Connie pulled a face, pouting in mock petulance. “Do you really have to fly back tonight? The time’s been so short.”
“’Fraid so, but I’ll be back in no time. And you don’t have to keep sending a private jet for me every time, you know. I’d be perfectly happy slumming it in first class on some sordid commercial airline.”
“Henry. You know what airports are like these days with all the security; they’re zoos.” She shuddered. “I hate flying enough without having to do it with other people. And for as long as I’m fortunate enough to have the wherewithal, I’ll make the travel arrangements for both of us.”
Henry sat back and smiled. “Far be it from me to sound ungrateful. I must say there’s something eminently civilised about being picked up in a limo at the studio, whisked to a private airport, cocooned and painlessly transported to Perugia and then limo’d to your villa.”
He paused and glanced around, his eyes resting briefly on one of Connie’s minders sitting two tables away. He leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“I’m pleased to see you’re still taking your security seriously. It’s reassuring to know you are in safe hands when you’re out and about.”
Connie nodded. “My brush with that insane woman was some wake-up call. The thought of what she nearly achieved and how she went about it still leaves me shuddering.”
Henry took her hands in his. “We were all lucky that day, you, Jennifer, and I. And even Derek, although he wasn’t there at the end.”
“No, but she could have tried something at the agriturismo the night before.”
“But she didn’t, my love,” reassured Henry, “and here we are in our post-Freneton future. No point in dwelling on it all, turning over the same old horror stories. I think it’s time to accept that everything associated with the delusional, psychopathic world of Olivia Freneton is dead and buried with her. I know it hasn’t been easy; it hasn’t been for Jennifer either, but I think she has finally drawn a line under it. She now regards it as she does any case she’s been involved in. Once the trial is over and the evidence and paperwork catalogued and stored away, that’s it. The baddies are out of harm’s way and the goodies can carry on with their lives unmolested.”
Nico Terzi and Benno Papadopoulos were the two professional minders from Connie’s team on duty that morning. She had chosen the team carefully, vetting the many applications with her US head of security and her two PAs, one Stateside and an Italian one based in Rome, until she had fine-tuned her list to a squad of eight. She paid them generously and expected the best. Of the eight, Nico and Benno were her favourites, her invisibles as she called them, for their skill in blending into the background.
Seated in the car outside the bar, Benno constantly scanned and assessed every passing individual and vehicle. Nico, by contrast, relied more on his ears than his eyes. Seated in the bar and apparently glued to his newspaper, he tuned into every conversation. While Connie and Henry enjoyed each other’s company, Nico was listening, filtering and cataloguing, leaving nothing to chance. That was his role: tune in, assess, plan, repeat.
To escape Nico’s rigorous scrutiny would require someone with exceptional skill; someone in a league of their own. Someone like Cosimo Graziano Rosselli, the man sitting two tables behind him. Referred to somewhat melodramatically in the circles who used his talents as l’ombra, the shadow, Rosselli was an assassin whose abilities were second to none.
Disguised as a greying pensioner in his sixties, Rosselli gave the impression of being a man absorbed with his newspaper while listening through earbuds plugged into an iPod. From time to time, he would stroke the head of the pug dog seated on the chair next to him, but his focus behind his heavily tinted sunglasses was entirely on Connie and Henry.
Chapter Ten
Constantly mindful of their security and privacy, Connie and Henry had developed a habit of speaking in such hushed tones that even with the state-of-the-art sensitivity of the directional microphone concealed in the iPod, Cosimo Graziano Rosselli was hard pushed to pick up everything they said.
It was the fourth morning Rosselli had sat in the bar watching and listening, and from what Connie had been saying, Henry was about to return to the US. However, far more importantly, their conversation that morning had already added significantly to the fragments of information Rosselli had picked up during the past four days.
* * *
It had taken time for Rosselli to reach this step of his research. He had started by searching Google for the name combination of Ginevra and Mancini, both irritatingly common Italian names. There were many and even though his experience told him that none would be the young woman he was looking for, he had to follow up each one.
Of the Ginevra Mancinis he found, he could eliminate most as non-starters. They were either too old or too young; too fat or too thin; too short or too tall; or their facial features differed too much from Ettore Cambroni’s description. And of those he shortlisted, many were married with children or unsuitable owing to their education or employment. This still left seven women of around thirty, all of whom had Facebook accounts with photographs of themselves showing them to be dark-haired, attractive and slim. Three even came from Milan and might therefore have the accent that Ettore Cambroni had described. He had studied the photographs carefully, trying to see inside each woman’s head. But a second clandestine meeting with Ettore to show him their photographs confirmed his thoughts: none of these women was the Ginevra Mancini he sought.
In the double-glazed tranquillity of the book-lined study in his modern Rome apartment, Rosselli had sat in his favourite swivel leather recliner as he considered his next move. From the nature of the sting operation against the Cambronis and the information from the trial, he knew the Rome Art Fraud Squad of the Polizia had been involved. However, a few discreet enquiries quickly saw him backing off. The head of the squad, Commissario Massimo Felice ran a tight ship. The squad was a closed shop, Felice being the only public face, and he was known to be incorruptible. And to make matters worse, when Rosselli talked to a long-time source in the lower levels of the Polizia, he was told that casual enquiries to colleagues had been met with suspicion. Given the last thing Rosselli wanted was to alert the squad, he immediately instructed his contact to make no further approaches.
At this point, like Ettore Cambroni before him, Rosselli accepted that the better route to Ginevra Mancini would be through the rich American, Connie Fairbright, and the companion Cambroni had mentioned, the Englishwoman, Diana Fritchley.
Another Internet search for these two threw up some interesting results. There was plenty of business-related information around the name Connie Fairbright, the mega-rich widow of billionaire businessman Brad Fairbright who had been killed several years previously in a plane crash, but nothing at all on Diana Fritchley. This puzzled Rosselli until he researched the surname Fritchley and found that not only was it rare but also that among the few Fritchleys he found, none was called Diana.
Rosselli knew from Ettore Cambroni that the Fairbright woman’s restored villa was somewhere near Castiglion Fiorentino in Tuscany. Using a contact in the Arezzo Carabinieri, one of many around the country on whom he had compromising information, he quickly gathered what he needed to move forward.
There were only two calls involved, the first from Rosselli using a public phone to make contact with the officer, the second from the officer to an untraceable number Rosselli had given him to hear the results.
“It’s Beppe, signore,” announced the police officer, his voice hesitant. As always, he was concerned about crossing a man he knew to be dangerous.
“You have something?”
“Si, signore, a little, but I hope it will be useful to you.” He paused, worrying about how to explain what he had to say to this enigmatic man.
“Well?”
“Allora, signore, the villa of the American woman, Signora Fairbright, is in the hills above the Val di Chio, east of Castiglion Fiorentino. It’s called Villa
Brillante and is about three kilometres from the main road that winds up the side of the valley and heads over to the Nestore Valley, and it is, apparently, impregnable. I know the senior police officer there, the maresciallo in charge of the zone. He has been instructed by his superiors not to go near the villa, that all matters of security are to be handled in-house by the woman’s security company. It is rumoured that the villa houses many priceless paintings, but I can find no one who has actually been inside to see them first hand.”
“Does the Fairbright woman live there full-time?”
“Apparently not, signore. According to the maresciallo, she flies frequently to and from the US in a private jet she keeps at Perugia airport.”
“What about her companion, the Fritchley woman?”
“The information about her is … confusing.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, again according to the maresciallo, Signora Fairbright’s companion was killed in a motorcycle accident about two years ago on the steep main road near the villa. It seems she just drove over the edge on a corner.”
“Suicide?”
“Possibly, signore, but it is not certain. You see, there is literally no information about the accident or the victim. No record. Neither is there any record of a funeral, in fact, what happened to the body is also unknown. I am told there were three witnesses to the accident who were in a four-by-four. One was Signora Fairbright, the second an Englishman who now visits her from time to time. The local police didn’t get a chance to interview them, not even the carabiniere who had been accompanying them, since within minutes, an order came through from Rome for them to stand down.”
“Who was the third?”
“A young woman who had been staying with them the previous evening at the Villa Incantata di Chiana, an exclusive agriturismo south of Castiglion Fiorentino. There had been an incident the day before at Signora Fairbright’s villa, but the record for that is also missing.”
“Is there a description of the young woman? What was her name?”
“The carabiniere said she was around thirty; she had dark hair, and she was pretty and slim. As for her name, I have checked as far as I dare, but there is no record of it.”
“Nationality?”
“As I said, the officer accompanying them only had a chance to speak briefly to her. He said she was Italian and he also thinks from her attitude that she might have been a police officer.”
“If he was accompanying them, why didn’t he see the accident?”
“He was in a police vehicle and leading the way. I think he was well ahead of them; he was rather vague about it.”
Rosselli gave a derisive snort. “Idiot.”
He ended the call. In spite of the incompetence of the police driver, this was useful information. Assuming the mysterious young woman was Ginevra Mancini, it confirmed that Fairbright knew her, and if she knew her, they might still be in touch. He needed access to the villa, but given the stories of high-tech security, attempting a break-in was too risky. He would have to try another way, and for this he would have to base himself in the area.
* * *
Rather than use a hotel in Castiglion Fiorentino, where the staff might be too local for where he intended to cast his net, Rosselli chose an anonymous commercial hotel twenty minutes away on the outskirts of Arezzo where he would be just another faceless client. His utterly placid pug Goccia was trained to sit quietly beside him for hours on end. He often used her when, heavily disguised, he was observing and collecting information. She was a distraction. People would remember her rather than him, and anyway, who would suspect anything about a quiet, elderly man enjoying his coffee and listening to music while petting his beloved dog?
* * *
In Bar Fulvia, Rosselli adjusted the beige fedora that was part of his disguise, pulling it more tightly over the wig of leonine grey hair as he listened patiently to Connie and Henry’s conversation. They had yet to mention the elusive Ginevra Mancini, but Rosselli was convinced they were all linked.
The couple appeared to be about to leave when Connie leaned towards Henry, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial level.
“Sweetheart, when did you say you last spoke to Jennifer?” I was wondering how she’s settling in after the shock of her boss having a heart attack.”
Henry’s reply was equally muted “Let’s see, it was, er, Tuesday of last week. I was on location on the coast south of LA and I caught her in my lunch break. With the time difference, it was about 9 pm in England and she had just got home from work. She was tired and we didn’t talk for long. She seems to have dealt with it. She’s incredibly busy, as ever.”
“Her work never stops, does it?” replied Connie, “Look how much she had to do with the gallery case, for the Met and for Rome.”
Rosselli’s hand had now frozen on Goccia’s neck as he struggled to pick up the conversation. The pug turned her head and nuzzled at his fingers, demanding that he continue with the stroking.
“And on top of that,” continued Henry, “there was Freneton’s death. But fortunately, Massimo stepped in and, as if by magic, it all went away.”
“Friends in high places,” mouthed Connie, with a flick of her eyebrows.
“After two attempts on my daughter’s life, they are the kind of connections she deserves,” added Henry.
Connie nodded. “Yes. Jennifer can’t always rely on you riding in like the cavalry, especially when you spend most of your time six thousand miles from her.”
“I’m far happier now she’s back in Nottingham and she has Derek watching her back on a daily basis.”
He took her hand. “Come on, there are things to do before I leave. Let’s get back.”
Connie looked up coyly at him and Henry grinned.
“I meant around the house, but they shouldn’t take too long.”
* * *
As Connie and Henry waved goodbye to Mario, the bar owner, Rosselli sat reviewing the valuable intelligence he had gained in the past few minutes along with everything else he’d learned over the previous four days. Cambroni’s associate, Maria, had been right, Ginevra Mancini was English, and not only that, she was also this man’s daughter. Her real name was Jennifer and she was a police officer who worked in Nottingham in the UK.
He had checked out the Englishman as a matter of course since the man had been with Fairbright and Mancini when the Fritchley woman was killed. He was the actor Henry Silk, and although Rosselli didn’t recall any mention online of a daughter, this was progress! From the rest of the conversation, the daughter didn’t appear to be married, so presumably she would be Jennifer Silk, assuming Silk was the actor’s real name.
And there was another name. What was it? Yes, Freneton. Who was Freneton? The woman who died was called Fritchley, not Freneton. Like Fritchley, it sounded an unusual name. Another one to add to his search list.
He ruffled the fur on Goccia’s neck and she stretched in enjoyment. “Come on, little lady, we have some more work to do before we can be one hundred percent sure we have the right woman.”
Chapter Eleven
Rosselli trawled every search engine, bulletin board and online gossip site he could think of, but he could find no mention anywhere of Henry Silk having a daughter. There was some scandal earlier in the actor’s career, a bad-boy image that had haunted him and hindered his progress in the acting world for more than two decades, but no daughter. He had hoped for a photograph of the two of them together, but, interestingly, there was nothing. The actor must have worked hard at keeping the information quiet.
After exhausting the search for Henry and his daughter, Rosselli shifted his focus to the name Freneton. Here his search was more successful and with a little thought he was able to make sense of the information.
Olivia Freneton had been a rogue British police superintendent. A serial killer wanted for several murders in England, she had fled the country after the attempted murder of a young female detective. From the convers
ation between Connie and Henry, that detective must have been Jennifer.
After the attempt on Jennifer’s life, the killing spree had continued in England with at least two more murders and two attempted murders, one of the latter aimed at a black police officer called Derek Thyme. Was this the Derek Henry Silk had mentioned? But then Freneton had disappeared again and, given the confidence with which the police had announced that the public would have nothing more to fear from her, the perceived wisdom in the press was that she must be dead.
Rosselli flicked around the articles and decided that Freneton and Fritchley must have been the same person, with the woman taking on the latter identity in an attempt to steal from and perhaps kill Connie Fairbright. And Henry had stopped it. Interesting, thought Rosselli. No wonder they are all such a tightly knit group.
Satisfied the pieces were falling into place, Rosselli turned his attention to Jennifer. It was more than his reputation was worth to kill the wrong person; it would be sloppy and shoddy, and Cosimo Graziano Rosselli was neither. He was an assassin, not a murderer. His killings were tidy and painless business arrangements that took advantage of his exceptional skills to ensure the targets did not suffer. They were not random affairs of the heart or mindless acts of cruelty. He despised people who killed out of anger, frustration or antisocial tendencies as much as the next upright citizen, and he certainly did not consider himself or his work anywhere close to such behaviour. The only reason he might even think of killing anyone who wasn’t one of his professional targets would be if his freedom or his life were threatened. And in that respect, he considered himself no different from anyone else.
The Cambroni Vendetta Page 7