Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (32 page)

Hawkins held up the file with both hands and tapped it on his knees.

“But that’s not all, there’s something else. DCI Hurst and I have spent hours poring over the CCTV recordings, as you suggested, Cotton. The upshot is that we’re both pretty convinced that it’s her. There are several things. They probably wouldn’t stand up in court, especially since Silk’s an actor and could probably have mimicked her.”

Jennifer was shaking her head.

“Why, sir? Why would he do that? He doesn’t know Freneton at all, as far as we know, and if for some reason he did and we don’t know about it and he wanted to implicate her, then it’s a pretty dodgy way to go about it. After all, he’s more or less ignored the CCTV. When he saw it he just said it wasn’t him. He didn’t point any fingers; I was the one to do that.”

“Good point, Cotton,” Hawkins conceded.

“So what happens now?”

“What happens is that we need to find Freneton. She hasn’t been seen or heard from since Friday when she claimed to be in Exeter but was in fact here in Nottingham. What’s also going to happen is that once I go upstairs with this, the fan won’t be able to cope with the shit that’s hitting it. But that’s the senior command’s problem. I’m seeing the assistant chief constable in an hour’s time. It’s not going to be easy; he actually quite likes the woman and he’ll be terrified of the fallout.”

“Takes all sorts,” muttered McPherson.

Hawkins grunted. “P’raps likes is too strong. Admires is more like it. He sees her as a role model for women in a force that’s still very male-oriented.”

Jennifer snorted her derision. “A role model on how not to behave, even without her penchant for murder.”

As Hawkins put the sheet back in the file, Jennifer was thinking through their conversation.

“Sir, if she hasn’t been seen since Friday, where has she been? Are we sure she hasn’t returned to her house?”

“Pretty sure. I’ve had patrol cars checking it out regularly and a couple of uniforms have asked the neighbours. There’s been no sign of her.”

“So she must have somewhere else to go, if she’s still around. Do you know where the call to Edmunds at Skipshed prison came from?”

It was Mike Hurst who answered.

“I had it traced. It was from a call box here in Nottingham, near the city centre, so yes, she’s still around.”

Jennifer was puzzled. “If she’s still around, it must be for a reason. She knows without doubt now that she’s been rumbled. You’d think she would have gone well away from here.”

“Henry Silk?” suggested Hurst.

“What about Henry?” said Jennifer.

“She decided to kill him much earlier than she’d originally planned. She wanted to do it now, before he’s released.”

“But she didn’t need to be in Nottingham for that,” objected Jennifer. “She could have called from anywhere in the country. Has her house in Wollaton been searched yet?”

“Only Thyme’s quiet look in her garage,” said Hawkins. “That’s what I want from the ACC. Given Freneton’s seniority, I want his blessing for a search warrant. We should have that in a couple of hours. When we get it and go there, Cotton, I want you to come along. You’ll have to stay in the car, I’m afraid, given you’re a civilian, but I’d value your on-the-spot insight into anything we find.”

“My pleasure, sir,” said Jennifer.

“Retribution.” The word rolled from McPherson’s lips. They all turned to look at him.

“What’s that, Rob?” asked Hurst.

“She’s been rumbled and she must be pissed about it,” growled McPherson. “She didn’t want that fact to muck up her plans for Silk, so she decides to have him topped earlier than originally intended.”

He looked up from the spot on the carpet that seemed to have been providing him with insight.

“I’ve been thinking; she won’t know that her plan failed, will she? Not unless she has other contacts in Skipshed who have a way of contacting her. There’s been nothing released to the press and I think we should keep it that way for now. She might have a backup plan for the prison that she’d enact if the first one failed.”

“Retribution makes sense,” agreed Jennifer, “but it still doesn’t explain her remaining in the city. It must make her more vulnerable.”

“Perhaps we should all be watching our backs,” said Hurst. “Looking into the shadows in case she’s lurking.”

“Who do you think she’d be most pissed at?” asked Jennifer. When there was no answer, she looked up to see all the men staring at her.

“Me?” She shook her head. “I’d like to see her try.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Hawkins. “I think we should all be extra vigilant, but the notion of you being a target isn’t daft. Now, we need to get back to the SCF; I’ve got my meeting with the ACC to go to. But Thyme, you stay here and check out the locks, go through the security with Cotton. I want to be sure that if Freneton calls by here, she can’t just walk in without a bloody great alarm going off.”

“Sir,” objected Jennifer, “I think that—”

“Don’t care what you think, Cotton. I want you back on my team, and I want you in one piece.”

An hour later, Jennifer had briefed Derek on the sophisticated security system her stepfather had insisted on having installed when he bought her the apartment. He’d read articles in Italian glossies about Nottingham being the gun capital of the UK and he wanted to take no chances.

“Impressive stuff, Jen,” said Derek after he had checked and rechecked every inch, “so long as you don’t get conned into opening the front door.”

“I’ll be checking every caller on the monitor from now on, don’t you worry.”

“Actually, Jen, I do worry. I think maybe I should move in until Freneton is caught.”

Jennifer laughed. “And if she’s not caught? How many years are you planning to stay? That sofa could get awfully tedious after a while.”

Derek pulled a face. “You think there’s a chance she’d get away?”

“More than a chance. Olivia Freneton is a bright lady; psychopaths generally are. I think she’ll have her exit strategy all worked out.”

“P’raps,” said Derek. “But it hasn’t all gone her way. After all, you rumbled her, and then her bid to kill Henry failed.”

“I’m not saying she’s perfect; she makes mistakes like everyone else. Let’s hope that whatever else she has planned, we can nip it in the bud. The problem is working out what the ‘whatever else’ is. So, DC Thyme, I think you should report back to DCS Hawkins that all in Fort Cotton is safe and secure. I’ll let you out, triple bolt the door and not answer it to anyone I don’t know.”

C
hapter 39

H
aving dispatched Derek back to the SCF and probable wrath of Peter Hawkins for not staying longer, Jennifer carried out her own double-check of the bolts around the apartment. Most of the sash windows had been replaced during the building’s renovation, the new ones the same design but far stronger than the originals. With substantial bolts, double glazing and individually alarmed — additions insisted on by Pietro Fabrelli’s team — they were ready to announce the arrival of anyone who attempted to force them open.

Jennifer still didn’t have a baseball bat, but she did have her truncheon, part of the police uniform she had yet to hand back. It was now sitting within reach on an armchair.

Reassured by the security, she put it to the back of her mind. Digging into a drawer, she pulled out an A3-size sketchbook and opened it on the breakfast bar alongside her various notebooks and loose-leaf files that contained all the information from the five cases and everything she had learned about Olivia Freneton. The answers had to be there and she was convinced that if she brainstormed for long enough, she’d find them.

Within half an hour, a single A3 sheet had become four. Spread across the worktop and taped together, they were covered in a densely packed network of boxes, lines, arrows, triple underlining, major points ringed in red, huge question marks and exclamation marks of frustration. As she sipped absently at her latest coffee, Jennifer’s eyes scanned the sheets looking for the connection that would inspire her. But all she found was history: five cut-and-dried cases that she had connected but nothing to give her further insight into what was going to happen next.

What
had
emerged was the possibility of Freneton including Grace Taverner on her list of targets. Jennifer had immediately called Derek to tell him that the local force in Pateley Bridge should be asked to keep a check on her.

Jennifer knew all too well that she herself was a prime target, but it was unlikely that Freneton would walk up to her front door and knock. Much more likely was the probability that she would wait until Jennifer emerged from her apartment for a run or a bike ride. The Park was always quiet, the roads used only by the residents and delivery services. Someone running or cycling would be an easy target. Derek had worked this out as well and had made Jennifer promise that she wouldn’t take a break for a spot of fresh air and a run. Jennifer had agreed at the time but after over two hours of intensive brainstorming, she was becoming frustrated. Right now, there was nothing she would rather do than pound the streets.

The hours slipped by without any further news from Hawkins’ meeting with the assistant chief constable. What was taking so long? Jennifer was sure that a search of Freneton’s house would reveal something, some insight into how she was thinking. It was an essential step if they wanted to move forward.

Finally, at nine thirty in the evening, Derek called to say that the search warrant had been issued. Hurst, McPherson and Bottomley were about to drive to Freneton’s house in Wollaton, accompanied by a uniformed team in three patrol cars. Derek himself had been told to pick up Jennifer and take her directly to the house.

“Whatever took so long?” said Jennifer as she piled into Derek’s Mini Cooper almost before he had stopped outside Lincoln View House, her arms overflowing with her bag, the collection of A3 sheets and her two main notebooks.

Derek’s foot hit the throttle and the car shot off along the Park’s often-inadequate tarmac.

“The ACC proved to be a wimp. According to what Hawkins told Hurst, he was in total denial about Freneton, wouldn’t accept anything Hawkins was telling him. Hurst said they had a row that will become the stuff of legend. It’s as well that Hawkins isn’t hoping for any more promotion because he didn’t mince his words in telling the ACC what he thought of him once he realised the man didn’t have a spine.”

“What was his problem?” asked Jennifer, struggling to shuffle her papers into order as Derek threw his car around the network of tight corners that led from the Park.

“Didn’t want to accept the responsibility of the possible fallout if Hawkins was wrong. It seems that Freneton had the man shaking in his shoes. He wanted to refer it all up to the chief constable.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“The chief constable’s on holiday and the deputy chief, who’s acting for him, was at some high-level meeting in London. Out of contact. Hawkins had to virtually beat the ACC about the head with all the evidence against Freneton before he finally capitulated. And even then, it took another half hour to get the warrant signed.”

“Jeeze, what is it with these people?” snorted Jennifer. “They put all their officers on the front line while they sit at their desks being important, and yet when push comes to shove, if one of their own is implicated in something, they close ranks, refusing to believe what their detectives, whose judgement is totally trusted in other situations, are telling them. If Freneton gets away, or worse, completes all the tasks on her wish list, it’ll be his fault.”

Derek glanced at her and grinned. “You sound like Hawkins, Jen. He was breathing fire when he came back downstairs.”

He nodded to the pile of papers on Jennifer’s lap. “What’s all that lot?”

“I’ve been doing a spot of brainstorming based on everything we have. I’m still trying, and so far failing, to predict what Freneton’s up to, what she’s planning, why she’s still here in Nottingham when all her instincts must be telling her to leave.”

“You mean apart from her burning desire to whack you?”

“Yes. And to that end, you are keeping an eye on traffic behind us, I hope.”

Derek’s eyes automatically darted to the mirror. “Thirty-two-ton truck bearing down on us, anti-tank gun mounted on the cab roof. You know where the seat ejector button is, don’t you?”

“I’m serious, Derek.”

“So am I, you muppet. We’re not being followed. Trust me; I’m good at this.”

“Sorry. Getting a bit twitched. I’ve only ever been threatened by football hooligans before and they always came off second best. This is a whole new game.”

“D’you think there’ll be something at her house?” asked Derek. “She can’t have taken everything with her, surely.”

Jennifer watched as another motorist lurched out of the way of Derek’s blast on his siren, the blue light flashing. “You’d think so, but if she’s got a second place somewhere, all the significant stuff could be there. The Wollaton house might be a smokescreen.”

“Well, I guess we’re about to find out,” said Derek as the car screeched to a halt behind a patrol car outside Freneton’s house.

Jennifer could see a group of uniformed police officers jogging up the path towards the figures of Hurst, McPherson and Bottomley who were standing in a huddle by the front door.

“Didn’t Hawkins come?”

“No, he stayed at the SCF. I think he’s dreaming that Freneton will pop in to pick up her handbag and he’ll nab her.”

“Good luck with that,” said Jennifer, wincing as the battering ram carried by one of the uniformed officers removed the obstruction of the house’s front door.

“How big is the garage, Derek?”

“Pretty standard. Why?”

“Not big enough for another vehicle?”

“Not a car, no.”

“But space for a motorbike, perhaps?”

“Yes, I should say so, especially since Freneton’s car isn’t too big.”

“You’re right. It’s an eminently forgettable white Honda Civic, as I recall. Millions of them around. There’s even another one parked along the road. Look. She could come and go from here without anyone really registering it.”

“What’s your point, Jen?”

Derek had the driver’s door half open. He was getting agitated, wanting to join in the search of Freneton’s house.

“Only that if she left her car here, possibly never to return, she must have had some other form of transport. She wouldn’t have called a cab; it would be too traceable.”

“She could have got the bus. The stop’s only five minutes walk away on the main road.”

Jennifer shook her head. “Could’ve, but I doubt it. She’d probably have been carrying something, a bag or two, and she would want to minimise the risk of being seen. She wouldn’t have wanted to bump into a neighbour.”

“I’ll check for anything in the house. You know, insurance papers, service manuals. We already know that she has no other vehicles registered in her name or the other names we know she was using. Look, I really should get in there. Will you be OK here?”

Jennifer looked around. The street lighting wasn’t good.

“I’ll be fine; there are several uniforms around. But if you like, I’ll go and sit in one of their cars.”

“Good idea, Jen, I’ll tell them to keep an eye on you.”

As Jennifer hurried over to one of the patrol cars, a middle-aged uniformed constable she knew opened the door for her.

“All right, Jennifer, lass? Sit yourself down; we’ll keep you out of any trouble.”

She grinned at him. “Thanks, Ted. Nice to know I’m in safe hands.”

Jennifer could see Hurst and the others moving around the house, all the rooms now ablaze with light. She was itching to join them, but for now it was forbidden territory.

After five long minutes, her mobile rang and Derek’s voice boomed in her ear.

“She’s not here, Jen, but she’s been here recently. There’s still fresh food in the fridge.”

“Is there a computer?”

“No sign of one yet.”

“Modem?”

“Er, no, I don’t think so. Not one here in the hall and I haven’t seen one in the living room.”

She nodded. “She must be using a dongle. Less traceable. What about clothes?”

“Wardrobe’s pretty full.”

Jennifer drummed her fingers on the seat in frustration.

“Listen, Derek, could you ask Hurst if I can come in? He must agree that Hawkins’ main worry was my safety and since there’s obviously no danger, it should be fine. I’m going crazy out here.”

“Hang on.”

She heard footsteps and the mutter of voices. Then he came back on the line.

“Come on in, Jen. The boss says no problem.”

“OK, Jennifer,” greeted Hurst as she joined him in the kitchen. “This place is fairly minimalist, more of a hotel suite than a home. We’ve got some uniforms knocking on a few doors. I know it’s late, but we need to know how often they see her. Maybe someone saw her last Friday when we know she must have been here. There’re bound to be one or two around who spend their days snooping through the net curtains.”

“Do we know if she rents it or if she’s buying it?” asked Jennifer.

Hurst shook his head. “No idea. I suppose HR might know. But my guess would be renting, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Jennifer, nodding her agreement. “What about her car?”

“What about it?”

“Is it hers or is it rented? Is she paying in instalments?”

“Why? What’s your point?”

“I’m trying to understand the way she thinks. If it’s not hers, it’s one less thing she has to consider. Stop the payments and walk away. The rental company will come knocking to reclaim it eventually, but she’ll be long gone.”

“Yes,” growled Hurst. “Another indication of her meticulous planning. Thyme, go and have another look at the car. See if there’s anything there to help us.”

As Derek scuttled out of the kitchen, Jennifer turned to Hurst. “Boss, I’d really like to check out the wardrobe, see what clothes she’s left here.”

“I’ll lead the way,” said Hurst. “And Jennifer, I for one recognise that you are a civilian. It’s Mike.”

Jennifer smiled after him. “Actually, I have no problem with ‘boss’, especially now that I feel back in the thick of things.”

As they walked into the bedroom, Jennifer immediately noticed the clothes Olivia had abandoned on the floor the previous Friday. Her visit had clearly been a brief one, she thought. She’d changed, picked up whatever she needed — which must have been packed and ready — and then left. No ties, no attachments.

She was surprised to find the wardrobe was full of clothes, a mixture of police uniforms, both regular and formal, a number of fashionable dresses, trousers, skirts, jumpers, cardigans and blouses, all neatly hung, and next to them a set of unfashionable items. From amongst these, she pulled out a full, pleated dark blue skirt, a worn navy blue jacket that looked like it came from a charity shop, and two cream cotton blouses in a style she would be generous in calling dowdy. Three pairs of spectacles sitting in a box on a shelf next to the hanging items were equally plain. Jennifer picked them up to look through them, doing a double take when one pair proved to be staggeringly thick, while the lenses in the other two pairs seemed to give no optical correction at all. She opened a large and shapeless handbag sitting next to the box. Inside was a copy of Christianity Digest.

“Boss,” she called out to Hurst, who was searching a cabinet in the bathroom, “do you know if Freneton is religious at all?”

“Not to my knowledge, no,” he called back. “Hardly fit in with what we know about her, would it?”