Remorseless

by David George Clarke

  The temporary gates of the building site appeared in front of him, and they were open. He skidded to a halt between the site-office caravan and the main house and leapt out of the car. The site was eerily quiet, with no signs of any activity, no workers or workers’ vehicles. Ignoring the caravan, he turned to the house. The main door was closed but even if it was locked, access would be easy through the glassless window spaces.

  He was about to run towards the house when he heard a woman’s voice calling out. “Diana! Have you come back? Please, it doesn’t have to be like this!” The sound was coming from the caravan. He stopped and turned, which was when he noticed the caravan door was open. “Diana, for pity’s sake!”

  Bursting through the caravan door, Henry was aware of two things simultaneously. The first was a woman bound to an office chair, her face bruised and bleeding, one eye swollen and almost closed; the second was that on a table immediately in front of her was what looked like a bomb sitting in a plastic food container.

  The woman looked up at him, her eyes terrified.

  “It’s OK,” he said. “You’re safe. Freneton’s gone. You’re Constance Fairbright, right?”

  “Yes.” Connie’s reply was scarcely coherent as the relief she felt swamped her emotions.

  Henry made his way around the table, taking great care not to jog it, his eyes warily watching the bomb. He could now see a timer counting down what he hoped were minutes rather than seconds. One look at the bindings and chains around Connie’s wrists made him realise that trying to free her, with a bomb sitting inches away, would be too dangerous. He bent and spread his arms around the chair, tilting it towards him and hauling it and Connie as high as he could manage.

  “Keep as still as you can,” he said. “We don’t want to knock that thing over.”

  He manoeuvred her feet around the table and carried the chair to the caravan door. Here he had to put it down since the doorway was too narrow. With his back to the door, he leaned over both Connie and the chair, grabbed the chair seat and hauled it through the doorway. Stepping backwards, he misjudged the distance to the ground, missed his footing and fell heavily, taking the chair and Connie with him.

  “Shit,” he said, winded by an armrest digging into his stomach. “Are you OK?”

  “I’d be a whole lot better if you could stand the chair upright,” grunted Connie. “Better still, free me from the damn thing.”

  “Let me get you farther away from the caravan first,” said Henry. “I don’t know when that bomb is going to blow.”

  He stood, pulled the chair onto its wheels and dragged it towards the house, putting the car between it and the caravan.

  “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but thank you,” said Connie as soon as the chair stopped bumping. “I feel safer now with the car in the way.”

  “You’ll be even safer once I can get this lot undone,” said Henry, bending to pull at the knots in the rope.

  “No, I’m fine!” Connie was shaking her head fiercely. “You must get into the house. Ginevra’s in there and she’s in a far worse state than I am.”

  “Jennifer?” cried Henry. “Where is she?”

  “She’s upstairs, turn left and go to the end. Diana put a load of waste in there; a fire could start at any moment.”

  Henry raced to the house, flung open the door and charged up the stairs. All that registered as he ran into the bedroom at the end of the corridor was his daughter lying helpless on the floor, her face covered in blood and her body bound to a toppled chair.

  Her eyes came to life as they lifted towards him. She pushed her chin forwards as she made a noise through the tape binding her mouth. Henry bent down and carefully unwound the tape.

  “Henry,” she gasped.

  “It’s OK,” said Henry stroking her face.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said, gulping the words, “It’s not. There’s a bomb over there, set to cause a fire and burn this place, and I’m chained to a radiator pipe.”

  Henry stood and walked towards the bomb.

  “No, Henry!” cried Jennifer. “This isn’t the movies. Leave it!”

  Henry stopped. “You’re right,” he said. “I need to get you out of here.”

  He turned his attention to the chain connecting the chair to the pipe running from the radiator into the floor. He pulled at it and realised that it wasn’t going to break easily.

  “How long?” he said, nodding towards the bomb.

  “Don’t know,” said Jennifer. “Soon.”

  “I need something heavy,” said Henry, making a decision and running for the door.

  Outside the house, he searched through a pile of tools near the fence and picked up a spade. It was the largest item he could see, although he doubted it would be strong enough. He was about to run back when he spied a sledgehammer with a head shaped for splitting logs. He threw away the spade and grabbed the sledgehammer’s handle. Lifting it, he estimated it weighed about five kilograms; enough to do some damage.

  Back in the room, Henry moved Jennifer as clear of the radiator as he could before taking a swing at the short vertical pipe. The pipe dented but remained intact. However, a dent was progress.

  It took seven hard blows to sever the pipe, and when it broke, water briefly spurted up into Henry’s face. Ignoring it, he pulled the chain free of the pipe.

  “I’ll do the rest outside,” he said, pushing Jennifer and the chair towards the door. At the top of the stairs, he put his arms round Jennifer and the chair and, trying not to stumble, hurried down to the main door.

  As he lay Jennifer on the ground, she called over to Connie.

  “Are you all right?” she said. “Did she hurt you?”

  “Not as much as you, Ginevra. God, I’m pleased to see you.”

  She turned her head to Henry. “Who are you, knight in shining armour?”

  “I’m Jennifer’s father. Henry,” he said as he hauled a large flat stone into position under the chains, intending to attack them with the sledgehammer.

  “Well, Henry, I suggest if you could undo these ropes and free me from this chair, I can probably swing my legs through my arms and get my hands in front of me. Even though they’re handcuffed, I might be able to help you.”

  Henry was more intent on freeing Jennifer but a glance into her eyes told him Connie’s idea was a good one.

  It was, and with Connie’s help keeping things in place as Henry swung the sledgehammer, the chain connecting Jennifer’s arm and legs was soon removed, together with the one binding her to the chair.

  With some difficulty, given the cuffs linking her ankles, Jennifer also manoeuvred her legs through her arms. She stretched out her legs, relieved to have the relative freedom. However, the kick to her stomach had hurt her, as well as the slaps to her face. She didn’t try to stand.

  “Maybe I can break that chain on your handcuffs,” said Henry to Connie, pointing at her hands.

  Connie shook her head. “All due respect, Henry, if you miss, I could lose a hand. And anyway, we’ve got to get out of here right now.”

  “Why?” said Henry. “You don’t think Freneton’s coming back, do you?”

  “Well, apart from the bomb we’re still rather close to,” she said, glancing towards the caravan, “if by Freneton you mean Diana, yes I do think she’s coming back, in fact, I’m sure of it. And she’s going to be more than after our blood, she’ll be madder than a wet hen. Help us into your car and I’ll explain as you drive. But we must get moving.”

  Henry lifted Jennifer and carried her to the rear seat of the four-by-four.

  “I can walk, if you give me your arm,” said Connie as he ran back to her.

  “So why do you think Freneton’s coming back?” asked Henry as he drove the car back through the Val di Chio.

  “Because she’s ended up empty-handed. No money and no paintings.”

  She explained how her call to her private bank had followed a prearranged conversation designed to alert the bank she was under dur
ess.

  “No one calls Charles Lisscombe ‘Charlie’, ever. He hates it, so we agreed that if I called him that, it was part of a coded sequence that would be followed by him asking if the limit was twenty million and my agreeing with that. In reality there’s no limit, so now he knew what he should do. The bank has mechanisms in the software and agreements with most banks to make it seem as if the recipient’s bank account has been credited, so when it’s checked, the money appears to be in the account. However, it isn’t; it’s a phantom, and after it’s been checked once online by the shyster behind it, the sum disappears. In fact it never left my account.”

  “Impressive stuff,” said Henry.

  “In my position, you can’t be too careful, especially since I don’t surround myself with security personnel.”

  “Surely they don’t leave it there,” said Jennifer, from the rear seat. “They must inform the authorities.”

  “Of course, although first the bank’s own IT people will be on it, trying to trace the call. With Skype calls, while it’s not difficult to trace the country, locating the computer’s IP takes some time. I should imagine by now they are getting close, but it wouldn’t have been close enough to save our lives.”

  “You said something about paintings,” said Henry.

  “Yes, I’ve recently bought quite a few, as Ginevra knows.”

  “It’s Jennifer,” said Jennifer. “Jennifer Cotton.”

  “Yes, of course. Diana, or whatever her name is, said you’re a police officer.”

  “UK police, yes,” said Jennifer. “And her name is Diana. She’s Diana Olivia Freneton. She was once a police officer as well. Quite a senior one.”

  “You astound me,” said Connie.

  “I’m astounded myself every time I think about it,” replied Jennifer bitterly.

  “To think I trusted her,” continued Connie, “thought she was a dear friend. I’d become suspicious of her lately, but I had no idea she was intending to kill me. She must be one disturbed lady.”

  As she tugged at a pack of tissues in her pocket with her handcuffed hands, her phone fell out onto the seat. She stared at it in frustration. “To think that thing was in my pocket all the time and I couldn’t reach it.”

  “Paintings?” persisted Henry.

  Connie looked up from the phone. “Why do you look familiar, Henry?”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me about the paintings,” said Henry.

  “Deal. OK, the paintings I have in my possession I keep in a large safe at the villa I’m renting. I gave Diana the combination so if anything happened to me, there would be easy access. Stupid or what! But recently she’s been acting strangely. She’s been remote and humourless and since she works for me, I didn’t like it. However, I thought perhaps it was me, so I didn’t do anything about it. Then when I got back from Naples last night with five more paintings, she was distracted. She said she’d got another one of her wretched headaches. Later, during the night I woke up and thought I heard something. I walked around the villa and found the study door was slightly ajar. I peered in and saw Diana with the safe open checking the packs of paintings. It worried me, of course, but I was stupid. I didn’t want to confront her right then because I wanted to know what the surprise was up at the villa she’d been teasing me with, gullible idiot that I am. However, once she’d gone back to bed, I changed the combination. So if she’s back there now trying to get the paintings, she can’t. And if she’s checked her account again, she’ll know she doesn’t have the money either.”

  “Wet hen won’t come close,” muttered Jennifer.

  They turned on to the north–south road running below Castiglion Fiorentino.

  “Listen,” said Henry, “where do you think we should go? I’m thinking the Villa Luisa might not be a good choice. Actually I’m thinking that both of you should see a doctor.”

  “Later,” said Jennifer. “Look, Henry, why isn’t Derek with you? How come you’re on your own?”

  Henry pulled a sheepish face. “Derek doesn’t know where I am. I didn’t tell him.”

  “What! You’ve got a bunch of police officers who presumably are looking for us and when you found out where we were you didn’t tell them?”

  “Jennifer, sweetheart, it all happened so fast. I only found out where you were when I followed Freneton and Connie this morning. There was no opportunity to call Derek.”

  “Well, we’d better call him now,” snapped Jennifer. “Both houses need checking, especially the one we’ve just come from so it doesn’t burn down. And right now, Freneton is still at large. She can’t be allowed to escape again. Pass me your phone, Henry.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  An hour later, they were in an upmarket agriturismo a few miles south of Castiglion Fiorentino. Once a working farm with accommodation for tourists who wanted to experience rural Italy, the Villa Incantata di Chiana now comprised lovingly tended vineyards, twelve luxuriously appointed two-bedroom chalets each with its own private plunge pool, and a restaurant with a cordon bleu chef, all set in serene surroundings and all at central London prices to discourage any riffraff.

  The owner, Francesco Aleotti, was an old friend of Pietro Fabrelli, who had finally arrived at the safe house from Beijing two hours earlier. Discouraged by the apparent lack of progress, Pietro appeared to Derek to be about to mobilise every police officer in Tuscany and perhaps even the army.

  However, as soon as he received the welcome news that Jennifer was safe, Pietro changed tack and swung into action with seasoned panache. Within minutes, having established where Jennifer and Henry were, the agriturismo was organised, directions given and a doctor on her way along with an ambulance in case Jennifer needed hospital treatment. When he realised the other person involved was Connie Fairbright, whom he had met some years previously at a gala dinner in New York, Pietro summoned a second doctor so that the rich widow wasn’t kept waiting. And somehow he also raised a locksmith to remove the shackles and handcuffs from both women.

  After that, he rounded up all parties relevant to the ongoing operation — Paul Godden, who was apoplectic at Henry’s cavalier behaviour, an uncharacteristically sullen Massimo Felice worried about his operation at the gallery, Derek Thyme and four of Felice’s team — and herded them into a mix of police vehicles and his limousine.

  As they screamed down the A1 autostrada with police vehicles front and rear of the convoy, their blue lights flashing and sirens wailing, Pietro spent ten minutes on the phone to Jennifer being reassured that apart from the black eyes both she and Connie had sustained, other injuries were minor, and another ten minutes cross-examining both doctors in case Jennifer was understating anything. The rest of the journey was spent with Pietro smooth-talking Derek, Godden and Felice into accepting that Henry’s actions had been for the best.

  “Imagine, gentlemen, how wretched you would feel if Henry had taken time to call you and been delayed by, say, ten minutes. In that time the bombs might have detonated. As it is, both Jennifer and Signora Fairbright are alive and well. It was unorthodox, I grant you, but brave, so very brave.”

  While the acceptance was limited, they at least agreed to hold off any further interrogation of Henry until the dust had settled. And when they arrived and saw a cleaned-up and patched-up Jennifer, in fresh clothes the agriturismo owner had organised, fall into Derek’s arms, and an equally cleaned-up Connie Fairbright gushing over Henry’s heroism, positions softened further. They weren’t quite ready for absolution, but it could now be put on the agenda.

  Nevertheless, there was the nagging question of Olivia Freneton.

  “What do we know and what can we assume?” asked Paul Godden as they settled in a conference room amid plates of nibbles, panini and crostate, jugs of tea and coffee and bottles of ice-cold spring water.

  Felice answered for the team now searching the area.

  “Firstly,” he said, “the news from the Villa Brillante is that although the site-office caravan was severely damaged when the bo
mb in it exploded, the damage to the villa itself was minor, confined in fact to the room where the bomb set the fire. There was little flammable material beyond what was in the room, and the fire quickly burnt itself out.”

  “Thank you, Massimo,” said Connie, reaching over to touch Felice’s arm, “that’s a great relief.” Turning to Henry, she added, “And thanks to my Hollywood hero, I wasn’t still in the caravan.”

  Jennifer smiled to herself. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Henry blush.

  “Now,” continued Felice. “Olivia Freneton. From what Jennifer has told us, she has a house no more than half an hour from the Villa Brillante. We have put a compass in the map and made a generous circle, but unfortunately, even though we are assuming her house will be remote and we can ignore villages, there are still more than a hundred possibilities for its location. I have six teams combing the area as we speak.” He paused, his shoulders sagging, his face indicating his concern. “You must understand, it is difficult countryside and covering all the possibilities will take time. Apart from anything else, each team must be three officers since if they come across the right house, Freneton might come out shooting. We know she has at least one gun and we know she is ruthless; each and every property must be approached with extreme caution.”

  “I think,” commented Jennifer, “that wherever this house is, she won’t stay there long. She was a police officer, remember, she knows what will happen and how it will happen.” She turned to Connie. “Has she ever said anything about any other property, maybe not even in Italy?”

  Connie shook her head. “She never once even mentioned the place she kept you in,” she replied. “She must have gone there when I was away visiting galleries.”

  “Vehicles?” asked Godden.

  “She was using a dark blue Audi hatchback, one of the large models,” said Jennifer. “Although I somehow doubt she’ll continue to use it, unless she has no choice. Of course, once the house is found, we’ll know, since if the car’s there, she must have something else.”