Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (37 page)

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 look out 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.”

C
hapter 45

T
en 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.

The seedy, shuffling former doctor who lived there eyed her cautiously when he opened the door to her insistent knocking.

“Took your time, Norman,” she said, pushing past him into the dingy slum. “I don’t like being left standing on the street. Not in this neighbourhood.”

She stuck her head into the front room where a tattooed youth was playing a computer game on an ageing television.

“Get him into the street to watch my van. I don’t want any of your local boys touching it.”

Norman barked an instruction to the youth as he picked up the remote to kill the TV. Then he followed Olivia into the kitchen.

She’d first met former Doctor Norman Swanson when she’d busted him for performing abortions on illegal immigrant girls in a surgery not fit for any form of human habitation, let alone medicine. He’d already been struck off for peddling prescription drugs, served time for it, and if she’d pressed it, he would have gone down for a long stretch. But Olivia had recognised an opportunity, told him his fortune, and thereafter he was hers for whenever she might need him. No questions asked. And she needed him now.

An hour later, after she’d insisted he sterilise everything twice, she returned to her van neatly stitched and bandaged — Swanson was a competent physician, just an incompetent human being — and driven back to Nottingham. Dosed up with antibiotics, she’d waited a week, then another two days, after which she’d hit the road on her BMW. Her hand had healed enough for her to operate the clutch lever and she was going crazy holed up in the flat. She was also running short of fresh food, but there was no way she could risk going shopping, disguises notwithstanding. She figured that the SCF would have worked out that she had a place in the city, and they were probably checking CCTV tapes for white vans. It was exciting, but she didn’t want to push her luck. It had been a near thing, thanks to the damn Cotton girl. She was gratified to hear on the local TV news that the girl was comatose and in a bad way. With McPherson dead and two of his team injured, it had not been a bad evening. As for the Chinese whore … one day she’d return the favour, drop by precious drop of blood.

But now she had to leave. Her panniers were packed with everything for her new life in rural Tuscany, a passport in Rose Doughthey’s name in her bag. She would take the ferry rather than the tunnel, because they would expect her to take the tunnel, and then make her way slowly down through Europe using B-roads where there would be no cameras, no tolls, minimal police roadside checks, and, thanks to the EU, no border controls for the BMW with its new Italian plates.

Olivia finished her coffee and pastry, zipped up her jacket and buckled her helmet. She glanced across at the couple and their tandem and frowned – the couple in the Henry Silk case had been riding a tandem and this lad had a strong East Midlands accent. Coincidence? She wondered. Either way, with her bleached, spiky hair, heavy metallic earrings, dark, gothic lipstick and large fake tattoo on her neck, she bore little resemblance to the photos now distributed widely around Interpol offices.

She gunned the engine and drove off. Giacomo gave her a wave, but she ignored him.

“Cold fish, that one, Nore,” he said, tucking into the last of the pastries.