The Assassin's Dog

by David George Clarke

  Once Jennifer had done as she was told, Rosselli ducked through the gap, making sure that Goccia passed through without getting tangled.

  “Very good, detective sergeant,” he said, once he was through. “Now, stand up and walk briskly ahead. We’ll follow.”

  They quickly reached the shelter of the inner yard and walked toward the large doors at one end.

  “I should imagine that you intended making a rapid search of every room, cupboard and closet on this floor before moving your search to the upper floor, detective sergeant. Am I right?”

  “You know you are,” growled Jennifer.

  “I thought so,” said Rosselli. “Well, let me put your mind at rest. Your superintendent isn’t down here, so let’s not waste time looking. We’ll go straight to the upper floor. You know the way; it’s through that door and up the wide stone steps.”

  When they neared the top of the steps, Rosselli ordered Jennifer to stop.

  “There’s something I need to do before we continue our exploration, detective sergeant, so I must ask you to bear with me. You see the metal handrail next to you, the one running up the steps. I want you to stand in front of it facing the wall. Good. Now, take this cable tie from me, good, and tether your right hand to the fixture holding the rail to the wall.”

  Jennifer looked at him suspiciously and Rosselli laughed.

  “Don’t look so shocked, detective, I have no evil intentions in mind.”

  Jennifer tethered her wrist as instructed and stood facing the wall.

  “Now bend and stretch out your left hand as far as it will reach. Good, that’s perfect.”

  In a flash, Rosselli had looped another tie around Jennifer’s left wrist and secured it to the railing at a point where it couldn’t slide up the rail. He checked the first tie, pulled it a little tighter and stood back to ensure Jennifer was sufficiently spreadeagled and going nowhere.

  “Good. Very good,” he said. “I shall only be a few minutes. Come on, Goccia.”

  At the top of the stairs, instead of turning right towards the cargo platform area, he turned left and walked towards the room he had set up as his HQ. Once inside, he removed Goccia’s lead and sat her on a pile of sacks he’d found for her when installing the CCTV.

  “I’ll have to leave you here for a while, principessa. Things might get a bit unpleasant out there in a moment or two, not something a refined young lady should have to witness.”

  Goccia looked up at him, her high-pitched whine edged with uncertainty.

  “Don’t worry, little one. Have I ever let you down? I’ll be about half-an-hour, after which we’ll be off to London and then home. Won’t that be wonderful?”

  Goccia made no more noises but kept her eyes fixed on her master, watching him as he took his phone from a pocket.

  Scrolling down the screen, Rosselli hit Gus Brooke’s number. Gus answered on the second ring.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, Gus, yes indeed. There has been a development. I have discovered your detective sergeant breaking into the Rappington factory. She is here now and at present rate of progress, she will find your superintendent’s body within the next ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Christ!” hissed Brooke. “Can’t you stop her? I mean, you’ve got your gun, haven’t you? Stop the bitch!”

  “Now, now, Gus. Let’s not get flustered. I have the matter in hand but I do need you to get here from your office as quickly as you possibly can.”

  “I don’t kn—”

  “There’s no choice, Detective Brooke. You must come or many things will go wrong for you.”

  “I’ll be there within twenty minutes.”

  “Good. And Gus, remember, all this is our little secret. You tell no one, do you understand? Otherwise the consequences—”

  It was Gus’s turn to interrupt, his reply terse.

  “Of course I understand. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  The line went dead in Rosselli’s ear.

  “Now you mention it, Gus …” he said, and winked at Goccia.

  He made a final check that everything in the room was in order and before leaving, he gave Goccia a biscuit as he rubbed her head fondly. “Good girl.”

  He closed the door quietly and hurried back towards the steps.

  “Right, detective sergeant, let’s get you out of that uncomfortable position. I want you to grasp the rail with your left hand, good, now I am going to cut the tie, but I want you to continue gripping the rail. Excellent. Now, do the same with the right hand. Snip. Perfect. You may stand up now,” he said, as he stepped out of Jennifer’s reach.

  Jennifer stood, rubbing her wrists and walked to the top of the steps. Rosselli waved her forward with the gun. “That way, towards the open area.”

  As soon as she reached the large cargo platform, Jennifer stopped. Something had changed; it was not how she remembered it. It was cleaner, tidier, and there were two metal chairs near the edge of the platform overlooking the loading bay. Maybe it was cleaner because the forensic team had been through, but even allowing for that, there was something else. She let her eyes wander around the area. The floor around the storage bins at the rear was definitely clearer than before. She thought she could remember more ropes lying around.

  Ignoring Rosselli, who was standing a few feet behind her, she took a step towards the storage bins while looking up at the array of rails above her head. Were they that clean before? She wished she had taken photos as soon as she’d set foot in the area the first time; she would have been able to make a direct comparison. Or at least she would have done if the madman hadn’t taken her phone. Wrinkling her nose, she sniffed the air and worked out what was so different. It wasn’t the relatively untidy collection of ropes, pulleys, broken packing cases and pallets, it was the smell. Previously there had been an overriding stale, dry mustiness, a sense of neglect and abandonment. That was still present, but woven into it now were other smells, oil particularly. The place smelt more like a car workshop, a place where lubricants were liberally splashed around. Jennifer was certain it had been absent during the earlier searches.

  Why? Were the owners of the factory gearing up for a renovation? Were they perhaps intending to remove the remains of the old fittings and sell them for scrap? Getting the overhead rail system working again would make such a job far easier. But the owners had made no mention of this happening. Surely with all the conversations between the SCF and the owners it would have come up.

  Puzzled, she turned to face Rosselli.

  “Well, where would you like me to go now?”

  Rosselli stretched out an arm towards the two chairs near the edge of the platform. He wanted things to be in place when Brooke arrived.

  “I want you to sit in one of those. The one on the right. There’s a show to watch.”

  “No!” yelled Jennifer. “You said I could see Trisha. I want to know if she is still alive. Do me the courtesy of telling me that, at least, instead of playing these stupid games.”

  Sighing, Rosselli looked at his phone to check the progress of Gus’s car and decided he would indulge her for a few minutes. He pointed at the bins. “She is very close, detective sergeant.”

  Jennifer made her way to the rear of the platform area and turned her attention to the storage bins. This time she was in no doubt about things having changed. She could distinctly remember the row of bins along the back wall, but there had been no ropes spread along any of the lids.

  She stood in front of the bin with the lid partially obscured by ropes.

  “Is she in this box?” she yelled at Rosselli. “Did you kill her and put her in here?”

  “Your superintendent? Why do—”

  “She’s got a name!” snapped Jennifer. “Trisha McVie. She has a name!”

  “I apologise, Detective Sergeant Cotton, you are right, the unfortunate lady has a name and yes, her body is in the bin. But while you were right to correct me, you were also wrong. I didn’t put her there and neither did I kill her. Why s
hould I possibly want to do that?”

  “Then who did kill her?” demanded Jennifer.

  When Rosselli shrugged in an exaggerated way that was so characteristic, so stereotypical, the pieces of the puzzle in Jennifer’s head began to fall into place. And as they did, a cold fear flooded her body.

  “I’m told, and I think it’s true,” continued Rosselli, oblivious of Jennifer’s thoughts, “that she had an accident. That she fell.”

  Jennifer was only half listening. She was thinking again of when she first saw this man in the Horse and Hounds. He had looked completely different. Had he been in disguise? And he was right, it was the dog, Goccia, that had triggered the memory. Goccia! That was it. An Italian name, and now … an Italian shrug. She had been distracted by his perfect English.

  Jennifer fought to keep her voice calm, to maintain an illusion of control she didn’t feel, while at the same time feeling stupid for taking so long to work it out.

  “Lei è italiano,” she said, speaking rapidly, her eyes burning into his. You are Italian. It was a statement, not a question.

  Rosselli said nothing. He wanted to continue with his plan, to ensure that all blame fell onto Brooke. Which is why he didn’t follow his instinct and immediately shoot Jennifer.

  “My nationality is irrelevant,” he said, answering in English. “Now, I have shown you where your friend is, so will you please do as I ask and move over to the chair? I don’t want to keep repeating myself.”

  Jennifer still didn’t move. “It’s relevant to me,” she continued, the words growled in Italian. “What is an Italian with a gun doing in a derelict factory in the middle of England? How are you connected to Trisha McVie?”

  Rosselli straightened slightly. The torrent of fast Italian from Jennifer was unexpected. She had transformed into another person.

  He sighed and reverted to his native tongue.

  “Signorina, I have no connection to your Trisha McVie and as I told you, no involvement with her death.”

  “You have every involvement with her death!” shouted Jennifer. “You knew she was hidden here in this box and you did nothing about it. Any decent person would have reported it. An anonymous phone call was all that was needed.”

  Rosselli was shaking his head. “Signorina,” he sighed in exasperation, but Jennifer hadn’t finished.

  “But you didn’t,” she continued, “which makes you an accessory. Who was responsible if it wasn’t you? Was it Gus Brooke? Why are you protecting him?”

  Rosselli held up the hand that wasn’t holding the gun.

  “Signorina Cotton! Stop these accusations, please. I had, indeed I have, every intention of making sure your authorities know of Detective Brooke’s actions. He is a fool and acted badly. He needs to be punished.”

  Jennifer felt a chill course through her. She had been listening as much to how this man spoke as to what he said. And she had worked it out: he was Sicilian. Which confirmed her earlier thoughts: his presence here meant only one thing. But she daren’t let on that she knew. Her only hope was to stall for time in case … in case. In case nothing, she thought. No one knew she was here. She’d misled Derek, promised him she wouldn’t enter the factory, and now she was going to suffer the consequences of her stupidity in even being near the place.

  Still ignoring Rosselli’s instructions, Jennifer turned to the metal storage bin.

  “I need to see her; I need to see my friend. It breaks my heart to think she has been dumped here like so much rubbish. She was a warm, kind, intelligent human being with a profound sense of right and wrong, which is why she was such a good police officer. This …” she said, her voice cracking as her arm reached out towards the bin, “this is so … disrespectful. I can’t believe that Gus Brooke would do such a thing.”

  She took a step towards the bin, reaching out for one of the ropes partly covering it.

  “Signorina,” said Rosselli, “That is not a good idea. It has been many days now. She … she would be—”

  Jennifer cut him off with a snort of disdain.

  “You forget, signore, I am a police officer. I have seen plenty of bodies. I’m not about to get squeamish or throw up.”

  She paused, her voice trailing into softness. “I just want to stroke her hair, tell her she was loved. Is that too much to ask?” She tugged angrily at the rope.

  Rosselli found himself torn. For the first time in his long career, he felt genuine compassion. Here was a young woman whose dear friend, not a lover but a firm, bonded friend, had been cruelly snatched from her. An image of Giorgio, his lover, flashed across his mind. If Giorgio had been killed and stuffed into a metal box, he would want to see him to say his goodbyes. But … but this young woman was about to die herself, something he strongly suspected she had already worked out. There was no choice in the matter; it was why he was here, why he had been paid a large sum of money. Would seeing the body of her friend change anything?

  “There isn’t time for this, signorina,” he said.

  Jennifer had just tossed a rope to the floor and was reaching for another. She stood up straight and turned to Rosselli.

  “What do you mean there isn’t time?” she said. “Are you expecting company, because I’m not? As I think you are well aware, no one knows I’m here. I’m entirely at your mercy, so what’s the hurry?”

  As if in answer to Jennifer’s question, a ping sounded from Rosselli’s phone. He raised his gun towards Jennifer, an instruction to stop what she was doing. He pulled the phone from his pocket and held it up so he could see the screen while still keeping an eye on Jennifer. The alarm had been triggered by the camera focussed on the factory gates. Previously, Jennifer’s car had been the only vehicle there; now it had been joined by a second: Gus Brooke’s. And it appeared that Brooke had a key to the padlock: the gates were wide open and Rosselli just caught a glimpse of Brooke running along the concrete road leading from the gates to the factory before he disappeared from the camera’s field of view.

  Rosselli smiled and moved backwards away from the bins towards a large packing crate standing by the wall. Once in its shadow, he would be hidden from the view of anyone crossing the cargo platform.

  “As it happens, signorina, you are right. I am expecting company.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Two mornings after Sonia’s confession to Connie about what she had told the man she knew as Gianpietro Tebaldi, at about the time Rosselli was forcing Jennifer towards the factory, Henry took a call from his agent.

  He and Connie were sitting at the computer where Henry was still working on the images of Tebaldi.

  As Connie watched Henry’s face while he listened to the agent, she became increasingly concerned. There was none of the normal joviality in Henry’s eyes, and little more than brief grunts in response to whatever his agent was telling him.

  Henry closed the call and turned to Connie, his face now dark with concern.

  “Busted flush,” he said. “Nothing. Ted has spoken to everyone he can think of in the industry in the UK, the US and here in Italy. There’s not a journalist anywhere with the name Gianpietro Tebaldi that anyone’s ever heard of. He’s not registered with any journalists’ union or association, nothing. Whoever that man was, he wasn’t a journalist.”

  “So if he’s not an art dealer, not a journalist, who the hell is he?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m convinced there’s something about his face, something familiar. I’ve tried everything I know on Photoshop but so far, it hasn’t helped.”

  “Where do you think you’ve seen him?”

  “God knows. Locally, maybe. I don’t know.”

  Henry drummed his fingers on the desktop. Connie leaned forward and took his hand.

  “I think we should run this through Massimo Felice,” she said. “I should like his take on it.”

  “Good idea,” said Henry, picking up his phone from where he had put it on the desk. “I’ll call him now.”

  After the briefest of preambles, on
ce he had heard of their progress so far and the elimination of the possibility of Tebaldi being a journalist, the head of Rome’s Art Fraud Squad went on full alert. While Connie explained the details, Henry screen-grabbed the enhanced images of Tebaldi’s face and emailed them directly to Felice.

  Both sides of the conversation were on speakerphone and as soon as Felice called up the images, he could be heard yelling for several of his squad to come into his office.

  Listening to the background babble of voices and exclamations, Henry could imagine a number of Felice’s officers gathered around his desk offering their opinions. He was both encouraged and worried to hear, “Madonna, non lo credo,” — I don’t believe it — and a few similar expressions of surprise and concern.

  Finally, as the babble subsided, Felice’s voice boomed through the speakerphone.

  “Henry. Connie. This is both amazing and very worrying. We have been after this man for a long time, but he is extremely cunning and manages to remain invisible. His name is Cosimo Graziano Rosselli. He is an assassin for the mafia in its various manifestations, but only for very exclusive, high-cost cases. His reputation is interesting. He’s not the average cold-hearted killer, a man without emotion or connection to the human race. This man prides himself in killing his victims painlessly if at all possible, and making their deaths look either like an accident or the work of someone else.”

  “Shades of Olivia Freneton,” said Henry. “The framing part, that is. Tell me, Massimo, if you know so much about him, how come he’s not in prison.”

  “It’s all speculation and rumour. There has never been any evidence against him and of course he’s protected by the mafia which means at a certain level, many public officials will leave him alone too. He is known melodramatically in mafia circles as The Shadow, like the baddie in some trashy novel from the 1950s. But it does reflect what he is like. He operates under the radar, is never seen anywhere near the scenes of his killings and there are always many alibis. We think he uses disguises a lot to get close to and gather information on his targets. He is known to use a dog as a prop to make himself seem harmless.”