“Did they catch her? Tell me they did.”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she knew.
“But they had the area surrounded,” she protested, her forehead creasing as she strained to remember. “OK, Hurst knew it was a risk but there wasn’t time. She was going to kill the girl. They couldn’t wait for the armed response unit; it would have taken too long. Did they save the girl?”
“Yes,” said Henry, his tone guarded. “They saved the girl.”
“That’s a relief,” she sighed, momentarily missing the hesitancy in Henry’s voice. “So my beating wasn’t quite all for nothing.”
Again, there was no response, only a look of sadness, regret.
“There’s something you’re not telling me. Derek! Is it Derek?”
He shook his head and squeezed her hand in reassurance.
“Derek’s fine. He’s been here for days, sitting by the bed, holding your hand, whispering your name. We all have, but Derek took the lion’s share. I think he felt responsible.”
“Idiot. It was my own fault.”
She paused. “What do you mean, ‘we all have’?”
“Derek, Pietro and I, we’ve sort of taken it in turns.”
“Pietro? He’s here?”
“Yes. He came straight over. He wanted you flown to some top clinic in Switzerland, but they said you couldn’t be moved. Too dangerous.”
“Typical Pietro.”
He squeezed her hand some more.
“Jennifer, I’ve dreamed for the last three weeks of having this conversation, of hearing your voice, hearing you remember.”
His voice faltered. “After what they said, when they operated on you …”
“Three weeks? I’ve been out of it for three weeks?”
“And two days, yes.”
She suddenly grinned. “When did they let you out?”
He laughed, the sound rich, resonant, full of joy. “The day after it all happened.”
“The day after she tried to have you killed?”
“You remember?”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
She sighed. “And they let her get away? How in hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know the details of it. Derek will tell you. I do know they were distracted by what had happened to you. You were obviously badly injured. Your heart stopped in the ambulance.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was close. Very close.”
She nodded as her forehead puckered again in a frown. The fragments of what happened were only coming together slowly.
“I heard Hurst shout. He sounded odd.”
“She’d hurt him. She hurt them all. Not Derek so much, he took a kick to the groin. Just winded really. But …”
“But what?”
“Jennifer. DI McPherson is dead. She killed him.”
“She …” Jennifer thought she would choke as she felt her throat contract. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Rob McPherson?”
She sniffed and spluttered a sad laugh through a sob, her lips moving in all directions as she tried to speak.
“He threatened to handcuff me to the steering wheel.”
“It’s as well he didn’t; you’d have been a sitting duck for Freneton.”
“Henry? Can I sit up? Will they let me?”
“I think it’s OK,” he said, leaning forward to put an arm behind her back. “No sudden movement though.”
“Henry, I want you to hold me. Put your arms round me. Oh, God. Poor Rob. He was a lovely man underneath that gruff exterior. Do anything for you.”
She leaned her face into his chest and sobbed. He let her cry; let her pour out the pain.
Later, Derek filled in the rest of the details. Mike Hurst had blamed himself for everything, even though it was understood that any delay would have resulted in the death of the Chinese girl.
“As it was, she was probably only seconds from being whacked,” said Derek. “The bosses reckon he should’ve tried more over the radio on the way. The armed response unit was only a few minutes behind. They claim he should have called them earlier. If he had, they would have been there with him.”
“I don’t agree,” said Jennifer, shaking her head. “He called them as we were running from the hotel. I heard him. He was yelling down the phone as he got in the car. There was no reason to call them before. We just got there first — nineteen minutes, I think it was. Bat out of hell stuff, but it made a difference. And there was no reason to think it would get so violent. He made a tactical decision to go straight in.”
“Which cost Rob McPherson his life,” said Derek, his voice flat.
“Hurst saved yours though,” she countered. “If he and Neil hadn’t bombed down the lane, she’d have been beating you to death. Hurst shouldn’t be taking the blame, he did what was right for the circumstances.”
She paused. “How are Neil’s teeth? Henry said he’d lost a few.”
“Six,” said Derek. “Took that baton right across his mouth. But he’s OK. Resilient sort of bloke, Neil. He’ll never forget it, but he’ll be OK. I think he’ll be going for early retirement though. Hurst too. He’s put in his papers, but he’s been told he’ll have to wait until the official enquiry’s over.”
“I suppose my having been there isn’t helping his case,” said Jennifer.
“Big time, although Hawkins is claiming responsibility for that. What they do accept is that without you, there would definitely be one more dead prostitute, and who knows, she might have killed Baines. She certainly gave him a near death experience with the dose of Rohypnol she poured into him.”
“Have they any idea where she went?”
“The sniffer dogs followed a blood scent to the car park in Thieves Wood, the part of the forest on the other side of the A60. She must have had a route planned and a vehicle parked there. No cameras there though, so there’s nothing.”
“White van,” said Jennifer. “I’ll bet it was a white van. I talked to Hurst about it when we were at Freneton’s house. It would be big enough to drive the off-road bike into. She probably had ramps in it. The off-roader was for a quick getaway in an emergency, and it would evaporate into an innocent-looking white van. Bet she’ll have had another place somewhere in Nottingham. Off the grid in another name. Somewhere with a garage big enough for the white van.”
After three days, Jennifer was out of bed, sitting in a chair by the window dressed in jeans and a loose white top. She hated the hospital robes and had insisted that she be allowed to dress in her own clothes. Not wanting to stress her, her consultant agreed.
“Anything to keep you happy, young lady, I don’t want you discharging yourself in a fit of pique. You have quite a bit of healing still to do and I want you where I can see you.”
“I’m fine, Doctor, really. My head’s not hurting nearly as much.”
“Nevertheless, Jennifer, it’s better you’re here. At home, I’ve been told you might be tempted to run around the streets or jump on a bicycle. You will be able to do that, and soon, the way you’re recovering, but for now, I want that temptation kept out of your way.”
There was a knock at the open door and Peter Hawkins put his head into the room.
“I can provide handcuffs if that would help, Doc,” he said. “It’s probably the only way you’ll guarantee keeping her here.”
Jennifer gave him a disdainful look.
“I can pick handcuff locks,” she lied.
The consultant smiled. “I’ll leave you two together.”
“Good to see you looking so well, Jennifer,” said Hawkins as he sat in the armchair opposite her. “You gave us all quite a fright.”
“I’m fine, sir, thanks.”
She paused, her hands pulling at each other, her teeth biting on her lower lip.
“But I’m gutted about Rob. And I’m gutted I missed his funeral.”
He nodded. “Yes, it was while you were still unconscious. Big turnout.”
“I’ll go and see his widow
once I get out of here. And of course I’ll visit his grave. I need some closure on that one. I still can’t get my head around it.”
“You all put your lives on the line that night, Jennifer. If Freneton had had her way, she’d have done for the lot of you. She’s utterly ruthless and, thanks to the police force, highly proficient in unarmed combat. Put some sort of weapon in her hand and my money would be on her against almost anyone.”
“What about the knife wound? Wouldn’t it have needed treatment?”
Hawkins nodded. “Definitely. Mike Hurst saw it happen, saw the crazed look on the Chinese girl’s face as she flew at Freneton, and he saw Freneton react. He said there was suddenly blood everywhere, so it must have been deep.”
“Yes,” agreed Jennifer. “Derek said when he first saw me he thought my face was smashed up, there was so much blood on it. But it turned out to be all hers from when she pushed me away.”
She paused, looking at her hands, remembering her failed attempt to subdue Freneton. Everything had happened so fast.
“No indication of where she is, then?” she asked, looking up at him.
“We think she went abroad. Probably had a place ready and waiting. Her face is on all the Interpol stop lists, but you know how it is, faces can be changed. I doubt we’ll see her back here.”
“I wonder,” said Jennifer, more to herself than to Hawkins.
He took a deep breath. “Anyway, Cotton, I’ve something to discuss with you.”
She lifted her eyes to his, a quizzical smile at the corners of her mouth.
“Am I still Cotton, sir?”
“If you want to be, yes. I’ve been discussing things with the ACC who in his decisive way has run everything up to the chief constable.”
She waited, amused by his jibe.
“The chief constable came back with an interesting suggestion. Basically, of course, I told him that I wanted you back, reinstated in SCF, if that’s what you want. It won’t be the same of course. Mike Hurst has gone, and Bottomley’s almost definitely throwing in the towel. And Rob’s …”
“Derek will be there though, won’t he?”
Hawkins paused, looking down at the floor. “He’s put in for a transfer.”
“What! He didn’t tell me.”
“Only happened yesterday. He’s going to need a lot of guaranteed time for his training. It seems his coach is very serious about him being in the next Olympic squad. Can’t have him charging around Nottingham at all hours; he’ll need his beauty sleep. So he’s moving to a fraud unit based in the Met.”
“The bugger, he might have said.”
“I think he’s probably a bit hesitant, and it really did only all happen in the last forty-eight hours. Don’t be too hard on him.”
“He’d better get gold,” said Jennifer. “I’ll be there screaming for him.”
Hawkins smiled. “Anyway, Jennifer, in the light of all that, the chief constable has an alternative suggestion, if you’re interested.”
Jennifer frowned, wondering what was coming.
Hawkins sat back. “I told him I’m against it, that I don’t want to lose you. But he’s been looking into your background. The Italian stuff, and your studies at university.”
“He has?”
“Impressed him. Especially the art history. There’s an art forgery squad at the Met. Odd bunch, but they do some interesting work. Very international some of it. They’re always on the lookout for top class young officers with the right extra qualifications. Seems you tick all the boxes. And some.”
He was watching her eyes and could tell she was hooked.
“There’ll be a chap popping in for a chat tomorrow, if that’s convenient.”
“The Met,” said Jennifer, her face lighting up. “I can go and live with Henry.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Ten days after Olivia Freneton’s escape from Harlow Wood, Giacomo Riley walked into the sunshine from a café on the edge of Petit Han, a small village that nestled unobtrusively on a minor road twenty kilometres south of Liège in Belgium. He was carrying a tray of pastries and coffee.
“Here we go, Nore, these’ll fill a gap till lunchtime.”
Noreen Smart picked up a pastry packed with cream and sank her teeth into it.
“They’ll certainly help, Jackie,” she said, through a foamy white mouthful, “but me legs are still aching like mad.”
“I’ve told you, Nore, you’re working too hard. Leave the cycling to me; just let your legs go round.”
“I do, Jackie, but they’re still aching.”
She eyed the gleaming tandem leaning against a wall by the table where they were sitting. Jackie cleaned it every evening after their day’s cycling through the back roads of northern France and southern Belgium. It was relatively flat countryside he’d figured wouldn’t be too much for Noreen to complain about on their first continental excursion. She was getting stronger, but he still had to do the lion’s share of the work. He didn’t care. At the end of every day, they’d find a campsite, unpack their tiny bell tent from the bike’s panniers, cook dinner over a camping stove, drink some red wine and then crawl into their double sleeping bag. He was constantly having to remind Noreen not to squeal too loudly once they’d turned out their wind-up LED lamp.
After the trauma of finding the body of the murdered prostitute in Harlow Wood, it had been difficult to persuade Noreen to get back on the tandem. Her parents had been extremely understanding, not blaming Giacomo in any way. They’d believed the story about happening across the body as the couple had been strolling, stretching their legs after several hours in the saddle. Their main concern was that Noreen wasn’t going to suffer any long-term psychological damage from the experience.
Giacomo had been his usual attentive self. He loved his girl and he wanted to see her right. And he wanted to get her out on the bike again. Woodland trysts were now out of the question, Noreen was adamant about that. But when her Jackie came up with the idea of camping in proper organised campsites, places with good facilities, security fences, other campers … and their own tent … she didn’t take too much persuading.
He’d cycled around the area with his local club, done some racing, knew the terrain. He wanted to keep it simple for her.
He had and they were having a great time, although Noreen still liked to remind him about her tortured calves.
She was rubbing one as she finished a second pastry, her eyes looking at something on the far side of the tables behind Giacomo.
“That’s what we want Jackie, one of them,” she said, pointing with a creamy finger.
Giacomo turned to see what was interesting her so much.
“A motorbike?” he said. “You’re joking. Noisy things.”
“That one ain’t, Jackie. I saw it pull up while you were inside. I could hardly hear it, it was so quiet. And it was a woman driving it. I was really surprised when she took off her helmet. Bit sour looking. But imagine; that’d be the way to travel. Looks very comfy.”
Giacomo stood and walked over to the motorbike, taking in its sleek, no-nonsense design. He noted the badge on the side of the tank. BMW. Smart bike. His best mate’s dad had an older, smaller model. This one looked in another league. He bent down to check out the engine.
“Can I help you?” said a voice from behind him.
He stood and turned round to see a woman dressed in black leathers eyeing him coldly. She’d just put down a tray on a table near the BMW, her helmet resting on a chair alongside.
“I was admiring the bike,” he said, giving her a smile that wasn’t returned. “Going far? Bet you could cover some ground on that.”
“Touring,” said Olivia.
“Camping, like us?” said Giacomo, nodding his enthusiasm.
“I prefer hotels,” she replied.
“Right,” he said. Then he noticed the bandage on her left hand.
“Come off the bike?” he asked.
She frowned as she followed his gaze.
�
��Oh, that. No, it’s nothing. A cut that needs protecting.”
The cut had worried her. It was deep and needed attention, stitches. A large number of stitches. But she couldn’t go to an A&E, they would all have been notified. There was one person, but he was too far away that night; she’d have to go the following morning.
She had sprinted as quietly as she could, crossing the A60 a hundred yards away from where the police vehicles were parked near the barrier. She could hear sirens in the distance; the place would soon be swarming. And they’d bring dogs.
It was a few hundred yards through the wood to the car park and her van. Running with her hand tucked under her armpit was awkward, but she had to keep pressure on it in an attempt to staunch the bleeding.
She stopped at the edge of the car park. There was only one other vehicle there, an ageing Beetle whose springs were squeaking a quiet protest as the car bounced rhythmically. It was parked well away from her van.
Courting couple, she thought. They’ll be getting a rude surprise before long as the police spread out their search.
She retrieved the key from where she’d hidden it on the ground behind the front offside wheel and climbed into the van. She had little time, but she needed to bind her hand. She grabbed some cotton waste and a relatively clean rag from behind the seat.
Within a minute she was away, her route taking her along a series of minor roads until she went under the M1 motorway at Pinxton where she turned south heading for Eastwood, Heanor and on to Ilkeston. There she went east, driving under the M1 again at Trowell, following the road through Wollaton close to her now-abandoned house. At the Nottingham ring road she turned right to drive anti-clockwise round the city.
Her sense of relief was palpable as she hit the remote to open the doors of the large garage in a back street of West Bridgford. It was the perfect anonymous haven, the flat over the top accessed directly by stairs from the garage.
The following morning, dosed up with painkillers, her hand cleaned and temporarily bound, she hit the road north to Manchester, hoping that the police weren’t going to be stopping all white vans. They weren’t and two hours later she pulled up outside a back-to-back terraced house in a street of mainly boarded up, abandoned dwellings.
Irrefutable Evidence Page 36