Chapter Forty-Eight
“You have a good memory, detective sergeant, or perhaps it was my little friend who reminded you.”
Rosselli was standing at the edge of the trees, his eyes registering every nuance of Jennifer’s movements. He glanced towards Goccia before nodding at the phone in Jennifer’s hand.
“Don’t even think of throwing that at me; you would be dead before you even released your grip. Please, just toss it lightly so that it lands in front of me.”
Jennifer glared at him, but she knew that for the present at least, he had the advantage. She did as instructed and the phone landed at Rosselli’s feet.
Without taking his eyes or the gun off her, Rosselli stooped to pick up the phone and turned it off.
“Good,” he said, throwing it into the trees. “Now we can move on. From the expression on your face as I watched you from the bushes, I should say you were hesitating over an important decision. Let me guess. Should you break the rules and go into the factory again or should you call in and seek permission or backup?”
Jennifer said nothing, her mind working hard. Who was this man, his smile apparently benign but his eyes glacially cold? Was he responsible for Trisha’s disappearance? Had she been completely wrong about Gus Brooke?
“Well, let me make that decision for you, detective sergeant,” continued Rosselli as he pointed with his gun. “If you would like to turn around and pull that damaged fence apart — well spotted, by the way — we can take a look inside. But please remember that if you attempt anything stupid, anything at all, you will die in an instant.”
Jennifer shrugged. “You leave me no choice, but will you answer one question first?”
Rosselli raised his eyebrows.
“Is Trisha McVie in there?”
Rosselli nodded, “She is, detective sergeant, she is indeed.”
“And is she still alive?” said Jennifer, angry with herself for the desperation she could hear in her voice. She was sure this man would hear it too.
“Let’s wait and see, shall we, detective sergeant?”
Jennifer sighed in frustration as she turned to work on separating the fence. As she did, Rosselli quickly gathered up Goccia’s lead, slipping the loop over his left wrist to keep his hand free, his right hand controlling the gun.
“Make your way through the fence,” he ordered, once the hole was large enough, “and walk ahead until I tell you to stop.”
Jennifer walked slowly forward, acutely aware of the Glock pointing directly at her back.
“That’s enough,” called Rosselli when she was about twenty feet away. “Now, lie face down on the ground with your legs wide apart and your hands clasped behind your head. And remember, my gun will be pointing at you.”
Once Jennifer had done as she was told, Rosselli ducked through the gap, making sure that Goccia passed through without getting tangled.
“Very good, detective sergeant,” he said, once he was through. “Now, stand up and walk briskly ahead. We’ll follow.”
They quickly reached the shelter of the inner yard and walked toward the large doors at one end.
“I should imagine that you intended making a rapid search of every room, cupboard and closet on this floor before moving your search to the upper floor, detective sergeant. Am I right?”
“You know you are,” growled Jennifer.
“I thought so,” said Rosselli. “Well, let me put your mind at rest. Your superintendent isn’t down here, so let’s not waste time looking. We’ll go straight to the upper floor. You know the way; it’s through that door and up the wide stone steps.”
When they neared the top of the steps, Rosselli ordered Jennifer to stop.
“There’s something I need to do before we continue our exploration, detective sergeant, so I must ask you to bear with me. You see the metal handrail next to you, the one running up the steps. I want you to stand in front of it facing the wall. Good. Now, take this cable tie from me, good, and tether your right hand to the fixture holding the rail to the wall.”
Jennifer looked at him suspiciously and Rosselli laughed.
“Don’t look so shocked, detective, I have no evil intentions in mind.”
Jennifer tethered her wrist as instructed and stood facing the wall.
“Now bend and stretch out your left hand as far as it will reach. Good, that’s perfect.”
In a flash, Rosselli had looped another tie around Jennifer’s left wrist and secured it to the railing at a point where it couldn’t slide up the rail. He checked the first tie, pulled it a little tighter and stood back to ensure Jennifer was sufficiently spreadeagled and going nowhere.
“Good. Very good,” he said. “I shall only be a few minutes. Come on, Goccia.”
At the top of the stairs, instead of turning right towards the cargo platform area, he turned left and walked towards the room he had set up as his HQ. Once inside, he removed Goccia’s lead and sat her on a pile of sacks he’d found for her when installing the CCTV.
“I’ll have to leave you here for a while, principessa. Things might get a bit unpleasant out there in a moment or two, not something a refined young lady should have to witness.”
Goccia looked up at him, her high-pitched whine edged with uncertainty.
“Don’t worry, little one. Have I ever let you down? I’ll be about half-an-hour, after which we’ll be off to London and then home. Won’t that be wonderful?”
Goccia made no more noises but kept her eyes fixed on her master, watching him as he took his phone from a pocket.
Scrolling down the screen, Rosselli hit Gus Brooke’s number. Gus answered on the second ring.
“Yes.”
“Yes, Gus, yes indeed. There has been a development. I have discovered your detective sergeant breaking into the Rappington factory. She is here now and at present rate of progress, she will find your superintendent’s body within the next ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Christ!” hissed Brooke. “Can’t you stop her? I mean, you’ve got your gun, haven’t you? Stop the bitch!”
“Now, now, Gus. Let’s not get flustered. I have the matter in hand but I do need you to get here from your office as quickly as you possibly can.”
“I don’t kn—”
“There’s no choice, Detective Brooke. You must come or many things will go wrong for you.”
“I’ll be there within twenty minutes.”
“Good. And Gus, remember, all this is our little secret. You tell no one, do you understand? Otherwise the consequences—”
It was Gus’s turn to interrupt, his reply terse.
“Of course I understand. Do you think I’m stupid?”
The line went dead in Rosselli’s ear.
“Now you mention it, Gus …” he said, and winked at Goccia.
He made a final check that everything in the room was in order and before leaving, he gave Goccia a biscuit as he rubbed her head fondly. “Good girl.”
He closed the door quietly and hurried back towards the steps.
* * *
“Right, detective sergeant, let’s get you out of that uncomfortable position. I want you to grasp the rail with your left hand, good, now I am going to cut the tie, but I want you to continue gripping the rail. Excellent. Now, do the same with the right hand. Snip. Perfect. You may stand up now,” he said, as he stepped out of Jennifer’s reach.
* * *
Jennifer stood, rubbing her wrists and walked to the top of the steps. Rosselli waved her forward with the gun. “That way, towards the open area.”
As soon as she reached the large cargo platform, Jennifer stopped. Something had changed; it was not how she remembered it. It was cleaner, tidier, and there were two metal chairs near the edge of the platform overlooking the loading bay. Maybe it was cleaner because the forensic team had been through, but even allowing for that, there was something else. She let her eyes wander around the area. The floor around the storage bins at the rear was definitely clearer than before. She thou
ght she could remember more ropes lying around.
Ignoring Rosselli, who was standing a few feet behind her, she took a step towards the storage bins while looking up at the array of rails above her head. Were they that clean before? She wished she had taken photos as soon as she’d set foot in the area the first time; she would have been able to make a direct comparison. Or at least she would have done if the madman hadn’t taken her phone. Wrinkling her nose, she sniffed the air and worked out what was so different. It wasn’t the relatively untidy collection of ropes, pulleys, broken packing cases and pallets, it was the smell. Previously there had been an overriding stale, dry mustiness, a sense of neglect and abandonment. That was still present, but woven into it now were other smells, oil particularly. The place smelt more like a car workshop, a place where lubricants were liberally splashed around. Jennifer was certain it had been absent during the earlier searches.
Why? Were the owners of the factory gearing up for a renovation? Were they perhaps intending to remove the remains of the old fittings and sell them for scrap? Getting the overhead rail system working again would make such a job far easier. But the owners had made no mention of this happening. Surely with all the conversations between the SCF and the owners it would have come up.
Puzzled, she turned to face Rosselli.
“Well, where would you like me to go now?”
Rosselli stretched out an arm towards the two chairs near the edge of the platform. He wanted things to be in place when Brooke arrived.
“I want you to sit in one of those. The one on the right. There’s a show to watch.”
“No!” yelled Jennifer. “You said I could see Trisha. I want to know if she is still alive. Do me the courtesy of telling me that, at least, instead of playing these stupid games.”
Sighing, Rosselli looked at his phone to check the progress of Gus’s car and decided he would indulge her for a few minutes. He pointed at the bins. “She is very close, detective sergeant.”
Jennifer made her way to the rear of the platform area and turned her attention to the storage bins. This time she was in no doubt about things having changed. She could distinctly remember the row of bins along the back wall, but there had been no ropes spread along any of the lids.
She stood in front of the bin with the lid partially obscured by ropes.
“Is she in this box?” she yelled at Rosselli. “Did you kill her and put her in here?”
“Your superintendent? Why do—”
“She’s got a name!” snapped Jennifer. “Trisha McVie. She has a name!”
“I apologise, Detective Sergeant Cotton, you are right, the unfortunate lady has a name and yes, her body is in the bin. But while you were right to correct me, you were also wrong. I didn’t put her there and neither did I kill her. Why should I possibly want to do that?”
“Then who did kill her?” demanded Jennifer.
When Rosselli shrugged in an exaggerated way that was so characteristic, so stereotypical, the pieces of the puzzle in Jennifer’s head began to fall into place. And as they did, a cold fear flooded her body.
“I’m told, and I think it’s true,” continued Rosselli, oblivious of Jennifer’s thoughts, “that she had an accident. That she fell.”
Jennifer was only half listening. She was thinking again of when she first saw this man in the Horse and Hounds. He had looked completely different. Had he been in disguise? And he was right, it was the dog, Goccia, that had triggered the memory. Goccia! That was it. An Italian name, and now … an Italian shrug. She had been distracted by his perfect English.
Jennifer fought to keep her voice calm, to maintain an illusion of control she didn’t feel, while at the same time feeling stupid for taking so long to work it out.
“Lei è italiano,” she said, speaking rapidly, her eyes burning into his. You are Italian. It was a statement, not a question.
Rosselli said nothing. He wanted to continue with his plan, to ensure that all blame fell onto Brooke. Which is why he didn’t follow his instinct and immediately shoot Jennifer.
“My nationality is irrelevant,” he said, answering in English. “Now, I have shown you where your friend is, so will you please do as I ask and move over to the chair? I don’t want to keep repeating myself.”
Jennifer still didn’t move. “It’s relevant to me,” she continued, the words growled in Italian. “What is an Italian with a gun doing in a derelict factory in the middle of England? How are you connected to Trisha McVie?”
Rosselli straightened slightly. The torrent of fast Italian from Jennifer was unexpected. She had transformed into another person.
He sighed and reverted to his native tongue.
“Signorina, I have no connection to your Trisha McVie and as I told you, no involvement with her death.”
“You have every involvement with her death!” shouted Jennifer. “You knew she was hidden here in this box and you did nothing about it. Any decent person would have reported it. An anonymous phone call was all that was needed.”
Rosselli was shaking his head. “Signorina,” he sighed in exasperation, but Jennifer hadn’t finished.
“But you didn’t,” she continued, “which makes you an accessory. Who was responsible if it wasn’t you? Was it Gus Brooke? Why are you protecting him?”
Rosselli held up the hand that wasn’t holding the gun.
“Signorina Cotton! Stop these accusations, please. I had, indeed I have, every intention of making sure your authorities know of Detective Brooke’s actions. He is a fool and acted badly. He needs to be punished.”
Jennifer felt a chill course through her. She had been listening as much to how this man spoke as to what he said. And she had worked it out: he was Sicilian. Which confirmed her earlier thoughts: his presence here meant only one thing. But she daren’t let on that she knew. Her only hope was to stall for time in case … in case. In case nothing, she thought. No one knew she was here. She’d misled Derek, promised him she wouldn’t enter the factory, and now she was going to suffer the consequences of her stupidity in even being near the place.
Still ignoring Rosselli’s instructions, Jennifer turned to the metal storage bin.
“I need to see her; I need to see my friend. It breaks my heart to think she has been dumped here like so much rubbish. She was a warm, kind, intelligent human being with a profound sense of right and wrong, which is why she was such a good police officer. This …” she said, her voice cracking as her arm reached out towards the bin, “this is so … disrespectful. I can’t believe that Gus Brooke would do such a thing.”
She took a step towards the bin, reaching out for one of the ropes partly covering it.
“Signorina,” said Rosselli, “That is not a good idea. It has been many days now. She … she would be—”
Jennifer cut him off with a snort of disdain.
“You forget, signore, I am a police officer. I have seen plenty of bodies. I’m not about to get squeamish or throw up.”
She paused, her voice trailing into softness. “I just want to stroke her hair, tell her she was loved. Is that too much to ask?” She tugged angrily at the rope.
Rosselli found himself torn. For the first time in his long career, he felt genuine compassion. Here was a young woman whose dear friend, not a lover but a firm, bonded friend, had been cruelly snatched from her. An image of Giorgio, his lover, flashed across his mind. If Giorgio had been killed and stuffed into a metal box, he would want to see him to say his goodbyes. But … but this young woman was about to die herself, something he strongly suspected she had already worked out. There was no choice in the matter; it was why he was here, why he had been paid a large sum of money. Would seeing the body of her friend change anything?
“There isn’t time for this, signorina,” he said.
Jennifer had just tossed a rope to the floor and was reaching for another. She stood up straight and turned to Rosselli.
“What do you mean there isn’t time?” she said. “Are you expecting compa
ny, because I’m not? As I think you are well aware, no one knows I’m here. I’m entirely at your mercy, so what’s the hurry?”
As if in answer to Jennifer’s question, a ping sounded from Rosselli’s phone. He raised his gun towards Jennifer, an instruction to stop what she was doing. He pulled the phone from his pocket and held it up so he could see the screen while still keeping an eye on Jennifer. The alarm had been triggered by the camera focussed on the factory gates. Previously, Jennifer’s car had been the only vehicle there; now it had been joined by a second: Gus Brooke’s. And it appeared that Brooke had a key to the padlock: the gates were wide open and Rosselli just caught a glimpse of Brooke running along the concrete road leading from the gates to the factory before he disappeared from the camera’s field of view.
Rosselli smiled and moved backwards away from the bins towards a large packing crate standing by the wall. Once in its shadow, he would be hidden from the view of anyone crossing the cargo platform.
“As it happens, signorina, you are right. I am expecting company.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Two mornings after Sonia’s confession to Connie about what she had told the man she knew as Gianpietro Tebaldi, at about the time Rosselli was forcing Jennifer towards the factory, Henry took a call from his agent.
He and Connie were sitting at the computer where Henry was still working on the images of Tebaldi.
As Connie watched Henry’s face while he listened to the agent, she became increasingly concerned. There was none of the normal joviality in Henry’s eyes, and little more than brief grunts in response to whatever his agent was telling him.
Henry closed the call and turned to Connie, his face now dark with concern.
“Busted flush,” he said. “Nothing. Ted has spoken to everyone he can think of in the industry in the UK, the US and here in Italy. There’s not a journalist anywhere with the name Gianpietro Tebaldi that anyone’s ever heard of. He’s not registered with any journalists’ union or association, nothing. Whoever that man was, he wasn’t a journalist.”
The Cambroni Vendetta Page 30