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  She walked to the end of the pool where they had left the sliding acrylic winter dome partly open to the crisp but sunny March day.

  “I can’t wait for the sea to warm up,” she said, pointing over the low stone wall to the emerald waters lapping onto the Fabrelli family’s private beach sixty feet below. “I’d love to swim to the point and back. The way I’m feeling today, I’d leave you standing.”

  Alicia laughed. “You’re on, although I think we’ll have to wait a few weeks. The cold water wouldn’t be so good for your muscles.”

  “You’re the boss,” shrugged Jennifer. Then with a sly grin, she added, “But take your chance soon before I’m fully fighting fit.”

  She sat down on the pool’s edge and dangled her feet in the water. An array of solar panels ensured that even in the coolest Sardinian weather the water was deliciously warm, while the acrylic dome cut down heat loss as well as providing a perfect shield against any wind. Her stepfather Pietro Fabrelli, the internationally renowned fashion designer, often joked that the system was actually superfluous given the amount of heat Jennifer must generate as she powered through the water.

  She stretched and worked her neck muscles.

  Seven months. It had been seven whole frustrating months, with very likely a few more to go before she would be given a clean bill of health. At times the healing process seemed so slow she thought she would go crazy. It wasn’t just the blow to the head, which made her irritatingly cautious doctors warn constantly against overstressing her body in case there were permanent weaknesses, there was also the injury to her chest. She had suffered an enormous blow to her ribs from Olivia Freneton’s perfectly timed attack with her elbow as Jennifer had launched herself at her from the bushes in Harlow Wood. Her diaphragm had been weakened, and in addition to broken ribs, there had been internal bleeding from damage to her chest cavity. The outcome of all this was her journey back to health could not be hurried, no matter how much she protested.

  Once he had been allowed to fly her to Italy, Pietro ensured Jennifer received the best available treatment private clinics could provide. She had gone first to Milan, where after only two weeks she complained she was claustrophobic from the over-the-top pampering and threatened to walk out. Leaned on by Pietro, her doctors quickly declared her well enough to continue her convalescence at the family villa in Sardinia, with weekly check-ups from a consultant flown over from the mainland.

  However, his stepdaughter’s health wasn’t Pietro’s only priority; he was also paranoid about security.

  “That madwoman Freneton is still at large, tesoro,” he had declared to Jennifer as soon as she arrived at the villa the previous December. “No one knows where she is, not your English bobbies, not the so-called experts at Interpol. No one. She has disappeared off the face of the earth. Because of that, we cannot take any chances. I’ve increased the number of personnel patrolling the house, the grounds and the surrounding area. It must be impenetrable to anyone who isn’t invited.”

  Jennifer shook her head. “You worry too much, Pietro. She doesn’t even know I’m out of England. The press has been told I’m recovering in a private hospital in Sussex. Anyway, what makes you think she’ll come after me or anyone else on the team from that night? She’s got too much to lose if she shows her face. My guess is she’s gone to ground somewhere far from here, somewhere there’s little chance of her being recognised. We’ll probably never hear from her again, or if we do, it’ll be because she’s been picked up somewhere else entirely, like Australia, for a murder spree there.”

  Jennifer was convinced she was right; it would be foolhardy of Freneton to seek revenge. As the weeks and months passed, she more or less put the psychopathic ex-policewoman out of her mind until, a few hours after her encouraging fifty-lengths’ swim in the pool, a call from her former boss, Chief Superintendent Pete Hawkins, changed everything.

  “Jennifer, good evening. DCS Hawkins. It is evening there, isn’t it?”

  “Er yes, sir, it is,” she replied, cautiously. “We’re only an hour ahead of you. This is rather a surprise.”

  “How are you, lass? Still recovering well?”

  “I am, thank you, sir, although it’s frustratingly slow. But—”

  “Of course,” interrupted Hawkins. It was clear he wasn’t listening. His voice was serious, strange, full of tension. Worried, Jennifer stopped and waited.

  “Listen, Jennifer,” he continued after a pause. “What’s the security like where you are? I’m concerned it might need reviewing.”

  Jennifer suppressed a chuckle. “It couldn’t be better, sir, I can assure you. I’m embarrassed by how much there is, considering it’s just for me. It must be cost—”

  “That’s good to hear,” interrupted Hawkins again. There was another pause, this one unnaturally long. When he continued, his tone was even more serious. He seldom joked and now his voice resonating through the phone made him sound like a messenger of doom.

  “Look, Jennifer. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  “What is—”

  “There’s been an accident, well, hardly an accident, it was bloody deliberate.”

  Jennifer felt her stomach tighten as she gasped involuntarily.

  “Sir,” she insisted, Hawkins’ habitual prevarication now irritating her. “Please, just tell me. Who is it?”

  There was another pause, the silence on the line torture as Jennifer waited.

  “It’s Mike,” Hawkins finally replied, his voice hardly audible. “Mike Hurst. I wish …” There was a deep sigh. “He’s … dead.” His voice cracked as he said the words. Although he’d known since the previous night when he’d been woken with the news, the shock was still a raw wound.

  “What … what happened?” Jennifer’s voice was now little more than a whisper.

  Hawkins told her the details of the incident, where and when it had happened, told her they were sure it was murder and who they were convinced was behind it.

  “How did she do it?” asked Jennifer, more to herself than Hawkins.

  “Don’t know yet, but it was clearly bloody well planned. It would have taken pinpoint timing to get the car to go off the road exactly where it did. She must have been following him for days, weeks even. Learning his movements, his timing, his habits. Everything.”

  “If that’s the case, sir, then none of us is safe. Not you nor anyone else from the team. And probably not Henry either, although he’s in the US at the moment. Freneton’s hardly likely to go there.”

  “It goes beyond the team, Jennifer, which is why I’m calling now. I was going to leave it until the morning but there’s something else, another murder.”

  Jennifer shuddered, wondering what Hawkins was going to say.

  “Who?” she whispered, when she couldn’t stand the waiting any longer.

  She heard Hawkins take a deep breath. “The Chinese prostitute, Mandy Gwo,” he said.

  “Mandy Gwo? How? I thought she’d been sent back to China.”

  “That’s what everyone was supposed to think. In fact, it was a smoke screen to keep the press off her back and take Freneton’s attention away from her. She was given full witness protection: a new identity and passport, a job and a new place to live down in Birmingham. But it didn’t work. Freneton clearly wasn’t fooled and went digging, at least that’s what we’re assuming. There was another Chinese girl, Apple Chan, who worked from the same address on Forest Road. We picked her up and interviewed her this afternoon after Mandy’s body was found by the Birmingham police. She was reluctant to say anything to start with; you know how these women are. Eventually she admitted Mandy had kept in touch with her. Stupid little tart put Mandy’s new name alongside her old one on her phone, along with her address.”

  “How did Freneton get it?”

  “Presumably she broke into Chan’s room and found the phone. She said she often leaves it behind in the daytime if she goes out. It’s an old one, apparently, doesn’t hold its charge too well.”
>
  “You’re sure it was Freneton? How did Gwo die?”

  “Oh, it had Freneton’s name written all over it. The girl was kicked to death and just for good measure, throttled with some sort of cord, although the pathologist reckons the kick to the head would have killed her.”

  Jennifer found herself massaging her temple where Freneton’s shoe had inflicted so much damage on her.

  She was still puzzled. “How does the timing work? I mean, did she kill both Mike and Gwo yesterday?”

  “She did, yes. It must have been very carefully planned. From Chelker reservoir, where Mike was killed shortly before six p.m., it would take about two and a half hours to get to where Gwo lived. The pathologist puts the time of death around nine p.m., so it adds up.”

  “She must have forced her way in. Did nobody hear anything?”

  “There were three deadlocks on Gwo’s front door and the SOCO found scratches, signs they were picked. So Freneton must have let herself in and been waiting.”

  “Three deadlocks? Christ, she must be good.”

  “That’s why I wanted to know about the security where you are. She could just as easily strike in Europe as in England.”

  “Well, as I said just now, sir, it couldn’t be better. You needn’t worry about me; it’s the others who need to watch their backs. And anyway, I assume the story about me is still that I’m convalescing in England, so she won’t know I’m here.”

  “I wish I could be confident of that,” muttered Hawkins.

  A thought occurred to Jennifer. “Has Derek Thyme been told?”

  “Not yet, no. My secretary’s been trying to raise him since we heard about Gwo, but his phone appears to be switched off.”

  “He’s probably training. He’s got permission from his boss in the fraud squad to turn it off, or at least to leave it in his locker. Apparently his coach blows a fuse if anyone’s phone rings during a training session. He’s been known to smash them.”

  “I know the feeling,” commented Hawkins. “Look, Jennifer, the assistant con’s light’s flashing on my phone. I’d better answer.”

  “Sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m so sorry. About Mike, I mean. I know you went back a long way.”

  “Thank you, Jennifer.” Hawkins paused, clearly fighting his emotions. She heard another deep sigh before his voice came back on the line. “There’ll probably be some more details in the morning. If there are, I’ll call you then. Take care, and tell that stepfather of yours to ensure everything around you is secure.”

  As the line went dead, Jennifer dropped the phone in her lap and buried her face in her hands. “No!” she wailed as she rocked back and forth, her body shuddering as the reality of the conversation hit her.

  Jennifer was still in the villa’s large sitting room four hours later, staring out through the huge picture windows at the invisible sea. There was no moon and cloud obscured much of the sky. Whatever stars were visible, Jennifer didn’t see them. After endless attempts to contact Derek, the same irritatingly jaunty voice had just told her once again the person she was calling was unavailable. She shook her head in frustration. She’d give him a bollocking when he did turn his phone on, tell him to have an excuse ready or his boss would hang him out to dry. It was one thing to turn the phone off during training; he was pushing his luck way beyond the limit by leaving it off.

  At three thirty, Jennifer was sitting in the same position staring at the same nothingness, her mind far from the room as memories of Mike Hurst filled her head. When her phone’s ringtone cut through the silence, she jumped in shock. The phone was sitting on the arm of her chair and in her haste to answer it, she knocked it onto the floor. Swearing at it, she bent to pick it up, her eyes widening when she saw the caller’s number. It was the same one as earlier; it was Hawkins. Why was he calling again, in the middle of the night? She tried to repress the wave of panic jolting through her. Her finger hovered reluctantly over the answer button as if the action of pressing it would cause an explosion.

  “Sir?”

  “Jennifer. Did I wake you? Sorry, stupid question. I must have done.”

  “No, sir, you didn’t. I couldn’t sleep.” Haven’t even tried, she thought. “What is it? Has … has something happened?”

  Hawkins was silent.

  “Sir?”

  “There’s been another one, Jennifer. It has to be connected.” Hawkins’ voice croaked, as if he was being strangled. “I thought I’d better let you know as soon as possible. I didn’t want you waking up and seeing some news report.”

  Jennifer’s eyes widened as her mouth quivered.

  “Another one?” she whispered, her chest heaving in fear of what Hawkins was about to say.

  “Another … incident, yes.”

  “Tell me, sir, whatever it is, just tell me, please. Is it Derek? Don’t say it is, I couldn’t—”

  “I’m afraid it is, Jennifer.”

  “Is he—”

  “There was … It happened at Oxford Circus Tube Station in London. The platform was crowded and—”

  “Sir,” she pleaded, interrupting him. “Please, just tell me. Is he … is he dead? Please don’t tell me he’s dead. Please—”

  “No, Jennifer, he’s not dead. It’s a miracle, but he’s not. He’s injured, broken his leg quite badly, but he’s alive, stable and able to talk. He’s convinced he was pushed.”

  No one on the platform was sure whether it had been an accident, an attempted suicide or an attempted murder. Certainly no one saw anything. Later, when it was reviewed, the CCTV footage showed little of value, no faces that even came close to resembling Freneton's. Eye witnesses all said it happened so fast it was over before they had time to register anything. Derek, however, had no doubt in his mind. He was quite sure he had been pushed. He had felt something dig into his side and shove him hard, just as the train roared from the tunnel. It wasn’t a hand; it was something harder. But shove him it did, right into the path of the oncoming train. If it hadn’t been for the lightning reactions of an ox of a man standing at the platform edge who not only grabbed Derek’s flailing arm but also had the strength to pull him back, he would be dead. As it was, his right leg had shot out as he desperately sought solid ground, and the train hit it below the knee, causing compound fractures of both his tibia and fibula. His dreams of competing in the Olympics shattered with his bones, but at least he was alive.

  Chapter Five

  Friday, 12 March 2015

  The early morning ferry from Dover to Calais was quiet. Most of the professional drivers were snatching some sleep while the trickle of early-season tourists sipped tea, coffee or beer as they flicked through screens on their phones. Dressed in biker gear and a black headscarf, with heavy metallic earrings, black lipstick, fake neck tattoos and a snarl to match, Olivia Freneton was guaranteed a wide berth from all of them. Regardless of this, she had still chosen her seat carefully, wanting to ensure she wasn’t pestered by chancers from the bar or irritated by over-tired children on the rampage.

  Her eyes were unfocussed as she replayed the events of the last two days over and over in her mind. Her long-planned killing spree had started so well, with Hurst and Gwo disposed of efficiently and ruthlessly. But the pleasure of those killings was overshadowed by her failure to kill Thyme. And failure wasn’t something that Olivia took kindly to. It flew in the face of her precise planning, the endless hours spent covering every eventuality, every contingency.

  The trip had been the culmination of seven long months that had seen Olivia sequestered in her hideaway in the remote Tuscan countryside, a renovated farmhouse set centrally in a two-acre plot at the end of an unpaved track. The only passers-by were locals in search of the many species of mushrooms that grew beneath the wild oak trees in the hundreds of square miles of woods surrounding the plot. However, the locked gates, ‘Proprietà Privata’ signs and notices announcing the fence around the property was electrified left any inquiring minds with no doubt of
the owner’s requirement for privacy.

  Seven months of planning, seven months of searching the online UK newspapers for information, seven months of waiting, biding her time. Seven months in which ending the lives of the seven people who had turned Olivia’s life on its head had never been far from her thoughts, their continuing existence a festering wound whose flesh needed excising.

  Although online information on her former squad in the SCF in Nottingham had been scant, from the snippets she had found, she knew the Board of Inquiry had sat, deliberated and pronounced, and she knew Hurst had gone, retired. Of her other former colleagues, Hawkins was still the chief super and Bottomley was back on active duty in the SCF. But she could find no trace of Thyme, while Cotton was apparently still recovering at some anonymous location in the south. As for the civilians, the gossip glossies put Henry Silk mainly in the US and therefore inaccessible to Olivia, while according to the newspaper reports soon after the fiasco in Harlow Wood, the little whore Gwo had been sent back to China.

  Olivia hadn’t believed the reports about Gwo. She knew the girl would have been a useful source of information for which witness protection might have been offered in return, especially since she’d shown courage by attacking her assailant. Sitting at her computer in the farmhouse, Olivia often absently flexed her left hand when she thought of the girl. The scar tissue from the stab wound still gave her trouble and she wanted retribution. If, contrary to the press reports, Gwo was still in England, she shouldn’t be too hard to find. She certainly hoped she was there; that particular piece of revenge would be most enjoyable.

  However, Olivia’s main target was Cotton, the smart young bitch whose dogged persistence had nearly led to her being caught, and Cotton was off the radar. Wherever she was, convalescing or otherwise, she needed to be drawn out, and the best way to achieve that would be to dispose of one or more of her colleagues. Cotton would be bound to attend the funerals.