Remorseless

by David George Clarke

  “There’ll need to be a careful examination of the ground, then,” said Godden, nodding his thanks to Connie. “Tyre tracks or disturbances to gravel might tell us something about the size of any vehicle, and whether it has two wheels or four.”

  He turned to Felice. “Your teams can be relied on for this, Massimo?”

  Felice offered a noncommittal shrug. “I’ll call in, just to have them reminded.” He stood and left the room, pressing buttons on his phone as he did.

  “If she still is using the car,” continued Jennifer, “she will probably have changed the number plates. Which means it might not even have Italian plates any more. Would it be worth issuing an order for all Audis of that type to be pulled over to check the driver?”

  “Certainly worth it in this area,” agreed Godden. “For my money, I think she’ll be around here. She’ll be angry and perhaps careless as a result. She might be facing a future with almost no funds and nowhere to hide. If that’s the case, she’ll want her revenge and want it soon.”

  “I agree about the revenge part,” said Jennifer, “but her planning is incredible. I think she’ll have somewhere else to go. Failure must always be one of the options she plans for which means there’ll be some sort of allowance for it.”

  The door to the conference room opened and a far-happier-looking Massimo Felice rejoined them.

  “Good news?” asked Henry.

  “Yes,” said Felice, the smile spreading from his eyes to his mouth, “two pieces of very good news.”

  He looked around to ensure he had their attention.

  “The house has been found,” he said. “It’s roughly where we predicted as being the most likely spot. Freneton isn’t there but the Audi is. So it would appear Jennifer was correct; she must have some other form of transport. Right now the place has been sealed and a forensic team is on its way. So there’s no point in any of us going there today. However, I think tomorrow morning we shall be able to see it.”

  He turned to Connie. “The same applies to your villa, Signora Fairbright,” he added.

  Jennifer put her face in her hands and sighed. “So she’s still out there, still one step ahead. She’ll assume the house will be discovered so she’ll have taken anything she needed from it. Nevertheless, the house was hers — she told me — it will be quite a loss.”

  She looked up at Felice. “What’s the other thing? The gallery?”

  “Right first time, Jennifer,” said Felice. “The gallery. The team in Florence tasked with watching the gallery noticed there has been a considerable increase in activity at the rear doors, the ones we think access a lift that goes to a workshop.”

  “What sort of activity?” asked Godden.

  “Paintings in and paintings out. Mostly out. It looks as if there’s a wholesale movement. Perhaps they are changing locations, replacing paintings, or perhaps they suspect something and are taking precautions. In any event, I’ve authorised my number two to obtain a search warrant. We are going in,” — he glanced at his watch — “in two hours’ time.” He picked up the briefcase he had brought with him. “Paul,” he said, turning to Godden, “you will want to be a part of this, I’m sure.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Godden, standing. “It’s a pity Jennifer can’t be, especially after all her groundwork.”

  “I don’t see why not,” objected Jennifer.

  “Jennifer,” said Godden. “You’ve been abducted, chained, drugged, beaten and left to die. Your face is still swollen and one eye half closed, and on top of all that, you probably haven’t slept for more than forty-eight hours. That’s why. Your work at the gallery is done and the advantage of your not going in is that with luck, the Cambronis will never know of your involvement.”

  “It will come out in the trial, surely,” said Jennifer.

  “Perhaps,” said Felice, “perhaps not. It depends how cooperative they are.”

  “I agree absolutely that Jennifer shouldn’t go,” said Pietro, nodding. Then with a helpless shrug of his shoulders, he pulled a face. “But Ispettore, do not ever think they will cooperate; they are mafia.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Olivia Freneton locked the gates to her house for what she assumed would be the last time, slipped her BMW motorcycle into gear and drove away. The path from her house led onto a minor road that descended into the Morra valley. At the bottom of the hill she could turn one of two ways: right towards the Val di Chio, where she knew by now there would be intense police activity, or left along the valley towards the town of Trestina in Umbria. A different province, a different local police force that with luck would be a few steps behind the search in Tuscany.

  She turned left, her temporary destination a small hotel on the outskirts of Città di Castello, part of a low-end chain where she knew her stolen Irish passport would not be questioned; she was just another tourist. She would only be there for a few hours, time enough to fine-tune her revised plans before implementing them. After that, she would disappear from Italy. Another country, another con. It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, worked hard for, and before she left, the retribution would be as sweet as it was essential.

  Two hours earlier as she drove the Audi away from the fire she assumed would be spreading through the Villa Brillante, her normal clarity of vision had for once been blurred and fragmented, her mind a tempest of wild and irrational thoughts as she gripped the steering wheel in frustration. She had been outwitted. Failure owing to unforeseen, unpredictable circumstances was always a possibility; this was far worse, this was humiliation. It was an unacceptable outcome and one for which Connie Fairbright and Jennifer Cotton would pay heavily.

  As she negotiated the torturous bends and poor surface of the road leading in the direction of her house, she forced herself to breathe deeply in an attempt to relax her mind and body, to release the tension knotting every ounce of her being. She knew she must focus, cut through the fog of disappointment. There was no time for reflection, not yet, and no place for anger. Anger was destructive, unworthy of her. She had much to do in a short time; her full attention was required.

  She swung the car from the road onto the rough, gravelled track that led through the woods to her house, the tyres hard-pushed to maintain a grip. Bouncing and drifting round the bends, Olivia finally smiled, her frustration now supplanted by satisfaction as she thought of her trump card, one that none of the fools trying to bring her down would anticipate: she had the means to locate Connie Fairbright.

  She jumped from the car and ran into the house, her mind back on track. Time was short; the search for her would be gaining momentum. Gathering the essentials for her escape was systematic and efficient. Within five minutes, she had packed the clothes, shoes and personal items she needed into a rucksack which she placed by the front door.

  Retrieving the bombs, timers and remote controls for the detonators took slightly longer, care in handling always a priority. She stowed them in a separate, well-cushioned bag, one that sat in a reinforced pannier behind the rear seat of her motorcycle.

  Next came her disguises, one of which she had to apply now before she left — she needed to appear totally different from the woman the police were looking for. After fifteen minutes of skilfully padding her cheeks and gums, applying make-up, inserting green-tinted contact lenses and setting and combing her raven-haired wig in place, she was every bit the colleen described in the Irish passport she was intending to use.

  The disguises had been kept in her safe along with the cash she had been accumulating over the past few months. A little over ten thousand euros. She stared briefly at the money before zipping it into an inside pocket of the small rucksack she wore on her back. Not much after so many months of scheming, which is why her last piece of preparation was so important, but at least she’d be leaving this country knowing her disposal schedule had been fulfilled.

  She reached into the safe to withdraw the final item. A custom-modified mobile phone, one for which she had paid a high price to her contact in
Amsterdam. She switched it on, waited for it to connect and called up the specialised app displayed on the screen, the only app installed on the device. A map appeared followed by a flashing beacon. Connie Fairbright, or at least Connie Fairbright’s phone, which given the woman was never far from it meant they were one and the same thing.

  Included in her purchase in Amsterdam had been a microscopic transmitter that within weeks of befriending Connie, she had installed in Connie’s phone. Extremely difficult to detect and always on even when the phone was switched off, it gave Olivia the ability to know Connie’s whereabouts anywhere in the world simply by consulting her purpose-built device. And now that device was telling her Connie was in an agriturismo called the Villa Incantata di Chiana about ten miles from the hill town of Cortona. Olivia called up the agriturismo on Google and scanned the information. She smiled; it was perfect. Exclusive and no doubt self-assured in its security, probably with an added police presence to guarantee the safety of the special guests it was housing that evening — there was nothing more reassuring than knowing that no one was going to break in. Which Olivia had no intention of doing.

  In the seclusion of her room in the hotel in Città di Castello, Olivia retrieved her modified phone and once again checked Connie’s location. It hadn’t changed, which more or less guaranteed she would remain there. It was the logical thing to do given both Connie and Jennifer Cotton would require medical attention and rest. Keep the driving down to a minimum and lick your wounds.

  How typical of Connie to have discovered one of the priciest and most exclusive places in the area, thought Olivia, a cloud of regret hardening her features as she briefly remembered the twenty million dollars Connie had cheated her out of. Enjoy the comfort while you can, Connie, you only have a few hours to live.

  She checked the time; she needed to make a reservation. She hoped Connie hadn’t block-booked all the rooms to prevent the arrival of any more guests. She hadn’t, and although Francesco Aleotti had looked over the night’s bookings and found he had six vacant chalets, since the villa almost never received last-minute enquiries — its prohibitive prices unacceptable to casual tourists — he hadn’t thought to tell his receptionist not to accept any more.

  When the lady with the soft-spoken Dublin accent called with a tale of having stayed with her husband the previous year in the Chalet Fiorentina, the receptionist’s only worry was whether she might cause offence when she informed the caller that the chalet was occupied that evening and would an alternative, the Chalet Veneziana, be acceptable? The booking was made and the receptionist told by the guest she would be arriving rather late, probably around ten.

  The young carabiniere officer stationed at the closed gates of the Villa Incantata had the presence of mind to ask the soft-spoken woman on the large motorcycle that drew up in front of him to remove her crash helmet so he could take a better look at her face. Olivia was prepared to break his neck and run amok in the agriturismo if he appeared to be suspicious, but he merely smiled and chatted a little in broken English about the bike before opening the gate for her.

  She drove to the reception building and parked, appreciating as ever the reticence of her bike’s liquid-cooled engine to make much more than a whisper of noise. Her eyes scanning every corner, every door, she walked up to the reception desk and introduced herself.

  If the receptionist was surprised to find her new client wearing motorcycle leathers, she was well trained enough not to show it.

  “Signora Murphy,” she said, standing and offering her hand. “Buona sera. Our apologies for the police presence at the gate; we have a vip staying here tonight.”

  Olivia wondered what a vip was until she remembered that Italians always treated initial letter abbreviations as acronyms.

  “No problem,” she said, emphasising her Irish accent even more than she had on the phone. “He was a handsome young fella; we had quite a chat.”

  When Olivia explained that owing to her bag being stolen the previous day in Rome she couldn’t offer a credit card and asked if it would be acceptable to pay in advance in cash, the receptionist was again unfazed, as if such problems occurred every day. She exchanged a chalet key for five hundred euros and gave Olivia directions.

  “Oh, and the bar’s through there, if you want a nightcap,” she said, pointing to Olivia’s left. “Or perhaps you are hungry. I can ask the kitchen to prepare something if you wish.”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” said Olivia, turning her head in the direction of the bar. “I just need to get some sleep. It’s been a tiring couple of days.”

  She almost ran through the exit door and once it had closed she stopped and put her back to the wall, her heart beating unusually fast. Although she had shown no sign to the receptionist, when she glanced through the door into the bar, she had been looking straight at Jennifer, Derek, Connie and Henry seated at a table, deep in conversation.

  Olivia was relieved to find that her chalet was some thirty yards from its nearest neighbour, a chalet that itself appeared to be unoccupied. She scanned the site, getting her bearings and trying to work out which of the chalets were occupied by the unexpected bonus of the four targets now sitting in the bar. In her room she found a layout of the agriturismo on the door among the fire safety information. Chalet Fiorentina, which she knew was occupied, and the adjacent Chalet Senese, were well apart from other chalets; she would check those first.

  She turned out the lights and crept from the door, staying in the shadows as she made her way in the direction of the chalets. A large black four-by-four was parked outside the Chalet Fiorentina. She stopped and stared at it as images sparked in her mind. It looked familiar. Then she remembered that she had seen either this car or an identical one several times in her rear-view mirror that morning as she was driving Connie from the Villa Luisa to the Villa Brillante. The driver had been good; not once had he come close enough to arouse suspicion, but now she thought about it she realised he had been there for most of the journey. The driver must have been Henry Silk, who must have been staking out the Villa Luisa. Had Thyme been with him? She doubted it, since as a police officer, he would have had others in tow. So Silk had been operating on his own. Olivia smiled to herself. How fortunate! If he had told Thyme what he’d found out, she would almost definitely have been caught. And now they would all pay for that error.

  First, however, she would need to know who was staying where. Perhaps Connie was staying in a separate chalet, which would make her an easy target. With luck she could dispose of them one by one. She looked around, found a spot where the discreet path lighting did not penetrate and slipped over to it. She didn’t have to wait long. After only ten minutes, her four targets emerged from the main buildings and walked towards the two chalets. Thyme’s arm was around Cotton, and from the way she was snuggled comfortably into his shoulder, they had to be a couple. An interesting development, thought Olivia. Perhaps she could arrange things so that Thyme watched his girlfriend die.

  The two of them disappeared into the Chalet Senese while Silk and Connie walked on to the Fiorentina. Silk unlocked the door and they both went in, the lights going on behind the closed curtains. Another interesting development? thought Olivia, or was it just that Connie would be frightened on her own? Either way, the relationship was going to be short-lived.

  Olivia waited in the darkness for a further twenty minutes until the lights in both chalets had been out for some time before returning to her own chalet, stopping at her motorcycle to retrieve the well-padded bag from the pannier behind the rear seat. She had decided to follow her original plan since the presence of two of her quarry in each chalet could raise difficulties, even if she walked in and shot them.

  For the following two hours she sat and watched from her window, checking for any security patrols. There were none; the owners must be relying on the carabiniere on the gate, and perhaps one or two others at other gates to the property.

  Satisfied she could now operate unobserved, she left her chalet
and hurried over to where Henry’s four-by-four was parked, walking on the grass to avoid disturbing any gravel. In a repeat of her actions in the car park in the Lake District the previous year shortly before Mike Hurst’s car had launched itself into the freezing reservoir, she bent down, reached up into the engine compartment and placed the magnetic case of the small remotely detonated bomb at the heart of the vehicle’s hydraulic system.

  The whole operation took seconds, and within two minutes Olivia was back in her room setting her alarm for six in the morning. She was determined to get a few hours’ sleep; tomorrow was going to be a busy day, starting with the fulfilling adrenaline rush of witnessing the destruction of her four principal disposals.

  Olivia was almost certain the party would return to the Villa Brillante the following morning — Connie would want to see the fire damage first-hand. However, in case there were other plans, she couldn’t stray too far from the agriturismo to wait for them.

  She left at seven and hid her BMW and herself in among some trees a few hundred yards along the road leading from the Villa Incantata to the main road. Her wait proved to be a long one, and after three hours she was beginning to worry that perhaps there was another exit from the agriturismo she had somehow overlooked.

  However, after a further ten minutes, she heard a toot as a car passed through the gate. A carabiniere car appeared followed by Henry’s four-by-four. A police escort, she thought. They must be nervous.

  Olivia watched the cars drive past before starting her motorcycle, not that its engine would have been heard. She settled on the seat, ensured that the correct detonating device was at hand in her jacket pocket, kicked the bike into gear and set off. When the convoy turned left along the main road towards Castiglion Fiorentino and signalled right at the traffic lights before the town, she knew she had guessed correctly: they were heading for the villa.