She tossed her list of long-term targets back onto the desk where she was sitting and drummed her fingers on its surface. Despite her supreme self-control, she could feel an anger rising. Her brilliant scheme had been destroyed and along with the pleasure of ridding the world of more useless men, she would miss the pleasure of outwitting her colleagues time after time.
She thought back over how her personal vendetta against the male of the species had progressed. She had come a long way from her first blooding — the disposal of her foul, disgusting father, the man who had abused her repeatedly when she was too young to understand or resist, the man who had made her realise that all men were no better than animals. The attitude of most women didn’t help either, taking daily mental abuse, if not physical, from their men, seldom knowing what their spouses were up to when not at home: she’d never met a man who couldn’t be tempted to stray with a little persuasion. As for the women who died directly at Olivia’s hand, they were utter filth, which was why she had chosen them as the victims of her schemes. Their deaths impacted on no one; they were nothing.
With many more victims under her belt than the five prostitutes, Olivia had honed her skills for many years, learning by her mistakes, polishing her technique, never compromising on quality, never allowing herself to be completely satisfied with her performance — although she had to admit it: she was pretty damn-near perfect, a master craftswoman, an expert in her specialist field.
She was proud of her achievements over the years, even in the early days. After disposing of her father and realising she had a taste for more, she had experimented with a couple of other disposals.
The first was a teacher at the school she was put in when she went to live in Pateley Bridge with the naïve Grace Taverner. He’d been easy. Something of a hunk, he fancied himself and was known to be screwing around, despite having a young wife and child. Bastard. It had been so easy. He was a runner who loved to roam the Dales. Plenty of places there, plenty of reservoirs and reservoir dam walls. All she had to do was find out his favourite route and wait. He knew her of course, so she had to be sure to kill him.
Pretending she was injured, that she’d twisted her ankle, she sat and waited by a reservoir wall until he came along. There was no one around. He’d stopped, checked her ankle — rather too far up her leg for her liking — chatted her up and even tried a grope as he helped her to her feet. She’d knocked him out with a rock, undone one of his shoelaces to make it look like he’d tripped, scuffed his bare knees on a rough stone, and tipped him over the edge, making sure his head would hit something on the way down to the water. Easy. Accidental death, said the coroner. No suspicious circumstances.
Then there were the two students she’d hitched a lift with when she was travelling around Europe in one of her university vacations. Thought they’d struck gold with her until their van plunged down a ravine in Greece with them in it, her father’s skills put to good use again. She loved the power, the sense of supremacy, the total control over when and where a man’s life would end.
Following her early experiments, she had soon developed a yearning to catch bigger fish, and once the idea of adopting the identities that went with credit cards had occurred, she had the makings of a long-term plan, so long as Grace Taverner and Catherine Doughthey were in agreement, and, of course, alive.
That the game she played was dangerous was part of the attraction. Killing someone was easy; pitting her wits against society in general and her colleagues in particular raised the thrill level immeasurably. This was why she had become a police officer. Her training had given her unparalleled insight into the system, specialist knowledge and training, and it was the perfect cover. She was hidden in plain view. Who would suspect a high-flying police officer, especially a woman, even if she was a bitch to work with?
Her police career had also taught her much about forensics. Of course she could always have read about it — she was clever and had a good scientific understanding, but the on-the-ground experience of courses in labs and talks by scientists was far better. She’d worked out how to plant the right amount of evidence, she’d learned about drugs and she was thrilled to discover that Rohypnol was perfect for her use. She’d acquired stock enough to last her for many years.
When she started with her plans for framing her targets, the UK’s DNA database was like manna, a wonderful gift. Under the rules applying at that time, anyone arrested for a recordable offence — a crime you could potentially go to prison for, which was most of them — would have their DNA profile added to the national database forever, or so it seemed at the time. All she had to do was establish that a target had been arrested for something minor, normally drink driving, then get hold of his DNA and plant it.
The obvious choice for DNA was semen that she’d put into the vagina of the prostitute the man would be charged with killing — a messy business she didn’t enjoy for one moment. Not so much putting it in the girls — that was easy using a syringe with no needle attached — but the getting hold of it. For that she’d had to have sex with the man using a condom, keep the condom without his knowledge and then plant the semen in the girl the same night while the target was out cold from Rohypnol. The first couple of attempts were disastrous. The sex was easy, although as always she hated it, but administering the drug hadn’t worked as it should: one target had simply walked away. However, practice makes perfect.
Then the law changed. All the DNA for minor offences was thrown away meaning she could no longer rely on the initial link to the suspect coming from that sort of evidence. She’d actually been quite relieved since she increasingly hated the sexual side of her activities. She had started to take advantage of the CCTV systems that these days were everywhere, disguising herself in the clothes of her target and making sure she appeared on camera. Once the link had been made, there was the fibre and fingerprint evidence she’d plant and then, to gild the lily, some DNA. In the Henry Silk case, the use of a mannequin hand with false nails had been sheer brilliance. She’d fully intended to use that again, and she would, one last time. But that didn’t allay her anger at being discovered, nor the need for the discoverer to pay. There was no doubting it: Jennifer Cotton was too clever by half.
While she was a formidable adversary against whom Olivia would enjoy pitting her wits, this sort of battle was all about winning, and you can only win once; the ultimate victory. Jennifer Cotton had to die and Olivia would delight in making her death painful, the end lasting long enough for the girl to appreciate fully that while brains were one thing, ruthless cunning was something else entirely.
She would make Jennifer Cotton the finale to her spree, call at her house in The Park after she’d dispatched the hapless prostitute and planted all the evidence on sucker from the bar at the hotel on Tuesday evening. She’d talk her way in, overcome the girl and spend a few hours watching her die slowly, enjoying every moment of her anguish.
But before killing Cotton, and before making her plans for the Fields View Hotel, there was the first part of her killing spree to organise. She had been tempted to leave it out, leave Henry Silk alive and let the joy of his now-inevitable release from prison be shattered when he learned of the death of his daughter.
However, her original plan for Henry was better. He had to die too, and he would be the first to go.
Chapter Thirty-Five
At eleven o’clock the following Tuesday morning, Derek Thyme sat back from his computer screen to reread in disbelief the third of three emails that had arrived in rapid succession over the last two minutes.
“Christ on a bike!” he stammered. “I don’t believe it.”
He swivelled his chair towards Rob McPherson who was, as usual, at war with his own computer, his long-suffering keyboard bearing the brunt of his anger.
“Guv,” said Derek, his voice taut with concern. “I think you should take a look at this.”
“What is it, Thyme? Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“With respect, guv, I thi
nk this takes precedence.”
“It better be good, Thyme. If what’s on my screen disappears into the black hole of cyberspace, I’ll be sending you after it.”
Ignoring the rant, Derek got out of his chair and indicated to the DI to sit.
McPherson sat while Derek used the mouse to scroll to the first email.
“Read that one, guv, then I’ll pull up another.”
McPherson grunted as he let his eyes absorb the text.
“Next,” he ordered, as he finished reading it.
Derek called up the next one, let McPherson read it, and then clicked on the final one.
“Christ, Thyme, this is serious!” yelled McPherson, jumping from the chair and nearly colliding with Derek. “Have you forwarded it to Hawkins and Hurst?”
“Not yet, guv.”
“Never mind. You can brief them directly; it’ll be quicker. Come on, man, move it!”
He ran for the door and turned in the direction of the DCS’s office, banging on the partition glass of Hurst’s office as he ran past.
“Mike! You need to hear this.”
Peter Hawkins looked up from his computer as his three officers burst into his office. “Where’s the fire, gentlemen?”
McPherson turned to Derek. “Thyme?”
“Yes, guv,” answered Derek. He took a step towards Hawkins’ desk.
“Sir, a couple of minutes ago, I received the information on the deaths of the other three culprits we now think Detective Superintendent Freneton might have set up, the two who topped themselves and the one killed in a fight in prison.”
Hawkins glared at him, but remained silent.
Derek hesitated, then ploughed on. “Well, sir, the thing is that the other party involved in each of them, that is the brawl in which he was deemed to be an innocent victim, and the two suicides, he was the same con.”
Hawkins’ glower deepened. He hadn’t understood a word.
“Any chance you could stop talking in riddles, man?”
“Sorry, sir. The con, his name is Norman Bryan Edmunds, was the other party in the fight in which Timothy Backhouse was killed in Maudslake prison in 2012.”
“Why is that important?”
“According to the info I’ve received this morning, he was known to have befriended Colin Edgerton in Maudslake prison in 2007 shortly before Edgerton hanged himself, and then he shared a cell with Gregory Walters in Sunshore prison in 2009. And Walters didn’t hang himself, he OD’d with Rohypnol.”
“The drug found in the Bristol case?”
“Yes, sir, and if Silk was set up, it could have been used on him; the symptoms he described would fit.”
“How come this Edmunds was moved to Sunshore and then back to Maudslake?”
“He’s a lifer, sir, and an extremely violent one. The prison authorities have been experimenting with moving his type around to prevent them from establishing their own fiefdom in a prison.”
“You think Freneton had a hand in arranging it?”
“Not sure, sir, but she knows him. She was a detective sergeant in Leeds in 2006 when Edmunds was sent down for murdering two security guards in a warehouse robbery. They were particularly vicious killings. He’s serving a minimum of twenty-five years, with no consideration of parole before 2031. Freneton was on the team that put him inside and apparently she conducted most of the interviews.”
“With plenty of opportunity for off-the-record heart-to-heart chats,” mused Hawkins to himself. “What else do we have on him, Thyme?”
“Not much, sir. He was married — his wife divorced him in 2008. They had one child, a daughter born in 2001 he’s apparently very attached to.”
Hawkins nodded. “Could be a lever — threaten to harm the daughter. Where is he now?”
“That’s the thing, sir. After the fight in Maudslake in 2012, he was transferred to Skipshed.”
“Skipshed! That’s where Silk is.”
“Yes, sir.”
McPherson was starting to get agitated. He had seen the emails and needed no convincing of the urgency of their problem.
“Sir,” he interrupted. “With respect, I really think we need to act on this. It’s true that the deaths of these three cons happened after their trials, between one and a half and two years after, in fact, whereas Silk’s case has yet to go to trial. But if Freneton is involved in all these cases and for some reason wants her victims dead, then Silk could be in danger.”
“How so?”
“Freneton’s disappeared, hasn’t she? I mean, she hasn’t turned up this morning or yesterday …”
He turned to Hurst whom he knew had been trying to contact her.
Hurst nodded. “That’s right. She isn’t answering her mobile, in fact, it seems to be turned off. One of the uniforms I sent round to her house earlier called me a few minutes ago to say there’s no one there. I was about to contact the techies to see if there’s any way of tracing a phone even when it’s turned off.”
Hawkins shook his head. “There isn’t. Don’t waste your time.”
“The point is, sir,” said McPherson, cutting in again, “it would appear that Freneton is aware that we’re on to her. Don’t know how, but she’s nobody’s fool, as we well know. If she knows then she’ll also realise that the case against Silk will likely be dropped. He’ll walk. So there’s a chance, if she was planning to have him killed at some stage, either in a fight or by somehow persuading him to top himself, that she will want to do it soon.”
“You’re right, Rob,” said Hawkins as he reached for his phone. “Obviously Edmunds is the danger here. If I get the prison to isolate him immediately, we can get over there and interview him. If he is behind some or all of the other killings, and he’s somehow been told by Freneton to kill Silk, then with a bit of persuasion we’ll not only prevent the killing, but we might also get something more concrete on Freneton.”
He scowled at the phone dial, but changed his mind.
“Ann!” he yelled to his secretary. “Get me the governor of Skipshed prison. Tell him it’s extremely urgent, a matter of life and death.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Norman Edmunds was an uncompromisingly violent man whose very presence radiated aggression. At six foot four and two hundred and fifty pounds, his muscular frame looked as if it would burst through his drab prison garb. His huge head was shaven, what little neck he had rippled with rolls of thick flesh, while his face was that of a prizefighter — a nose that had lost all indication of its original form and heavy, misshapen brows knitted over dark, brooding eyes. His arms were sleeved with tattoos that extended to his neck, lower face and much of the top of his head.
Before Peter Hawkins’ arrival, Edmunds was escorted from his cell by two of the biggest guards in Skipshed prison to the special security interview room where his chained wrists were attached to a ring bolted to the floor. The table in front of him was also bolted to the floor, as was the chair on which they sat him. He was never allowed to be with a visitor unmanacled.
Governor Harold Maskerton met Hawkins in the prison’s guest car park. They had known each other for many years, serving on various Home Office committees covering law and order, and while they had a certain mutual respect for each other’s jobs, they were anything but pals. About the same age, Maskerton was as thin as Hawkins was fat and slightly shorter. He wore a carefully trimmed beard, grey now with the passing years.
“What do you want with Edmunds, Peter?” he asked as soon as Hawkins climbed out of his car, not bothering with any niceties. “Whatever it is, all you’ll be likely to get is his usual barrage of verbal abuse.”
“Confidential enquiry, Harold, I’m afraid. It’s sensitive, horribly bloody sensitive.”
He turned as Rob McPherson walked round from the passenger side of the car. “Do you know DI McPherson, Harold?”
“Don’t think we’ve met,” replied Maskerton with the briefest of glances towards McPherson. His eyes returned immediately to Hawkins.
McPher
son let the rebuff ride over him, but nevertheless wished he had stayed in the SCF where Mike Hurst was continuing his attempts to contact Olivia Freneton while Derek Thyme was searching out more background on her connections to any other convicts with a violent reputation.
McPherson’s reply, directed to the side of Maskerton’s head, was voiced with a sharp edge of sarcasm. “No, not had the pleasure.”
Maskerton ignored him. “He’ll be shackled,” he said to Hawkins. “It’s the only way he’s allowed to see anyone, including his daughter.”
“How many guards?” asked Hawkins.
“Two. Why?”
“Do they hover or stand back?”
“Your choice, but I wouldn’t have them stand too far back, if I were you. Edmunds can move like lightning for such a big man, even if he is shackled.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. What I want is to be able to talk to Edmunds in confidence. It might be the only way I can get through to him.”
“I can’t let the guards leave the room.”
“Not asking, Harold. I only want them to keep their distance. I’m thinking of interviewing him on my own, leaving Rob here to enjoy the view of the Derbyshire hills. One police officer with Edmunds is more than enough — I know how much he hates us.”
“He hates any form of authority, Peter. Watch your step; he’s a mean bastard.”
Norman Edmunds frowned through his deeply furrowed brow as Hawkins entered the interview room and sat opposite him. One corner of his upper lip lifted in a snarl and his broad Birmingham accent cut through the room.
“Wha’d’ya want, copper? You’re taking up me valuable exercise time. I gotta keep fit; it’s the only way to survive in this shithole.”
Hawkins had met plenty like Edmunds during the course of his long career and even though the man was probably the biggest he’d ever faced, he remained unfazed. He deliberately waited ten seconds before replying, his eyes fixed on the bridge of Edmunds’ nose.
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