The Cambroni Vendetta

by David George Clarke

  * * *

  “You OK, Jen?” asked Derek as Jennifer walked towards her new desk, her legs leaden. She had yet to sit at it, stow her stuff, examine the in tray and fire up the computer. She didn’t answer immediately; she just squeezed his hand as she passed him before slumping into her chair.

  She took a deep breath, sat up straighter and lifted her eyes to where he stood waiting. “No, not really, to tell you the truth. It was a hell of a shock, but it could have happened to anyone here. Being with him when his heart gave up, I mean. The first moment I saw him, I wanted to sit him down and call an ambulance. How long had he looked like that?”

  Derek shook his head. “Not long, just today really. I mean, he’s looked dodgy for a while and I think he was getting a bit pissed off with people asking him if he was OK. But nothing like the way he looked when he came in this morning. Things must have deteriorated over the weekend.”

  “What was the stupid man thinking of?” lamented Jennifer, her voice choking with frustration and anger. “It’s a job, for Christ’s sake, not a religious calling. If he’d taken a little more care of himself, he’d have had more years with his wife. If I ever get like that, so single-minded that everything else falls by the wayside, I give you full permission to drag me out of here by the hair no matter how much I kick and scream. Got it!”

  “My mind boggles at the thought bu—”

  “Have you got it!”

  “Yes, Jen, I’ve got it.”

  “Good. Because I’d do the same to you; don’t think I wouldn’t.”

  Derek glanced around the squad room, aware of a heavy silence in response to Jennifer’s unintended raising of her voice. “I’ll get back to work,” he said, quietly.

  He turned and made to walk away but Jennifer called to him.

  “Derek. Sorry. I just …”

  “I know, Jen, it’s OK.” His eyes lifted to somewhere beyond her as a movement caught his attention. “Here comes Crawford. Probably wants you.”

  “I hope he’s healthy,” muttered Jennifer.

  * * *

  DCI Len Crawford stood at the door and looked around the room.

  “Right, everybody. I know how gutted you all feel. Hugh Gregson was a helluva good cop and a great guy. We’ll all miss him. But I know if he’d had the opportunity to say one more thing to you all, it would be ‘get on with your work’. This team, all of you, are what he lived and in the end died for, and he wouldn’t appreciate it if we stood around moping instead of getting on with all the cases he and all of you have invested a lot of time in. Sorry if that sounds heartless, it didn’t come out quite right, but I think you get my gist.”

  There was a general mumbling of assent from which one voice spoke up.

  “We’re on it, boss, don’t worry.” It was Gus Brooke, the newest addition to the team and the least invested.

  Crawford wasn’t worried and neither was he impressed. He glanced coldly towards Brooke before addressing the room. “I’ve no doubt we’ll be finishing a bit early today, depending on the DCS, but even if we don’t, I suggest that we meet for a drink after work. In the meantime, DS Cotton, I’d like a word in my office, please.”

  He turned towards the door. As Jennifer stood to follow him, she noticed heads getting together as the team continued to come to terms with events. However, no one’s head leaned towards Gus Brooke.

  * * *

  “Sit down, DS Cotton,” said Len Crawford, pointing towards the chair by his desk. He was altogether different from Hugh Gregson, a man less confident in his role, and like many in that situation, he wore a protective veil of formality. He had the reputation of being thorough and fair, if somewhat dogmatic, but less able to listen to others’ points of view. At least he looks fit enough, thought Jennifer.

  “Thank you, guv,” she said, sitting down.

  Crawford sat opposite her, still wearing the buttoned jacket of his tired dark-grey suit, his tie neatly pushed against the collar of his white shirt. He ran a weary hand through his short and receding salt-and-pepper hair.

  “A somewhat unfortunate start to your new job, Cotton. Let’s hope it only gets better from here on.” His attempt at a smile was through closed, thin lips.

  Jennifer said nothing as she watched him wringing his hands.

  “I want to give you a rundown on how things work here, at least bring you up to date. But before I do that, I just want to say that I’m aware that you and DC Thyme are, what …?”

  “A couple, guv,” replied Jennifer, bristling, her response emerging as more aggressive than she intended. “We’re a couple. A serious, long-term couple. But I should like to put your mind at rest, in case you are concerned. I’m now Derek’s immediate boss, and here, at work, I’ll treat him exactly like the others. We’re both perfectly capable of separating our professional and personal lives. It won’t be an issue.”

  Recoiling slightly at the sharpness of Jennifer’s tone, Crawford decided to drop it. In his heart he was against couples working in the same team and he hadn’t been looking forward to broaching the subject, but at least the elephant he perceived in the room had been dealt with.

  “That’s good, DS Cotton, very good; I’m pleased to hear it. Nevertheless, I think as a working procedure, routinely, that is, when you go out on a call and you’re not with me, if you are the lead officer, I’d prefer the accompanying DC to be someone other than DC Thyme, unless it’s unavoidable.”

  Jennifer wanted to scream. Stop bloody waffling man, she thought. Get to the point.

  “In fact,” continued Crawford, “I’d like it to be DC Brooke. To be frank with you, I’m more than a little concerned about how he’s fitting in. As you know, he has only been in the SCF for a few months. Previously he was in the West Mids in the same squad that Detective Superintendent Gregson came from, although they didn’t overlap. The transfer was approved because Brooke’s wife has been moved here with her job and neither of them wanted the commute.

  “Anyway, the point is I’m concerned that Brooke isn’t a team player. He seems to have an inflated idea of his own abilities and he needs knocking into shape. His attitude towards women is, well, I think chauvinistic is the word. It occurred to me that having a well-respected female officer such as yourself immediately above him in the chain of command, someone grounded and sensible, would be better than having a man in the role, for many reasons. Apart from anything else, he came with a reputation of being something of a Romeo. I don’t care what he gets up to off-duty, as long as it’s legal, but I don’t want it happening when he’s at work.”

  “Is that what’s been happening, boss? Has he been doing the rounds?”

  “Not overtly, no, although the female staff haven’t taken to him even though he is, apparently, a good-looking man. But you know how sensitive people are these days about anything that could possibly be construed as harassment.”

  Jennifer steepled her hands and put her lips against her fingers. She wasn’t happy with the arrangement but since Brooke was a member of her squad, she had to deal with it.

  “There may be a way to integrate him, guv,” she said. “I’ve been told he’s a fitness nut, like DC Thyme and me. Perhaps I can persuade him to join us in some training.”

  Crawford nodded, encouraged. “Yes, he’s certainly a fast runner and he has already distinguished himself in chasing down a youth who was getting away in a major drugs operation. There was a dilemma since we badly wanted this youth and the easiest way would have been for the undercover DC we had in the drugs gang to arrest him. But that would have compromised his cover. DC Brooke didn’t know who he was and simply acted instinctively. So he’s got the right tools; he just needs grooming.”

  Jennifer looked up from her own thoughts to find Crawford sitting back, his hands folded over his belly beatifically. He was more than happy to have passed on the problem.

  * * *

  Although Jennifer had no appetite, at 12:30 she stood and went over to Derek’s desk, bending down to his ear. “Lunch
,” she said, quietly. “Somewhere the guys don’t use.”

  Derek cast a rueful glance at the pile of papers in front of him. He hadn’t planned on more than a sandwich, but something was obviously up.

  “OK,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “There’s a new Pret up near Canning Circus they haven’t discovered yet. Let’s go.”

  “You mean I might get some coffee that’s not made from a toxic powder that glows in the dark?”

  “Coffee’s brill; so are their wraps. Come on, you can treat me from your enhanced senior officer’s stash.”

  * * *

  As they both sat down with their wholemeal wraps filled with brie and rocket, Derek looked across the table at Jennifer and grinned.

  “How did the meeting go with Crawford? What did you think of him?”

  “Odd bugger, like you’ve always said. I’d say he has an inferiority complex. Hardly in the same league as Mike Hurst.”

  Derek chuckled. “Being five foot six in his heels doesn’t help, either. I always try to slouch a bit around him, but I notice Gus always stands too close and stretches himself up to his full height.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Jennifer, laughing through a mouthful of leaves. “Mind you, dear old Rob McPherson can’t have been much more than that and it never bothered him. Crawford seems to have a bit of a thing about Brooke, and I must say I’m not over impressed with him either. Wants me to keep a special eye on him, use him as my oppo when I go on call-outs, rein in his flirting.”

  “Good luck with that, although I doubt he’ll try it on with you. He knows I’d deck him if he did.”

  “Now, now, DC Thyme,” replied Jennifer, looking at him over imaginary spectacles and wagging the remains of her wrap at him. “I won’t allow fisticuffs in my squad room.”

  “Not even over a matter of honour, ma’am?”

  “Certainly not. Take him down a dark alley.”

  “Actually, I dunno what his problem is,” said Derek. “I’ve met Mo, his wife, and she’s lovely. You’d certainly get on with her. Trouble is, I think he’s always been something of a player and at the moment he gets too much free time. She’s away a lot with her work even after her transfer here, which was the reason for his move in the first place.”

  “Yes, Crawford said as much.”

  “Seems to think he’s got a permanent pink ticket. Of course, it could be all harmless bluster; I’m not aware of him trying it on with anyone in the SCF.”

  “What does his wife do?”

  “She teaches sculpture, but she seems to have courses going on all over the place, so although they’ve moved up here, she’s hardly ever at home, except at weekends, sometimes not even those if she’s overseas somewhere.”

  “Art again,” said Jennifer, “I can’t seem to get away from it. Do you think the others will be happy with me going on calls with Brooke? I don’t want them to think I’m favouring him.”

  “I think they’ll be delighted. They mainly try to avoid him if they can; reckon he’s a bighead. Anyway, the pairs that have formed up existed under Gregson before Gus arrived and they’re well established. Two DCs going out is fine unless something needs a senior officer. Seems to work, so if you’re keeping him out of their hair, they’ll be happy. And you might even manage to deflate that ego a bit.”

  “You’ve set me a challenge now. How long before I have him lapping at my feet?”

  Derek grinned. “I think he’d do that immediately if he thought there was a nice prize at the end of it.”

  “That’s not what I meant, DC Thyme.”

  Part Three

  Cosimo Graziano Rosselli

  Chapter Nine

  one month later

  Connie Fairbright was sitting in Bar Fulvia in the Tuscan hill town of Castiglion Fiorentino with Henry Silk, the man who two years before had appeared out of nowhere and rescued her from the maniacal serial killer Olivia Freneton, the man who had saved her life.

  An immediate spark between Connie and Henry had quickly cemented into a comfortable permanence, but there were two problems, the first of which was distance. After many years in the wilderness, Henry’s star was shining brightly in the movie world; Hollywood had beckoned and Henry had answered. He now spent much of his time filming in studios all over California while Connie spent much of hers in the high-security confines of her villa in the hills outside Castiglion Fiorentino.

  The second problem was that Connie shunned any form of publicity. An intensely private person, she wanted no mention of her personal life in the press or online media, or anywhere else where she might attract the attention of another Olivia Freneton. There were plenty out there, perhaps not as murderous, but she had no doubt they would be just as single-minded in their pursuit of her fortune. Obsessive about keeping her relationship with Henry as low profile as possible, she never accompanied him to the glitzy, narcissistic bonanzas of self-importance at which Hollywood excelled, not to parties and not even to expensive and exclusive restaurants, no matter how discreet the management. There was always the risk of eyes and phones that might point in their direction, and once tempted with the scent of a story, the pursuit of the celebrity-press hounds would be relentless.

  Henry was only too pleased to comply with Connie’s wishes, and not just because he was totally smitten by her. He had his own issue of privacy with his daughter. To maintain her effectiveness as a detective, Jennifer’s anonymity was essential. Throughout the aftermath of the Cambroni trial and the death of Olivia Freneton, she and Henry had managed to keep their father-daughter relationship known to a trusted few. If they went out together in public, Henry would adopt a disguise, but otherwise they met well away from prying eyes in places such as Connie’s villa or Henry’s house in London.

  * * *

  The happy exception to Connie and Henry’s self-imposed rules of privacy was found in the rural backwaters of the Tuscan countryside, and morning coffee and pastries at Bar Fulvia was a ritual whenever Henry arrived from Hollywood. They both loved the old town square’s unhurried ambience and the noisy babble in the bar among groups of earnest, retired men arguing the finer points of Italian politics over their cups of caffè corretto. But most of all they loved the freedom of being themselves, of being unmolested, part of the furniture. It was true that they were foreigners and always would be, but in the parochial eyes of the locals, the entire population of nearby Arezzo qualified as foreigners, let alone the rest of Italy, However, these two foreigners were accepted, particularly Connie. The American signora was always polite and friendly and, more importantly, she had injected plenty of cash into local pockets with her villa conversion.

  * * *

  Connie squeezed Henry’s hand. He had flown in four evenings earlier, arriving in time for sundowners and a cosy dinner. By the following morning he was completely relaxed, a world away from the madness and tantrums of the studio.

  “It’s such a pity you’re off again tonight, Henry; there’s nothing I like better than sitting here in this magical place with my lover.”

  Connie’s eyes crinkled with amusement at the word she knew would provoke a response.

  “Lover?” questioned Henry, rising to the bait of the familiar refrain.

  “Yes, Henry. Lover. It’s what you are, isn’t it? What we are. Lovers. I like the word; it has an air of intrigue about it. And what else do I call you? I can’t stand the word ‘partner’, it has too many connotations, and the last companion I had tried to kill me. Surely you don’t think ‘boyfriend’ is appropriate; you’re almost fifty-three.”

  Henry tossed his head theatrically. “Fifty-two and a half. My birthday is almost six months away. What about beau?”

  “What about it? You’re not filming a remake of Gone With The Wind, are you?”

  “Fancy man?” persisted Henry, undaunted as he sought alternatives. “Swain? Yes, I like swain.”

  “I’m afraid you’re missing one qualification for swain, my darling.”

  “Really? What’s that? I think it
rather suits me,” said Henry, striking a pose.

  “Youth, my love, youth. Swain has a connotation of youth about it.”

  “OK, then. Fella. I’m your fella.”

  “And I suppose I’m your bit of stuff.”

  “Cor-shew are, darlin’,” said Henry, putting on an Eastenders accent. “That’s certainly how I describe you when asked if I’m seeing anyone.”

  Connie laughed. “Fortunately, I know full well that you maintain an enigmatic silence to all around you when it comes to our relationship. Long may it continue, although I know it’s inevitable that one day some spotty hack will happen upon this bar when we’re in it, recognise you and find out who I am.”

  Henry leaned closer to her. “Would that be such a bad thing? It’s been two years now since Olivia Freneton met her demise. I’d love to be able to wine and dine you publicly. I’d be the envy of hordes of eligible bachelors and the talk of Hollywood.”

  “No, thank you. I do not want the Val di Chio invaded and ruined by paparazzi, our every move recorded and spread across the Internet. The people of this town would never forgive me.”

  She paused, smiled warmly at him.

  “I never realise how much I miss you until you’re back here in our special place. And although I hardly seem to have paused for breath since you were last here, it’s been lonely without you.”

  Henry laughed. “You sound like a script from one of the soaps I used to be in.”

  Connie poked her tongue out him. “Hey, Mr Romantic, you’re supposed to be living up to that debonair Hollywood image now you’ve hit the big time. You should be melting my heart with one casual but passion-loaded glance.”

  “Give me a break; I’m off duty. One of the many appealing things about this place is I’m just another foreign face. I can be myself and walk around without someone asking me to pose with them for a selfie.”