The Assassin's Dog Page 2

  Ettore gulped; he had seen no one.

  “Tell me everything you know about the woman you want found.”

  Ettore drew a deep breath. “There’s not much. The police took all the records from the gallery, all the photographs, all the CCTV footage.” He paused, realising how inadequate he sounded. “I only have the name she used,” he continued. “Ginevra Mancini, although it must be false. She was well educated, sophisticated and she spoke with a Milanese accent. A refined one.”

  “Age? Height? Looks?”

  The words cut critically through the air, increasing Ettore’s feeling of inadequacy.

  “Her documents gave her age as twenty-nine. She was about one metre seventy and she was pretty with an oval face. Her hair was dark, not long, not short. Well cut.”

  “Eyes? Weight?”

  “Her eyes were, er, light brown, I think—”

  “You think?”

  “I … Yes, light brown. I am sure. She was slim; looked fit.”

  “Like a police officer?”

  “Yes. No.” Ettore paused, his head shaking. “No, she had none of the manner of a police officer. She was just … thoroughly charming. And very knowledgeable. About art, I mean.” He paused again before adding, “Maria, my associate at the gallery, thought she might not have been Italian, although it never occurred to me.”

  “What did she think she was?”

  “English; she thought she might be English. Maria has a good ear for accents, better than mine. It’s just a possibility.”

  “It’s not much to go on. Is there nothing else?”

  “Not on Mancini, no. But there is someone who might know her. An American woman.”

  “Tell me.”

  For the next five minutes, Ettore repeated all he could remember about Connie Fairbright and her English companion, Diana Fritchley, the one immensely rich and charming, if somewhat guileless, the other, the English woman, cold and humourless, her lack of interest in art clear to Ettore from the first moment he met her.

  When Ettore had finished speaking, the room fell quiet, the only sounds meaningless creaks and rumbles from elsewhere in the building. With nothing to interrupt his unease, Ettore thought maybe his interrogator had left, although he had heard nothing.

  Then, with no warning, the man’s voice shattered the silence. “I will find this Ginevra Mancini woman and kill her. How I do it is no concern of yours. It will look like an accident.”

  There was a pause followed by a sigh of false regret, the sigh of a man used to bargaining. “It will be an expensive mission, probably lasting several months. The price is two hundred and fifty thousand euros.”

  Ettore gulped. It was twice what he had expected to pay, but he felt in no position to argue.

  “I agree. How do you want it paid?”

  “Everything up front. Taped to the underside of the table in front of you is a piece of paper on which are written details of a bank account. You will transfer the full sum to that account in the next twenty-four hours. Once I receive notification of payment, I shall begin.”

  “And if you …”

  “If I what? If I fail?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “I do not fail. Once I have a photograph of Ginevra Mancini, I will contact you for confirmation that I have the right person. After that, you will hear no more until I have completed the assignment.”

  Ettore waited, but there was nothing more. Several minutes passed and although he sensed he was now alone, he felt he shouldn’t move, not without approval. After a further five minutes, there was the clunk of a terminal switch being thrown somewhere distant, somewhere beyond the darkness. The room flooded with an intense light. Once Ettore’s eyes adjusted, he saw that the room had another door beyond where he was sitting. His interrogator must have arrived and left that way.

  He felt under the lip of the table for the piece of paper and carefully pulled it from where masking tape was holding it in place. He stared at the bank account details. A quarter of a million euros; he hoped it was worth it. Sighing, he turned the piece of paper over and saw a handwritten message.

  You may leave.

  Part Two

  Jennifer Cotton

  Chapter Three

  Jennifer Cotton pushed open the door to the office space in the Metropolitan Police Art Fraud Squad she shared with the three detective constables now under her command and headed towards her new desk in the corner. Only one of her three colleagues was there; the other two were in the Midlands following up enquiries at auction houses. Detective Constable Pete Whitacombe looked up from where he was sitting in front of his computer screen.

  “Morning, sarge,” he said, grinning. “Can I get you anything? Tray of cakes, real Colombian coffee? I’ve plumped up the cushion on your chair, just as you like it.”

  “Shut it, Whitacombe,” snarled Jennifer, half closing her eyes and injecting a liberal dose of mock menace into her voice. “Remember who’s writing your appraisals from now on.”

  “Couldn’t be any worse than my last three,” countered Whitacombe. “I’m surprised the Met still employs me.”

  “You and me both.” Jennifer floated her most supercilious smile towards him as she plonked her bag on her desk and slipped her jacket onto the back of her chair. “From what I heard, you can count yourself lucky we have our full complement of cleaners.”

  “Not my skill set, sarge, you know that.” He held up both hands, palms outwards. “Couldn’t countenance the thought of sullying these delicate mitts with menial tasks.”

  “So your wife tells me. I must let her know about your cushion-plumping skills; she’ll be most impressed.”

  “Rather you didn’t. She’ll accuse me of brown-nosing and she hates that sort of thing.”

  “Would she consider your offer of real Colombian coffee brown-nosing too? It sounds the perfect way to start the first Monday morning of my new incarnation.”

  Whitacombe pushed back his office chair and stood. “Your wish is my command, dear leader. I’ll head off immediately to supervise the grinding of the beans.”

  “As long as you don’t have to go to Colombia. I’ve got some great files to fill your day with happiness.”

  “No, just Coco’s Coffee House round the corner. Ten minutes, tops.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Whitacombe turned as he stopped to pull open the office door.

  “By the way, Jennifer, congratulations, once again. You really deserve it; they kept you dangling for far too long.”

  “Thanks, Pete, appreciate it.”

  “Mind you,” he added as he stepped through the doorway, “it’s going to be hard getting used to calling you ma’am.”

  “Don’t even thi—” began Jennifer, but she was talking to a closed door.

  Smiling to herself, she sat back in her chair. Detective Sergeant Cotton. Whitacombe was right; it had taken far longer than she thought it would. She should have known that rules, procedures, exams, appraisals and review panels could be glacial in their progress even with the meritorious service awards she’d notched up.

  But now she’d finally made it and she had remained in the squad. Was that a good thing? Did she really want that? She pursed her lips. At times she missed the immediacy of serious crime investigation, but she also enjoyed the cachet of being assigned to the Art Fraud Squad, of making constructive use of her broad knowledge of the art world in her daily routine.

  The undercover assignment at the Cambroni Gallery in Florence had been an unusual one for the squad, one for which Jennifer, with her fluent Italian, was uniquely qualified. It had been an outstanding success in spite of the unexpected arrival on the scene and attempt on Jennifer’s life by her bête noire, the crazed ex-police officer and serial killer Olivia Freneton.

  That Freneton had ended up as the victim of her own bomb was down to Jennifer’s father Henry Silk’s quick thinking, but Jennifer’s questionable step of adding to Freneton’s already fatal injuries still haunted her,
in spite of her attempts to relegate it to the deepest recesses of her mind. She had taken another person’s life, and even though that person was only minutes away from death, with no possibility of survival, she had still done it. Nothing had been said, although she was sure that Henry had seen her do it. How could he not?

  Suspecting nothing, Massimo Felice had organised the removal and disposal of Freneton’s body without the formality of a detailed autopsy. The cause of death had been obvious: multiple fatal injuries from the motorcycle accident. For Felice, maintaining Jennifer’s anonymity had been far more important than any inquest. Freneton was an insane serial killer being hunted across Europe who had conveniently managed to kill herself. Game over.

  Jennifer sighed, sat up and switched on her computer. Just as she did, the office door swung open and a distinctly more flustered Pete Whitacombe than the one who had left minutes earlier appeared. Jennifer frowned; he couldn’t possibly have had time to fetch the coffee.

  “Jennifer. Sorry, I completely forgot. Paul wants to see you. Told me to tell you that as soon as you arrive you’re to go to his office.”

  Jennifer dropped the corners of her mouth dismissively. “Probably just wants to congratulate me.”

  “Could be, but he didn’t look happy.”

  “Shit, Pete! He’ll be even unhappier if he thinks I’ve been dilly-dallying here.”

  “Sorry, Jennifer.”

  Unlike the detectives’ squad room, Detective Superintendent Paul Godden’s office had been recently renovated with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall and glass door, the result being that unless Godden closed the blinds, he could be seen by anyone approaching his office.

  As Jennifer hurried along the corridor, she saw her boss looking impatiently at his watch as he reached for his telephone. When she tapped on his door, he immediately dropped the handset back on the cradle and waved at her to come in.

  “There you are, Jennifer,” he said, pointing at the chair opposite him for her to sit down. “I was beginning to think something had happened to you.”

  “Sorry, Paul, I—”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

  He paused, staring at the old-fashioned blotter on his desk, his eyes avoiding hers.

  Jennifer waited, wary of interrupting her boss’s thought processes. She was familiar with Paul Godden’s meticulous ways and knew it was better to wait than ask questions, no matter how strong her urge to do so. A moment of self-doubt reared its head as she looked at Godden’s deeply furrowed brow. Had her promotion been cancelled? Had they changed their minds, the powers-that-be? Could they even do that at this stage? It was true she was, in theory, acting in the rank, but that was for some stupid bureaucratic reason; it didn’t impinge on the reality of the process. She had been promoted; she had the letter.

  Godden coughed and looked up, now fixing his eyes on hers.

  “I’m afraid that we have a problem, Jennifer, or at least I do.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jennifer, her voice little more than a nervous whisper as the self-doubt developed legs and began to march mockingly around the office. “Is it … is it my promotion?”

  Godden frowned again, this time in confusion.

  “Promotion? No, it’s nothing to do with that, although in my view they should have bypassed the rank of sergeant and promoted you straight to inspector.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “In practice, no, they can’t, but you know how things are. If they wanted to, they would find a way. But no, it’s not about your promotion.”

  “Then …”

  He pointed at his computer monitor. “An email from admin arrived first thing. It was waiting for me when I logged on. I had no idea they started so early.” He paused. “I’m sorry, Jennifer, but you’ve been transferred out of the squad, as from the first of next month. Two weeks’ time.”

  “Transferred!” Jennifer was horrified. “Why? Where?”

  “Back to your old squad in Nottingham. The Serious Crime Formation. It seems that the DCS there, Peter Hawkins, heard about your promotion and made a play. He’s wanted you back forever, in fact he didn’t want to let you go. It was only your injuries following the first Freneton attack on you in Harlow Wood and the lengthy nature of your recovery that weakened his resolve. He saw your posting here as an extension to your convalescence.”

  Jennifer snorted in derision. “Cheeky bugger. Some convalescence that turned out to be; Freneton nearly bumped me off again.”

  “Yes, well, at least there can’t be a third time, thanks to her being dead and buried. No, it seems that the long-time sergeant in the SCF is about to retire.”

  “Neil Bottomley?”

  “Yes, Bottomley. Given that his departure creates a vacancy and the fact that you are experienced in the Formation’s work, Hawkins has pulled strings. And unfortunately his strings go far deeper into the fabric of the police hierarchy than mine. As far as he’s concerned, it’s game, set and match.”

  Jennifer sat back in shock. She had not seen this coming. She had just spent the weekend in Nottingham with her long-term boyfriend Derek Thyme, a black, elite track athlete and detective constable in the SCF, and he hadn’t even mentioned Neil’s retirement. If he’d known anything, if he’d had the slightest inkling that Jennifer was about to become his immediate boss, he would have said something.

  “I don’t know what to say, Paul,” she said. “Having filled your vacancy after so long, you’ve got to start all over again.”

  Godden was shaking his head. “That’s the other thing that left me helpless to complain. They’ve completely out-manoeuvred me. It seems they’ve found another young DC just like you in a squad in Manchester. She’s been in the force for four years and has a degree in art history. Apparently she’s dead keen to transfer here, sees it as her career goal.”

  “Don’t tell me she speaks Italian as well.”

  “Not Italian, no, but she is fluent in French and Russian, so …”

  He raised his shoulders in submission before continuing.

  “The only concession I got from on high is that if another case arises that needs your particular language skills and ingenuity as a detective, I can apply to have you temporarily transferred back for the duration of the case.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Jennifer. “Of course, if this young superstar turns out to be a crap detective …”

  From Godden’s weak smile, she could see the idea was a non-starter. “By all accounts, she’s excellent, as well as being extremely personable. A senior officer who will remain nameless described her as a clone of you but with two foreign languages instead of one.”

  “Actually, that’s not correct. I speak French, Russian and German as well as Italian.”

  “But unlike your Italian, the other three are not native speaker level, as I recall. This young lady is a mother-tongue speaker of both her foreign languages.”

  “Then you shouldn’t trust her. She’s probably a Russian spy inserted into the British police by Putin’s lot to undermine the system.”

  Godden laughed. “Good try, Jennifer, but her parents were dissidents in Moscow. Her mother is French and her father a Russian economics professor. They had to leave Russia in a hurry after the KGB started to flex its muscles again.”

  “Cover story,” countered Jennifer.

  “Sorry, but she’s been screened at the highest level. She’s kosher.”

  “Will I get to meet this wonder woman before I head for the sticks? By the way, what’s her name?”

  “Sofie Lukina. That’s Sofie with an f, I’m told. And yes, you will meet her. She’s arriving on Thursday, so you’ll have just over a week to show her the ropes.”

  “Does she use ordinary methods of transportation or can I expect her to teleport into my office? And what about my post? She’s not getting that as well, surely?”

  “No, of course not. For the time being, Pete Whitacombe will be acting. He’s got good reports, obviously not as good as yours, bu
t he shows promise. Don’t tell him I said so.”

  “May I say anything to him about my transfer, given it’s imminent and I was about to start taking over organising the allocations.”

  Godden exhaled heavily. “Good point. I’d better tell him straight away. Could you send him in, please?”

  “He popped out to get us both coffee from that real coffee shop round the corner. We gave up on the poison the machine on the next floor churns out a while ago. Once he learns I’m not going to be his boss after all, he’ll probably charge me for it.”

  Chapter Four

  Jennifer sat at her desk and stared at the wall on the far side of the room as she mulled over the surprise Paul Godden had just sprung on her. Transferred back to the SCF in Nottingham, her first CID posting, but as a detective sergeant. She smiled. She’d be Derek’s boss, unless someone decided to transfer him as well. But knowing the big boss Pete Hawkins’ tactics, she was pretty sure Derek would be staying exactly where he was.

  Nevertheless, it had come out of the blue, and despite Hawkins’ connections, he had chosen his moment carefully, which meant he must have been following her career far more closely than she realised.

  Although she had no real choice in the matter, given she wasn’t married and had no family considerations that might be grounds to object to a posting, she thought through the pros and cons and decided the time was right to move. She had enjoyed her time in the Art Fraud Squad, but it was a small team with limited career prospects for its staff. The two inspectors had years of service ahead of them, as did Paul Godden, and Jennifer certainly didn’t want to remain a sergeant for the rest of her career. In addition, opportunities such as the one that saw her working undercover in Florence were rare. For much of the rest of the time, the work, although fascinating, hardly stretched her as a detective.

  And if she were really honest with herself, she would have to admit that after every trip back to her apartment in the smart residential district of The Park in Nottingham, she was increasingly reluctant to leave and return to the bustle of London, even though for most of the time she had the luxury of having her father’s house in Hampstead to herself. No, it would be good to be back, good to spend more time with Derek.