Remorseless

by David George Clarke

  Henry made his way around the edge of the grounds, staying close to the perimeter wall until he could see the front of the villa and the gravelled driveway outside the main door. There were no cars. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his jacket and panned them around the windows. He could see no one, no signs of any activity. Was Jennifer imprisoned somewhere here? He doubted it unless Connie Fairbright was in on the abduction, which seemed unlikely. And what about the staff? He had seen two gardeners; there were probably cleaners and a cook.

  It seemed to Henry that in the absence of both Freneton and Connie Fairbright, his best chance of finding the location of the Villa Brillante was from any papers that might be in this villa. Perhaps there were plans the women consulted, estimates, schedules of work.

  He decided to move around to the rear of the villa where the views looked out over the Val Di Chiana. As he made his way, keeping behind as much of the shrubbery as he could, he heard the siren from the gate followed by the sound of tyres on gravel. He stopped, ducked down and trained his binoculars onto the drive. A large dark blue Audi hatchback swept into view and skidded to a halt in front of the main door of the villa. He froze as he saw the woman who stepped out of the car. Olivia Freneton. There was no mistaking her in spite of a different hairstyle and clothes. Images, no more than fragments, flashed through his mind: a hotel room, his arrest, his daughter the police officer questioning him long before either of them knew of their relationship, his remand at the prison in Derbyshire, the almost successful attempt on his life. Here in front of him was the woman who not only had tried to kill him but also Jennifer and Derek; the woman who had succeeded in killing several others. A ruthless psychopath on another killing spree, and once again the target was his daughter. This woman had to be stopped.

  He found himself standing, moving forward. He wanted to strangle her with his bare hands. He stopped. She was looking his way. Had she seen him? Heard something? Surely not, he was too well hidden.

  Olivia Freneton turned back to the villa and walked towards the main door. Henry took a deep breath. This was not the time. If he did kill her, he might never learn where she had Jennifer imprisoned. And the crazed woman was never likely to tell him no matter how much he tried to beat it out of her.

  He decided to stick to his first idea of checking out the rear of the property.

  As he followed the wall round, a large balcony on the first floor came into view, and standing on the balcony taking in the view was Freneton. She was speaking on the phone while pacing up and down, but she was too far away for him to hear any of her conversation.

  After finishing her call, she returned indoors briefly before returning with a book. It was a warm, sunny afternoon and Henry watched, still suppressing his anger, as she stretched out on a lounger to read.

  He checked his watch, wondering when the gardeners would return from their lunch break — he didn’t want to be caught in the grounds. He decided to return to the woods outside the villa wall and wait for any car that came or went. If Freneton drove away, he would follow her.

  But she didn’t leave the villa. The only further activity that afternoon was when a van turned up to collect the two gardeners at the end of their shift. As the shadows got longer, Henry began to accept that he was probably going to be spending the night in the woods. At some point he was going to have to call Derek and spin him something. He was still reluctant to pass on what he had discovered in case Derek or Godden or one of the Italian police officers took it upon themselves to arrest Freneton while they could. That would only potentially risk Jennifer’s life. Henry had to know where she was before he called in the troops.

  He was getting hungry and despite the hot summer weather, he knew the night might be cooler; he needed to return to his car for supplies and if there was a phone signal, which there wasn’t in the woods, he would call Derek.

  Before leaving the apartment that morning, he had raided the fridge and thrown a wedge of pecorino cheese, some prosciutto and a length of salami into his bag. He had also picked up a woollen jumper.

  As he munched on some salami and cheese, washing it down with water from the courtesy bottles the rental company had put in the car, he thought through his story for Derek. Once he was satisfied with it, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and checked the signal. There were three bars.

  “Derek, hi, it’s Henry.”

  “Henry! Where have you been? I’ve been trying your number but I keep being told you’re unavailable. At least I think that’s what the Italian operator said.”

  “Sorry, Derek. I’ve been out and about and much of the time in the countryside where the signal is rubbish.”

  “What are you doing in the countryside? I thought you said you were pacing the streets of Florence.”

  “I was, and by chance I passed a gallery where I bought some paintings years ago. I’d forgotten all about it but I couldn’t help wondering if stumbling across it was, I don’t know, predestined, especially when the owner still remembered me.”

  “You’ve been talking to too many Hollywood woo-woos,” commented Derek.

  “Maybe,” replied Henry, still developing his story. “Anyway, when I asked the owner if anyone fitting Connie Fairbright’s description had visited the gallery, she thought they might have done. She didn’t have a name, but since she did have an address, I thought I’d check it out, even though I didn’t hold out much hope.”

  “Bugger. Why didn’t you call it in? Felice would have happily sent one of his people; they’re champing at the bit to do something.”

  “I know and I’m sorry. You see, the woman was American, so I felt I could help. I was clutching at straws. As I said this morning, I’d go crazy if I were just sitting around all day, waiting for news. I take there hasn’t been any.”

  “No, nothing. So, where are you now?”

  “I’m in Bologna.”

  “Bologna? Where’s that?”

  “It’s about sixty miles north of Florence, up the autostrada. I rented a car.”

  “And I take it the woman wasn’t Connie Fairbright.”

  “No, she wasn’t. A pleasant enough lady, rather bemused when I spun her a tale, but not Fairbright. However, while I was here, I thought I’d check out some of the larger galleries in the city.” He paused before adding, “No joy, I’m afraid.”

  “So, what time will you be back?”

  “I won’t, not tonight anyway. I’m knackered and rather emotionally drained after today. I’ve booked into a hotel. Look, Derek, my phone is almost out of juice. I need to find some way of charging it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “OK, Henry, I’ll call you if there’s anything. And listen, if you find any other leads, please, let us know immediately.”

  At seven fifteen, nearly an hour after Henry had established himself at a vantage point in the woods that gave him a view of the villa’s gates, he heard a car approaching from the main road. As it neared the gates, the siren sounded, telling him that someone in the car must have a controller. He focussed his binoculars on the rear windows, but the heavily tinted glass prevented him from seeing inside. However, given the car was a top-of-the-range Lexus, he was sure the passenger was Connie Fairbright returning from wherever she’d been. A few minutes later his suspicions were more or less confirmed as the car returned. The driver’s arm was now dangling through the open window, a cigarette in his fingers as he tapped his hand to the beat of the now-blaring stereo. His shift was clearly over for the day.

  Before darkness fell completely, Henry returned to the gate in the wall only to find it shut and bolted from the inside. He looked up at the forbidding glass and razor wire. As far as he had seen, it continued unbroken around the wall; his hopes of getting closer to the villa and maybe overhearing plans were coming to nothing.

  At six the following morning, Henry was awoken abruptly from a fitful and uncomfortable sleep by a loud snort worryingly close to his right ear. Without moving, he opened his eyes. At the edge of his vision, he
could just make out the snout of a large wild boar that had come across him while snuffling its way through the woods, foraging for food. Henry slowly turned his head towards the boar, the animal’s short but solid-looking tusks gaining his full attention. The boar’s tiny black eyes stared unblinkingly at him, its breath visible in the morning air. Even though it was only six feet away, Henry reckoned that at about four hundred pounds it could hurt him badly if it decided to charge. He decided to act cool. Shutting his eyes, he turned his head away. After several endless seconds, he heard another snort and the sound of the beast trotting away. Henry opened his eyes again just in time to see the boar’s rear end disappear into the undergrowth.

  He counted the seconds for a full minute to make sure the boar wasn’t returning with any of his friends, after which he stretched and stood. Every muscle ached. As he worked his neck, he hoped there would be no more nights like that, especially now he’d met one of the neighbours.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his breakfast — more cheese, prosciutto and salami, all of which tasted more than good. On checking his phone, which he had put to silent the previous evening, he found there were no messages, just a pile of irrelevant emails from his agent. He was surprised anything had come through at all, given the lack of signal. He shivered. He needed to warm up, get a few of the rising sun’s rays. He made his way to where he had parked his car and soaked up the welcome warmth coming his way across the valley.

  By ten, Henry was beginning to think that the day was going to be uneventful; the only activity had been the arrival of the van with the gardeners an hour earlier. At some stage he was going to have to call Derek and bring him up to speed. He was starting to feel out of his depth and increasingly worried that rather than helping Jennifer, he might be endangering her further.

  Unable to keep still any longer, he paced behind the cover of the trees, making sure he made no noise. Ten more minutes, he thought, I’ll give them ten more minutes before I call Derek.

  After nine minutes, the siren sounded, the gates swung open and the dark blue Audi emerged from the gravel onto the tarmac. Henry could see two figures inside: Connie Fairbright in the passenger seat, chatting animatedly, while a stony-faced Olivia Freneton was driving.

  As soon as the car passed, Henry ran at full tilt through the woods, no longer worried about the noise of his footfall. He dived into his car, managed not to fumble over the keys and seat belt, fired the engine, cursed himself for leaving the car facing the wrong way and steamed off in pursuit of the Audi. He knew this was his only chance; there must be no question of him losing it.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  It helped that Henry knew the area; it gave him the confidence not to follow too closely. When Olivia Freneton’s car descended past Monte San Savino and drove east across the Val di Chiana towards Castiglion Fiorentino, Henry felt sure their final destination would be in the hills above the Val di Chio.

  What he did not yet know was which side of the valley they would head for; there were many well-appointed villas with considerable acreages of land on both sides, some fully restored, others ripe for restoration. The Villa Brillante could be any one of them. As he followed at a distance, just keeping the Audi in view, he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to drive up through the town itself. The approach roads were narrow and he would have to get far closer to avoid losing the car, which would in turn run the risk of Freneton noticing the continuing presence of his large black four-by-four in her rear-view mirror.

  When Freneton’s car turned right onto the main road below the town and continued south, Henry was four cars behind and now increasingly sure the town would be bypassed. He was right. The Audi drove on as far as some traffic lights, turning left onto the road that meandered down the centre of the Val di Chio.

  Henry allowed the distance between the cars to increase — his view along the road was good and if Freneton turned off, he would see it. However, the car continued on to the end of the valley where at Polvano the road curved to the right, twisting sharply back on itself as it began to climb through a series of hairpin bends. It was now important for Henry to close the gap a little — he couldn’t afford to miss seeing where Freneton turned off.

  The Audi continued to climb, appearing and disappearing from view with every bend. About halfway up the hill, the number of bends increased as the terrain became steeper, and the car was out of sight for longer and longer. Henry glanced along every narrow road or track he passed for any indication that a vehicle had just passed along any of them. There was nothing.

  Towards the top of the climb, the road straightened out as it traversed the pass before heading down into the next valley. Here the descent was more gradual and the road straighter. As the downhill part of the road came into view, Henry expected to see the Audi in the distance. He frowned as a twinge of panic twisted his gut: the road was empty. He floored the accelerator and the four-by-four lurched forward, its large engine responding with a roar. How could they have disappeared? He knew that about a half a mile farther on his view of the descending road would enable him to see well ahead, certainly far enough to know whether the Audi was still on the road or not. When he reached that point, he pulled up and jumped out of his car, running to the edge to improve his field of vision. There was nothing; not a car in sight. It must have turned off and left no trace.

  “Shit!” he yelled and rushed back to the car. He quickly called up the maps on his phone, found his position and checked how many side roads, surfaced or not, were shown from where he had last seen the Audi. There were six and Freneton could have taken any one of them. He changed the view to satellite, hoping to see the sort of property he was expecting Villa Brillante to be. There were four possibilities on four different narrow roads and he would need to check each of them. His problem was that he didn’t want to drive up to the properties in case his presence was noticed, or worse, he met Freneton coming the other way. He would have to leave the car at the head of each of the side roads and go on foot.

  He hit the throttle and sped along the road to where the first of the side roads disappeared off into the trees. He checked the satellite view again and estimated the house he could see was four or five hundred yards along. Leaving the car on a grassy patch just before the turning, he jumped out and hit the road running. Although the narrow road leading into the woods had a paved surface of broken, ancient tarmac, there was no evidence of recent use, no damage to the low-hanging branches from passing delivery trucks. It didn’t feel right.

  He sprinted to where he had seen a bend on the map, rounded the curve and there were the gates of a villa in front of him. They were shut. Some twenty yards beyond them was a house that was clearly unoccupied — its shutters were closed, there were piles of wind-blown leaves against the main door and a pool beyond the house was covered in a green tarpaulin. With no sign of any construction work and no Audi, this could not be the villa. He turned and sprinted back to the car.

  Gulping air, he threw himself in to the driver’s seat, gunned the engine and screamed off before screeching to a halt near the next turning.

  The road was unpaved but in good condition, the house several hundred yards along it. Henry was panting heavily by the time he got close, and again disappointed. This time, although the gates were closed, all the shutters were open and voices of laughing children rolled up the slope from a pool hidden from view behind the house. A holiday let.

  Fifteen breathless minutes later, he had eliminated the third house and was jogging — sprinting was now beyond him — back to his car. There was one possibility remaining. He checked the satellite view again and found the house, and as he did, he realised he should have gone there first. It was clearly a larger property than the others and there were extensive grounds, the entrance located around two miles along the winding, unsurfaced road.

  He checked the time. Since losing the Audi, he estimated he had spent forty-five minutes on his search. Forty-five valuable minutes was a long time for Frene
ton to be on the loose. He cursed himself for his arrogance, He should have called Derek. If nothing else, the access roads could have been blocked to prevent Freneton escaping; there were only two or three options for leaving the valley.

  The turning he was looking for was on a tight bend. Any car taking it would disappear quickly, which is why he hadn’t noticed Freneton had gone that way. He stopped a couple of hundred yards above the turning, pulling onto the grass at the edge of the road. His breathing was almost back to normal. However, the thought of jogging another two miles with the possibility of a violent confrontation with Freneton at the end was daunting.

  He got out of the car and headed towards the turning. He was still about fifty yards from it when he heard a vehicle driving fast through the woods towards him. He stepped into the cover of some trees and waited. He glanced at his four-by-four, reassuring himself that it wouldn’t be visible unless the approaching car turned uphill.

  As he looked back, the dark blue Audi appeared, braked to allow the driver to check the road, and then roared off down the hill. Henry had a clear view of the driver. It was Olivia Freneton, and she was alone.

  Before the sound of the disappearing Audi’s engine had completely faded, Henry was back in his car and accelerating towards the turning. He skidded hard left and roared along the narrow road. Fifty yards down, the crumbling tarmac disappeared and the surface became rough gravel, potholed and damaged by the endless succession of builder’s trucks that had been torturing it in the past months. Stones and dust flew from the loose surface, the car sliding round every bend.