Remorseless Read online

  “But it was you who sorted out my head, Jen, helped me banish those nightmares.”

  “All part of the service, DC Thyme,” she said, the back of her hand brushing affectionately across his cheek.

  The day before Derek left to return to England, after a lazy afternoon by the pool, Jennifer told him they should make his last night special by smartening up a little, rather than just wearing their normal shorts and Ts, after which she disappeared to her room to shower and change.

  Martina, the cook, had prepared them a wonderful dinner of lobster freshly caught that morning, and, sensing something in the air, had discreetly retired to her small house in the grounds, declaring she was tired and would clean the dishes the following morning.

  Derek was sitting on a sofa, occasionally glancing at a book but mainly staring at the golden light on the sea, when he heard Jennifer walk into the room.

  “I hope a shirt and chinos are fine, Jen,” he called, “it’s a bit hot for a jacket.”

  When she didn’t answer, he looked up and gulped. She was standing by the small bar wearing a close-fitting, black silk evening dress with a plunging neckline. The style was immaculate, the fit perfect. She had spiked up her short hair and replaced the stud earrings she normally wore with large gold hoops to match a gold necklace and bracelet. The three-inch heels on her black patent leather shoes lifted and accentuated her slim, lithe body.

  “Drink?” she said, smiling to herself at the look on Derek’s face. “There’s some prosecco cooling in the fridge.”

  “Sounds perfect,” said Derek, his tongue a soggy sponge. He put down his book and stood.

  “Christ, Jen,” he said, walking over to her, “you look amazing.”

  Jennifer put down the champagne flute she’d picked up and turned to face him. She smiled softly and took his hands in hers. “You look pretty cool yourself,” she said, drawing him to her. “That colour suits you; you should wear it more often.”

  Derek looked down at his cream shirt. “If I’d known you’d be wearing an exclusive Fabrelli creation, I’d’ve made more of an effort,” he said.

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend Pietro’s range for men to you. The current fashions are so tight it’s better if you have no muscle on your bones, which kind of rules you out.”

  “So you can’t see me on the fashion runway?” said Derek, revolving his shoulders slowly.

  “Maybe as a surfer dude,” she laughed. “Now, let me pour this prosecco and we’ll sit and watch the sunset.”

  After deftly twisting out the cork, she poured two glasses and handed one to Derek.

  “Every time I see you do that, DC Cotton, I’m most impressed.”

  “Practice makes perfect,” said Jennifer as she took his hand and pulled him gently to the sofa.

  “Look,” she said as they sat.

  “What?”

  “The light on the sea. It’s in that direction.” She pointed past him. “Don’t you think it’s wonderful?”

  “Wonderful,” repeated Derek, but his eyes remained fixed on Jennifer. “Just as wonderful as every night in paradise. But right now, I’m enjoying the view on this side of the glass. I don’t actually care if there’s dense fog out there.”

  Jennifer tilted her head playfully as she bit on the end of her thumb, her eyes full of amusement. She put down her glass and held out a hand to him.

  “Glass,” she said.

  He handed it to her and she put it on the side table next to hers.

  Then she turned and this time held out both hands.

  “Me,” she said.

  Derek took her hands and pulled her towards him.

  Early the following afternoon, Jennifer went along with Derek in the car when Mario, the driver, took him to the airport.

  “It’s going to be quiet without you goofing around in the pool, DC Thyme. I’m going to miss you, and so will Alicia.”

  “I’ll miss her too. Her workouts have been amazing. As you said the other day, Jen, she’s a real find. Magic.”

  He glanced sideways at her, registering the quizzical look on her face, and grinned.

  “I’ll miss you too,” he said. “Just a bit.”

  “How much?” she said, punching him on the arm.

  “A pretty big bit,” he laughed. He took her hand. “That was one amazing night, Jen.”

  “But?” she frowned.

  “But nothing,” he protested. “It’s just, well, the whole ambience was pretty stunning, this whole place is so incredibly special. I mean, it’s not Nottingham.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” said Jennifer. “It’s a bit farther to the sea in Nottingham.”

  “I don’t mean that.”

  “I know what you mean, you idiot. You’re worried the whole rose-coloured glasses thing has affected our judgement, that we’re not in the real world.”

  “Something like that,” he muttered.

  “Look, Derek, you’re my best friend in all the world and I love you to bits. Whether last night was just last night or whether it was the start of something bigger, I don’t know, and nor do you. It’s too early to say. For the next two or three months, all I’m probably going to see of you is your face on Skype, depending on when my dear dottore finally decides to give me a clean bill of health, so let’s see how it goes.”

  She pulled his face close to hers.

  “If when I get back to Nottingham we find we can’t keep our hands off each other, I guess we’ll know.”

  Derek grinned and kissed her lips. “I love you too, Jen. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Idiot,” she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Olivia didn’t hurry to answer the insistent tapping on her door even though she’d been expecting it. When she finally did open the door, she was pretending to rub the sleep from her eyes.

  “Connie?” she said, injecting surprise into her voice. “Sorry, I was having a doze. Is everything all right?”

  It had been two weeks since, at Connie’s insistence, she had moved into the hotel. They had already been spending every evening together, courtesy of Connie’s tab, and as Connie put it, since the cost was loose change compared with the return on her investments, it seemed churlish to allow her new friend to return to some dive near Termini station.

  Out of Olivia’s earshot, Caroline Monkton had objected strongly, counselling caution with someone who until recently had been a total stranger. Her con-artist’s antennae were quivering with alarm at this intruder to the world she had established with Connie; she didn’t like or trust the smooth-talking Diana Fitchley an inch. But Connie was having none of it, and all Caroline’s whingeing achieved was to increase the irritation Connie was starting to feel when around her PA.

  “Caroline, over the last twenty-five years, I’ve met just about every kind of smart-ass smooth-talking con-man the business world could throw up, every type of snake-oil merchant, because that’s all they are, even the ones with fleets of jets and limos. So I know when someone’s trying to get one over on me; I can spot them a mile off. And Diana, no, she’s the real McCoy. She’s just a lovely person who’s achieved more for me in a month than I thought possible.”

  Although angered at her boss’s intransigence, Caroline had also felt perversely reassured by Connie’s self-deception. Didn’t detect me on your gold-plated radar, my dear, she thought.

  But the reassurance had been short-lived, evaporating in a flash when Olivia put the boot in.

  “May I come in?” said Connie. “I think I need a drink.”

  Olivia saw she was holding the letter that a couple of hours earlier she had thrust at Caroline Monkton.

  “Come and sit on the sofa,” she said, her voice all concern. “What can I get you?”

  “A Scotch?”

  “Really?” Olivia was now genuinely surprised. She’d only ever seen Connie drink wine.

  “With some ice, if you have any,” said Connie.

  Olivia poured the whisky and a glass of spring water for
herself before sitting down beside Connie. “Whatever’s wrong, Connie? Have you had bad news? It is something from the States?”

  When Connie didn’t answer immediately, she added, “Is it to do with the paper you’re holding?”

  Connie looked down at the letter as if she’d forgotten it was there. She held it out.

  “This was on my desk when I got back just now from my afternoon with Alessandro.”

  Olivia went through the motions of reading it and then sat back.

  “Oh my heavens, how cruel. I can’t believe it. I must admit I thought Caroline was, how should I say, a little self-righteous at times, but to say things like that when you were so generous to her. It’s unconscionable.”

  Connie sighed deeply. “How could I have been so blind? I thought I was a good judge of character. She’s virtually accused me of being a spoilt bitch, a naïve Yankee with more money than sense. She hated me, Diana.”

  Olivia shook her head. “Classic tactic of a jealous mind, I’m afraid, Connie. Do you know anything about her background, what she was doing before you employed her?”

  “Only what she told me, which wasn’t a huge amount. Now I think about it, she was quite evasive. She told me she’d PA’d on and off over the years after she was let down by her shit of a husband when he walked out with the maid, leaving her high and dry.”

  Olivia pursed her lips. “I wonder if it was true. Did she come with references?”

  “A couple, yes. I read them but didn’t take them further. I should have done, I know. I could kick myself, but, you know, I only needed her to sort out my diary, run a few errands; I wasn’t giving her the keys to the kingdom. She had no dealings with my finances; they’re all dealt with through my brokers in the States.”

  Olivia nodded. “Do you think, perhaps, money was at the heart of the problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t want to raise unfounded suspicions or even to badmouth Caroline, but maybe she was looking at gaining access to your money, relieving you of some of it.”

  Connie gave a resigned sigh. “It’s possible, I suppose. It’s one of the hazards of being wealthy. In my position, you can’t be too careful, hence all the care with my finances.

  “But those accusations, they are totally unfair. I’m certainly not what Caroline is suggesting; I’m no naïve Yankee and I’m not spoilt. Yes, I was born into money, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know the value of it. And you should see the charities Brad set up. For the last ten years or so, it was about the only thing I respected him for. He gave away tens of millions.”

  “He?” asked Olivia. “Don’t you mean ‘we’?”

  Connie smiled and touched Olivia’s arm.

  “It was at his instigation, but it was a wonderful thing to be involved in, and in my view totally justifies the making of all the money, to be able to do something when tight-assed or corrupt governments won’t step in. Maybe I’ll take time out from my Italian studies and take you to see one or two of the foundations in action. Not yet, the learning curve’s still steep and I’m loving it now I feel I’m getting somewhere. But in a few months. What do you say?”

  “I’d be honoured,” said Olivia, trying to look interested. Charitable foundations were the last thing on her mind; she had her own nest to feather.

  She looked back down at the letter she was still holding.

  “She doesn’t say where she was going; only that she’s always hated Rome and can’t wait to leave. You know, from the way she’s written this, she sounds a little unstable. I hope you don’t mind my saying.”

  Connie laughed. “Say what you like. She’s let me down, insulted me and run away. At least she hasn’t stolen anything.”

  “You’ve checked your jewellery?”

  “She never had the safe combination and it’s not written down anywhere; it’s etched in my brain. But just to be sure, I checked.” She laughed. “All present and correct; the crown jewels are accounted for. Just as well; they’re worth a pretty penny.”

  Olivia smiled, wondering as she did how much of a challenge the safe would be.

  “So, what happens now? Another PA?”

  Connie shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. A PA’s fine in an office situation, but I was never comfortable having one around in what are essentially informal surroundings. The roles get confused.”

  She raised her eyes to Olivia’s. “I was wondering, Diana. You said you’re on a sort of sabbatical of indeterminate length, taking time out from your real estate business in England, letting your business partners run it. Would you consider, hell, I don’t want to say ‘working for me’, certainly not in a PA capacity. I mean, well, could you see yourself being a companion, someone I could share this Italian adventure with? After all, you’re the one who’s made it come alive for me. How would you feel about formalising things a bit; if, say, I paid you a retainer? Not to be a PA since I can get most things organised through the hotel. They’ll get me someone to sort out the diary, make bookings and so on. Someone efficient who’s not in her dotage.”

  Olivia touched Connie’s arm to stop the flow. “A companion. How delightfully old-fashioned. That would be wonderful, thank you. But you don’t have to pay me anything.” She stopped and looked around her. “Well, the room would be nice, but …”

  Connie giggled. “This is going to be fun. Here, give me that.” She took Caroline Monkton’s letter out of Olivia’s hand and screwed it into a ball before tossing it into the air and batting it across the room with her hand.

  “Up yours, Ms Monkton. You can rot in hell for all I care.”

  She stood and held out her hands to Olivia.

  “Come on, Diana, let’s celebrate our own special Anglo-American accord by going down to the bar and getting tipsy.”

  Chapter Twelve

  With his return to the Serious Crimes Formation in Nottingham, Derek soon found himself immersed in work, with little time outside his long hours for much else besides following the rigorous training schedule Alicia had set him. And while he missed Jennifer, he also loved being back in the thick of things. Most of his mates from before the Harlow Wood case were still in the SCF; just the bosses had changed. Even Neil Bottomley seemed to have returned to his former sardonic self.

  Thoughts of frequent Skype calls to Jennifer were soon put aside; there weren’t enough hours in a day. But while their calls were limited to Derek’s occasional days off, in between they kept up a flurry of text messages, mostly cryptic running commentaries on whatever cases he was following from Derek, while Jennifer’s related to her now rapidly improving fitness and general condition, and her inroads into preparing for her new posting.

  After a sea swim with Alicia one morning early in September, Jennifer was preparing for her daily call to her Russian tutor, Irina, when her phone pinged with a message from Derek. It was early, even for him. When she read it, her eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Big news, will Skype tonite ASAP after work x’

  There was no way she was going to wait several hours without some information. Her thumbs hit the keys.

  ‘Promotion’

  ‘Haha’

  ‘Sacked’

  ‘Hahaha’

  ‘What’

  ‘Tell u later’

  ‘WHAT!!!’

  ‘Freneton hideaway found’

  ‘Wow! Where’

  ‘WBridgford’

  ‘Call soon!’

  ‘Going there now’

  Five minutes into their Russian conversation, Irina commented that Jennifer seemed distracted. Was something wrong?

  “Sorry, Irina. I’ve just had some interesting news from Derek in England, but I’ve got to wait until this evening to learn more. I can’t go into it except to say it’s very exciting.”

  “He has proposed?” Irina was an old-school Russian romantic.

  “Ha! I don’t think either of us is ready for that, and even if he is, if he did it with a text message, I think I’d kill him.
”

  The afternoon seemed to be twice as long as usual, the passing minutes only made longer by Jennifer constantly checking her watch. She tried hard to immerse herself in revisiting her course notes on art history from her undergraduate days in Nottingham, all part of the preparation she had recently begun for the posting to the art fraud squad she hoped would be happening soon.

  Finally, soon after nine in the evening, the Skype chimes sounded on her phone. She answered instantly.

  “Derek. What took you so long? I’ve been climbing the walls waiting for you.”

  “Sorry, Jen. It all took longer than expected; you know how it is. The new DCI is keen to impress so he wanted everything he could get before he took it to the super and Hawkins. He’s been hounding the forensic people all day.”

  “So impress me as well. What have you got?”

  “OK, I’ll run you through it. We got a call from a bloke called Clive Peters who’s the owner of a flat in West Bridgford with a large lock-up garage under it. He rented it out long term a couple of years ago when he went off to Australia to work. The tenant was a woman who gave her name as Alice Morton. She paid him up front for three years, cash, so he didn’t bother to check up on her, just happily pocketed the money.”

  “Nice bit of undeclared income.”

  “Exactly. However, Peters came back here a couple of weeks ago to visit his mother and at her house he was thumbing through a load of junk mail, old newspapers and so on — his mother’s a bit of a hoarder — when he saw one of the police notices that were put out after Harlow Wood, the ones with the mug shot of Freneton, and he recognised her face even though the woman he’d dealt with had longer hair.”

  “Presumably she wore a wig when she met him.”

  “Must’ve. Nothing if not thorough, our Olivia. Anyway, instead of calling us immediately, the idiot called the flat, and when he got no answer, he went round there. After knocking on the door and getting no reply, he knocked on a couple of neighbours’ doors and was told the tenant hadn’t been seen for ages. So he let himself in, thinking perhaps he might find her body. He didn’t, of course, although he did find a white van in the lock-up, but no sign of any recent activity in the flat, no food anywhere, empty fridge. Then it dawned on him that the place could be useful to our enquiries so he closed the door and called.”