopped, surrounded by the wreck of Connie’s room. How much of a setback was it? The paintings were worth upwards of ten million dollars. It was a substantial loss but at least she had the twenty million Connie had transferred earlier; she had checked and it was there in her bank.

  Or was it? Had Connie somehow double-crossed her? Was that possible? She grabbed her phone and hit an app for her Cayman Islands bank. The Internet was good and the connection was made immediately. She punched in a password and then another to display her account balance. The twenty million was no longer there. She scrolled down, an unfamiliar feeling of panic creeping over her. Underneath her latest account transactions was another table: ‘Transfers to be cleared’. There was one item in the table itself. A sum of twenty million dollars, against which was written ‘Transfer frozen’.

  The realisation of what had happened and its consequences slammed into her brain. There were no paintings and there was no money. Nothing. She had nothing and she had just killed two people for it. She checked her watch. In forty-five minutes, the first bomb would go off. It would take thirty-five to get back to the villa. She had time to get to Connie and beat the combination out of her, make her watch Cotton writhe and twist in her death throes if necessary. Anything, it didn’t matter. She had to salvage something.

  She charged down the stairs and into the car, sending a shower of gravel across the driveway as she accelerated through the gate. This time she didn’t care about police officers; she’d mow them down if need be. Her entire focus was on getting to the villa as quickly as possible. Twice she risked ending up in a ditch as she overtook slow-moving and over-wide tractors that were going sedately about their business with no interest in whether they were holding anyone up. Twice she left their drivers gesticulating wildly at what was suicidal recklessness, even by Italian driving standards.

  Thirty-one minutes after leaving the Villa Luisa, Olivia screeched to a halt outside the Villa Brillante. She had only a few minutes until Jennifer Cotton was toast; a few more until an exploding caravan would reduce Connie to dust.

  She ran to the caravan and opened the door. The bomb was still where she had left it but instead of Connie sitting at the table tied to an office chair, there was no one, not even the chair. She checked the time on the bomb. Fifteen minutes to go.

  She rushed outside, her eyes narrowing as she saw the office chair lying on its side beyond the caravan. She turned towards the villa and saw a second chair and some chains. Her nostrils now flared with anger, she sprinted through the open villa door, up the stairs
and charged along the corridor to the room where she had left Cotton. But as she had already guessed, Cotton had gone. Only the broken and distorted water pipe remained, smashed with something heavy. She stood frozen to the spot, her mind reeling with a whirlwind of fragmented images, thoughts and ideas, but nothing tangible coalesced. She had allowed for none of this in her planning; there were no contingencies to draw on.

  She walked over to the small bomb that was about to set this room alight and checked the numbers counting down on the timer. One minute. She had one minute to get out.

  Slowly, not rushing in the least, Olivia Freneton walked along the corridor, down the stairs and out of the main door, closing it behind her. She got into her car, reversed up and drove out through the gate just as the bomb upstairs in the villa detonated. It wasn’t a huge flash, not as big as the one from the caravan would be. She saw it in her mirror but it hardly registered. Her eyes were fixed ahead as she accelerated down the track. There was now only one thing dominating her mind.

  Revenge.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The previous day, around the time Olivia Freneton returned to her house to drag Jennifer from the cellar and transfer her to the Villa Brillante site, a smartly dressed man of around sixty had pressed the buzzer of the door to the ground-floor entrance of the Cambroni gallery. Thompson was on hand, as always, to check the stranger’s bona fides.

  For Thompson, the grey-haired distinguished-looking types were always a challenge. He was streetwise enough to know that many a conman would use this character — straight-backed, military bearing, polished brogues — but that didn’t mean everyone dressed that way was a conman. However, with no appointment, Thompson felt duty bound to erect some barriers, to make the person justify his need to enter the gallery.

  Nevertheless, politeness, as ever, was a necessity.

  “May I help you, signore?”

  The answer may have come back in fluent Italian, but after several years in Italy, Thompson had developed a good ear: the man was a foreigner. An American, he guessed.