Irrefutable Evidence

by David George Clarke

  Hurst was now with her.

  “But of course, she wouldn’t drive it here. It wouldn’t fit in the garage and she wouldn’t want to be seen in it. So wherever she’s hiding out must have a large garage space, probably with an automatic door. This could be promising, Jennifer. I’ll get some of the researchers onto it first thing. We’ll get hold of all the CCTV tapes from street cameras in Nottingham from the time of the Silk case. See if we can spot Freneton near the Old Nottingham dressed in that gear. She might lead us to where the van is parked and if we’re really lucky, we might see her driving it and get a plate number. With that, we could get an address.”

  “Not wishing to appear negative, boss, but that’s a lot of lucky breaks. However, it does raise an interesting point. Freneton would think the same way. What I mean is she might anticipate us thinking along those lines eventually. After all, she is a police officer. She’d know that we’d probably locate wherever she’s staying sooner or later, so this convinces me that once she’s finished whatever it is she’s planning here in Nottingham, she has no intention of returning.”

  Hurst took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks.

  “You’re probably right, Jennifer, but as we’ve found, she’s not perfect; she makes mistakes. If we can find this place, even if she’s long gone, she might have left something behind. After all, she left that clothing.”

  He glanced at the wardrobe and the bag that Jennifer was still holding. “Anything else in those?”

  “Nothing,” she replied.

  “You know,” continued Hurst, “you have to hand it to her. When she set up the situation with Silk, and with the others in previous years in other cities, she ran the events like a script from a play. She had everything accounted for; she was leading us by our noses knowing what we’d find and how we’d interpret it. It wasn’t only the sucker she put in prison that was duped, it was us too. She rubbed our noses in it every time.”

  He turned and saw that Jennifer was staring intently at him, a light on in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments ago. She was looking at him but not seeing him. She suddenly put down the bag she’d been holding and rushed over to her own bag and papers that she’d put on the bed. She grabbed the sheets of A3 and spread them out, her eyes darting around the data. She ran her fingers over the boxes, arrows, highlights, following the information down to where she’d written ‘Exit Strategy’, ‘Finale’ and ‘Swan Song’.

  She looked up, a victorious gleam now in her eyes.

  “What is all that stuf—” started Hurst, but she interrupted him.

  “That’s it, boss, you’ve hit the proverbial nail fairly and squarely,” she said as she tapped the words that had thrown the switch in her head.

  “I have?”

  “Yes. God, it’s so obvious! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Don’t you see, she wants to leave on a high, to embarrass us, or rather you, the force, since I’m no longer a part of it.”

  She paused, frowning. “She’ll definitely have other plans for me. But what better way to collectively rub your noses in it, as you put it, could there be, while at the same time show her superiority, show how clever she is, and how daring.”

  She beamed at him.

  Hurst had still not turned the page. “You’re not making any sense, Jennifer.”

  Jennifer gathered up her bag and the papers.

  “She’s planning another murder, boss. She’s going to honey trap some man, drug him, dress up in his clothes, pick up a prostitute, kill her, plant all the evidence and then disappear. You’ll locate the man from the CCTV of his car, connect him to whatever hotel he’s using and to the scene, but you’ll know full well that he didn’t do it. You’ll have the usual ton of evidence but you won’t be able to use any of it. You’ll have to deny its value, say it’s worthless. She’ll still partly achieve her usual aims — she’ll kill a prostitute, demonstrate what a shit the man is by letting himself be picked up, perhaps wreck a marriage into the bargain, and embarrass the hell out of you for letting the whole thing happen under your noses. Reputations ruined, egg on many faces from the chief constable downwards. Meanwhile, Freneton will have flown; probably left the country.”

  Hurst was now several shades paler than seconds before. He nodded as he absorbed everything she’d been saying.

  “If you’re right, presumably she’ll be doing this soon.”

  “Sooner than soon, boss, I reckon she’s doing it right now. Everything in one day: get Henry killed — she won’t know yet that’s failed — and set up some sucker in a total carbon copy of Henry’s case.”

  “Christ!” exclaimed Hurst.

  He yelled through the house for the others to go to the kitchen as he ran for the bedroom door. Then he stopped so suddenly that Jennifer almost ran into him.

  “You’ve left one thing out, Jennifer.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, this is all about retribution. She’s been found out and she knows it; her game is over and she’s got to make dramatic changes — new ID, new lifestyle, new place to live. I can’t say she didn’t expect it because her brilliant contingency planning will have allowed for it.”

  “But she probably didn’t anticipate it happening yet,” added Jennifer as she followed Hurst down the stairs.

  “Probably not, but her motivation today is to get even. Kill whoever she can and dump shit on the rest. You, Jennifer, are on the kill list. I think she has every intention of paying you a visit. Tonight.”

  “Then we’ll have her. But wait a minute, I’m not the only person she’s planning to kill tonight. There’s a prostitute somewhere out there she’ll have an appointment with.”

  They had reached the kitchen. Hurst quickly explained Jennifer’s thoughts to the others before turning to her.

  “Think, Jennifer, where will she be? How will it work?”

  Jennifer was ahead of him.

  “We need to call around all the hotels in Central Nottingham to see if they have an Amelia Taverner or a Catherine Doughthey registered for tonight.”

  Hurst nodded to Derek. “Thyme, get on your mobile and call up a list of all the hotels with their phone numbers. We’ll divi it up and call them all.”

  “The brazen bitch,” muttered Rob McPherson with a deep growl. His eyes left no doubt what he’d do to Freneton if he could get his hands on her.

  Jennifer frowned, picking up on his words.

  “Yes,” she said. “Brazen is exactly right. I wonder if she’s so brazen, so confident, that she’d use her real name. I think we should add the name Olivia Freneton to the phone enquiries.”

  “OK, boss,” called Derek from where he’d retreated to concentrate on his screen. “I’ve got the list.”

  “Sing it out,” said Hurst. “Jennifer, write them down with the numbers.”

  After a minute of rapid note-taking, Jennifer tore the sheet of paper she’d been writing on into five pieces and handed them out. Within seconds, Derek was calling the first number. As he walked out of the room, Jennifer heard him announce his rank, name and where he worked. She turned to Hurst.

  “Um, boss, do I have your permission to impersonate a police officer?”

  “You do, DC Cotton,” grinned Hurst. “Go for it!”

  The kitchen descended into a confusion of shouting as they all yelled down their phones, fingers in ears, urgency in their voices.

  Five minutes later, a triumphant yell from Neil Bottomley silenced everyone mid-sentence.

  “Got her! Christ, Jennifer, you were right. The bitch is using her real name. That was the Fields View Hotel, smart place near Trent Bridge. They have an Olivia Freneton on their guest list tonight.”

  As the others whooped their delight, Hurst checked his watch.

  “OK, it’s ten fifty. There’s absolutely no time to lose. One of those squad cars can lead the way, but put up your blue lights anyway. We’ve got to get to the Fields View before she leaves.”r />
  Chapter Forty

  At nine thirty that evening, Olivia Freneton had been sitting in the bar of the Fields View Hotel dressed to kill, literally, in her pale grey business suit, the blond hair of her wig nestling gently on her shoulders. A ring binder of fictitious papers was open in front of her with several loose papers scattered across the table. Her black Cartier fountain pen sat alongside a pair of rimless Ray-Ban spectacles on one of the loose sheets. The condensation from a narrow tumbler of what looked like a gin or vodka and tonic with ice and lemon but in fact was only sparkling water was slowly soaking a flimsy tissue coaster by her right hand.

  The hotel reminded her of the Bristol View, although it was much smaller. An air of quiet efficiency pervaded the art deco lobby and bar as the smartly dressed staff moved discreetly about their business. Olivia was pleased to note that while the coverage of the security cameras in the lobby was good, there were still blind spots she could use to her advantage. She did, after all, want to make her evening’s activities as close to her previous predatory outings as possible, even if the overall outcome would be different.

  What was particularly evident was the lack of coverage in the bar, the two cameras she had spotted both aimed at the bar counter itself. It seemed that like other hotels, the management limited trust in its barmen. This meant that her dealings away from the counter with whoever became her target for the evening would go unrecorded. A little guile would send him off to his room first with her following a minute or two behind. They need never be filmed in the same frame. Perfect.

  The bar was slowly getting busier as groups of businessmen or conference-goers returned from their day’s labours or early evening meals. The present occupants were a rather eclectic mixture of strutting, self-confident salesmen swapping tales from the trenches, a huddle of bewildered-looking Thai or Malaysian young men who appeared to be too young to be in the bar, and an intense foursome of sports-jacketed American academics, complete with leather elbow patches, who seemed to be playing a complicated-looking game of four-way chess on four iPads that required much grunting and intense scribbling in notebooks. Olivia studied each group and rejected them all. The only ones of slight interest were the salesmen. A few more rounds of drinks and they might start to notice her and attempt some alcohol-fuelled bravado. For now though, she was invisible to them, the way she wanted to be. It was still early; there would be others and one would stand out, she was sure.

  The lack of a predetermined target excited her. It was new territory. Her targets to date had been carefully chosen, researched and then followed in order to learn how they walked and carried themselves. She had spent days fine-tuning the details, formulating plans, allowing for all eventualities. She’d noticed, however, that the operations had become easier each time as her experience grew. The Henry Silk set-up had been so automatic it had hardly been a challenge at all. She needed something else to keep the adrenaline flowing, something to keep her senses sharp. The unknown elements of tonight’s outing would provide precisely that edge. She would have to make snap decisions, adjust her strategy on the run. It would be a fun way to play out her last foray before heading for pastures new. And what a scene of carnage she would be leaving behind. As she lifted her glass for a sip of water, the self-satisfied half-smile on her lips reflected the malevolence in her eyes.

  Having categorised all the men in the room, she turned her attention to her papers, picking up her pen to make a fictitious note in the margin of one of the sheets. Almost immediately, she sensed a slight movement just beyond her field of vision, the presence of someone hovering. Without moving her head, she lifted her eyes. A slim, good-looking man of around forty had stopped by her table, a puzzled look on his boyish face.

  “Natasha? It is you, isn’t it? It has to be. God, I hardly recognised you, it’s been so long. How are you?”

  His voice was deep and slightly plummy, his vowels and confident delivery either public school or military, or both. Olivia kept her eyes on his while she tried to work out whether this was a genuine case of mistaken identity or a corny pickup line. Whichever, the man immediately interested her. He was around her height, his clothes would fit her after some belt tightening and he wore a wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand. If his speech proved to be a pickup line, he was a louse she’d enjoy making suffer.

  She let her forehead pucker in a slight frown, a quizzical glint in her eyes. She tilted her head as if trying to place him.

  “It’s Peter,” he enthused. “Peter Baines.” He grinned. “Catcher.”

  “Catcher?”

  “Yes. Nottingham University Rowing Society, twenty years ago now. Peter Catch-A-Crab Baines. Don’t you remember? The first time they put me in a boat, I was all fingers and thumbs. Was for several outings. The coach despaired of me while people on the riverbanks took bets on how many of my strokes actually made proper contact. You probably laughed the loudest but then very kindly and very expertly you showed me what I was doing wrong.”

  His guffaw was rather forced, out of sync with the calculating look in his eyes. As he stopped and feigned a grimace of uncertainty, she knew he was lying: it was a pickup.

  Perfect, she thought, thinking fast.

  “I’m sorry but I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” she said, her lips a thin smile. “I was never at Nottingham University; I was at Kings in London.”

  She paused and allowed her face to relax, her eyes to crinkle.

  “But, you know, coincidences are amazing things. I did row, at Putney. Ladies eight. Same crew for two years. We did quite well.”

  It was partly true, she had rowed, but in a single scull. She couldn’t stand the team effort, the camaraderie of fours and eights, not even doubles or pairs. Olivia was never a team player.

  Peter Baines grinned at her. “Amazing indeed. But really, you’re a dead ringer for Natasha. I can’t believe it. Mind you, I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

  He leaned towards her, his face all enthusiasm.

  “And you rowed,” he added, as if he’d only just processed the information. “Great. Listen, can I buy you a drink? Unless I’m interrupting your …” He pointed at the papers on the table.

  “Not at all," said Olivia, closing the file. “I’ve had more than enough of that lot for one day. My brain’s scrambled with all these figures. Thank you. A drink would be very pleasant. Vodka and tonic, if that’s OK,” she said, pointing to her glass.

  “Back in a jiffy,” said Baines as he turned to almost bounce towards the bar. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  Olivia checked her watch. Nine forty. She had a feeling, a nagging nestling in her mind amongst all the contingency plans, telling her she needed to move things along fairly quickly, even though her old team were probably too distracted with the news of Henry Silk’s brutal murder to have progressed far enough to make the right connections. But she couldn’t be sure, and she wanted to get this part of her evening’s entertainment sorted before she completed her fun with a few hours of watching Jennifer Cotton’s slow and painful death.

  This man Peter Baines was almost beside himself with eagerness. She’d be able to transfer the action from the bar to his room without any difficulty. A few well-chosen phrases of encouragement and seductive giggles in response to his inanities should have him salivating. Twenty minutes should do it, thirty tops.

  She smiled at him as he brought the drinks back to the table, forcing her contempt for his pathetic male display to the back of her mind.

  “So,” he said, sitting down and stretching his neck from side to side. “Oh, that’s better; been driving for hours. So, if it’s not Natasha — you know, I still can’t believe that — then who do I have the pleasure of drinking with?”

  Whom, thought Olivia, groaning inwardly.

  “Jane Brown,” she said, holding out her hand. “Boring, isn’t it? But there we are. Pleased to meet you, Peter. Tell me about your rowing. You know, I’ll bet we met at a regatta somewhere.”
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  Olivia’s plan was soon well under way. After feigning a slight headache from all the noise suddenly echoing around the bar, Baines immediately suggested a quiet drink in his room. He too had a bottle of something special tucked away in his fridge, a fancy gin she’d never heard of.

  “Sounds fascinating,” she enthused. “I love the subtle nuances of flavour in a top gin, don’t you? And that one is in its own stratosphere. You’re a man of taste.”

  She was rummaging around in her bag as she was speaking. “Bugger! I can’t believe it; I left my damn phone in my car. I’ve got to fetch it. My boss’ll go ballistic if I don’t reply to his messages. I’ve probably missed a few already. Listen, why don’t you go on up to your room while I pop out to the car park. What’s your room number?”

  “Four twenty-one,” he said, the puppy eagerness still in his voice.

  “Perfect,” she smiled, as she gathered up her papers.

  By ten twenty, the gin was poured, Baines’ glass now liberally spiked with Rohypnol following Olivia using her perhaps-I’ll-have-some-ice-after-all routine. She hoped his heart was strong since the amount of the drug she’d dumped into his glass would knock out a horse.

  At ten forty-five, Baines was unconscious on the bed, dressed only in his boxers, a series of scratches on his neck from the mannequin hand. Olivia had searched through his belongings and found a baseball cap embroidered with the name and badge of Bretherton Rowing Club. He was clearly as keen a rower as his chat-up line suggested. He’d think twice about using that routine again, assuming she let him live once she came back from dealing with the prostitute. She hadn’t yet decided. After all, the whole evening’s exercise was masterclass, a demonstration of her skill in outwitting her ex-colleagues. This fool on the bed was never going to be a serious suspect, so why should he live?

  She gave herself a minute to find out more about him. He had slung his jacket onto a chair where his wallet was half hanging out of the inside pocket. Opening it, she found a family photograph of her rower with an attractive thirty-something woman, his wife presumably, and two children: a blond, curly-haired boy of about twelve and a pouting dark-haired girl of around eight. She tapped the photo against her other hand. Should daddy die? — the circumstances of his death indicating he had picked up a notorious killer that the police were too incompetent to find — or should he suffer the shame that the tabloid stories would bring regardless of whether he was written up as a victim or not? Either way, his sweet family life had changed irretrievably since he’d never again have the trust of his wife. She pursed her lips. She’d think about it over the next hour or so.