What had emerged was the possibility of Freneton including Grace Taverner on her list of targets. Jennifer had immediately called Derek to tell him that the local force in Pateley Bridge should be asked to keep a check on her.
Jennifer knew all too well that she herself was a prime target, but it was unlikely that Freneton would walk up to her front door and knock. Much more likely was the probability that she would wait until Jennifer emerged from her apartment for a run or a bike ride. The Park was always quiet, the roads used only by the residents and delivery services. Someone running or cycling would be an easy target. Derek had worked this out as well and had made Jennifer promise that she wouldn’t take a break for a spot of fresh air and a run. Jennifer had agreed at the time but after over two hours of intensive brainstorming, she was becoming frustrated. Right now, there was nothing she would rather do than pound the streets.
The hours slipped by without any further news from Hawkins’ meeting with the assistant chief constable. What was taking so long? Jennifer was sure that a search of Freneton’s house would reveal something, some insight into how she was thinking. It was an essential step if they wanted to move forward.
Finally, at nine thirty in the evening, Derek called to say that the search warrant had been issued. Hurst, McPherson and Bottomley were about to drive to Freneton’s house in Wollaton, accompanied by a uniformed team in three patrol cars. Derek himself had been told to pick up Jennifer and take her directly to the house.
“Whatever took so long?” said Jennifer as she piled into Derek’s Mini Cooper almost before he had stopped outside Lincoln View House, her arms overflowing with her bag, the collection of A3 sheets and her two main notebooks.
Derek’s foot hit the throttle and the car shot off along the Park’s often-inadequate tarmac.
“The ACC proved to be a wimp. According to what Hawkins told Hurst, he was in total denial about Freneton, wouldn’t accept anything Hawkins was telling him. Hurst said they had a row that will become the stuff of legend. It’s as well that Hawkins isn’t hoping for any more promotion because he didn’t mince his words in telling the ACC what he thought of him once he realised the man didn’t have a spine.”
“What was his problem?” asked Jennifer, struggling to shuffle her papers into order as Derek threw his car around the network of tight corners that led from the Park.
“Didn’t want to accept the responsibility of the possible fallout if Hawkins was wrong. It seems that Freneton had the man shaking in his shoes. He wanted to refer it all up to the chief constable.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“The chief constable’s on holiday and the deputy chief, who’s acting for him, was at some high-level meeting in London. Out of contact. Hawkins had to virtually beat the ACC about the head with all the evidence against Freneton before he finally capitulated. And even then, it took another half hour to get the warrant signed.”
“Jeeze, what is it with these people?” snorted Jennifer. “They put all their officers on the front line while they sit at their desks being important, and yet when push comes to shove, if one of their own is implicated in something, they close ranks, refusing to believe what their detectives, whose judgement is totally trusted in other situations, are telling them. If Freneton gets away, or worse, completes all the tasks on her wish list, it’ll be his fault.”
Derek glanced at her and grinned. “You sound like Hawkins, Jen. He was breathing fire when he came back downstairs.”
He nodded to the pile of papers on Jennifer’s lap. “What’s all that lot?”
“I’ve been doing a spot of brainstorming based on everything we have. I’m still trying, and so far failing, to predict what Freneton’s up to, what she’s planning, why she’s still here in Nottingham when all her instincts must be telling her to leave.”
“You mean apart from her burning desire to whack you?”
“Yes. And to that end, you are keeping an eye on traffic behind us, I hope.”
Derek’s eyes automatically darted to the mirror. “Thirty-two-ton truck bearing down on us, anti-tank gun mounted on the cab roof. You know where the seat ejector button is, don’t you?”
“I’m serious, Derek.”
“So am I, you muppet. We’re not being followed. Trust me; I’m good at this.”
“Sorry. Getting a bit twitched. I’ve only ever been threatened by football hooligans before and they always came off second best. This is a whole new game.”
“D’you think there’ll be something at her house?” asked Derek. “She can’t have taken everything with her, surely.”
Jennifer watched as another motorist lurched out of the way of Derek’s blast on his siren, the blue light flashing. “You’d think so, but if she’s got a second place somewhere, all the significant stuff could be there. The Wollaton house might be a smokescreen.”
“Well, I guess we’re about to find out,” said Derek as the car screeched to a halt behind a patrol car outside Freneton’s house.
Jennifer could see a group of uniformed police officers jogging up the path towards the figures of Hurst, McPherson and Bottomley who were standing in a huddle by the front door.
“Didn’t Hawkins come?”
“No, he stayed at the SCF. I think he’s dreaming that Freneton will pop in to pick up her handbag and he’ll nab her.”
“Good luck with that,” said Jennifer, wincing as the battering ram carried by one of the uniformed officers removed the obstruction of the house’s front door.
“How big is the garage, Derek?”
“Pretty standard. Why?”
“Not big enough for another vehicle?”
“Not a car, no.”
“But space for a motorbike, perhaps?”
“Yes, I should say so, especially since Freneton’s car isn’t too big.”
“You’re right. It’s an eminently forgettable white Honda Civic, as I recall. Millions of them around. There’s even another one parked along the road. Look. She could come and go from here without anyone really registering it.”
“What’s your point, Jen?”
Derek had the driver’s door half open. He was getting agitated, wanting to join in the search of Freneton’s house.
“Only that if she left her car here, possibly never to return, she must have had some other form of transport. She wouldn’t have called a cab; it would be too traceable.”
“She could have got the bus. The stop’s only five minutes walk away on the main road.”
Jennifer shook her head. “Could’ve, but I doubt it. She’d probably have been carrying something, a bag or two, and she would want to minimise the risk of being seen. She wouldn’t have wanted to bump into a neighbour.”
“I’ll check for anything in the house. You know, insurance papers, service manuals. We already know that she has no other vehicles registered in her name or the other names we know she was using. Look, I really should get in there. Will you be OK here?”
Jennifer looked around. The street lighting wasn’t good.
“I’ll be fine; there are several uniforms around. But if you like, I’ll go and sit in one of their cars.”
“Good idea, Jen, I’ll tell them to keep an eye on you.”
As Jennifer hurried over to one of the patrol cars, a middle-aged uniformed constable she knew opened the door for her.
“All right, Jennifer, lass? Sit yourself down; we’ll keep you out of any trouble.”
She grinned at him. “Thanks, Ted. Nice to know I’m in safe hands.”
Jennifer could see Hurst and the others moving around the house, all the rooms now ablaze with light. She was itching to join them, but for now it was forbidden territory.
After five long minutes, her mobile rang and Derek’s voice boomed in her ear.
“She’s not here, Jen, but she’s been here recently. There’s still fresh food in the fridge.”
“Is there a computer?”
“No sign of one yet.”
“Modem?”
<
br /> “Er, no, I don’t think so. Not one here in the hall and I haven’t seen one in the living room.”
She nodded. “She must be using a dongle. Less traceable. What about clothes?”
“Wardrobe’s pretty full.”
Jennifer drummed her fingers on the seat in frustration.
“Listen, Derek, could you ask Hurst if I can come in? He must agree that Hawkins’ main worry was my safety and since there’s obviously no danger, it should be fine. I’m going crazy out here.”
“Hang on.”
She heard footsteps and the mutter of voices. Then he came back on the line.
“Come on in, Jen. The boss says no problem.”
“OK, Jennifer,” greeted Hurst as she joined him in the kitchen. “This place is fairly minimalist, more of a hotel suite than a home. We’ve got some uniforms knocking on a few doors. I know it’s late, but we need to know how often they see her. Maybe someone saw her last Friday when we know she must have been here. There’re bound to be one or two around who spend their days snooping through the net curtains.”
“Do we know if she rents it or if she’s buying it?” asked Jennifer.
Hurst shook his head. “No idea. I suppose HR might know. But my guess would be renting, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Jennifer, nodding her agreement. “What about her car?”
“What about it?”
“Is it hers or is it rented? Is she paying in instalments?”
“Why? What’s your point?”
“I’m trying to understand the way she thinks. If it’s not hers, it’s one less thing she has to consider. Stop the payments and walk away. The rental company will come knocking to reclaim it eventually, but she’ll be long gone.”
“Yes,” growled Hurst. “Another indication of her meticulous planning. Thyme, go and have another look at the car. See if there’s anything there to help us.”
As Derek scuttled out of the kitchen, Jennifer turned to Hurst. “Boss, I’d really like to check out the wardrobe, see what clothes she’s left here.”
“I’ll lead the way,” said Hurst. “And Jennifer, I for one recognise that you are a civilian. It’s Mike.”
Jennifer smiled after him. “Actually, I have no problem with ‘boss’, especially now that I feel back in the thick of things.”
As they walked into the bedroom, Jennifer immediately noticed the clothes Olivia had abandoned on the floor the previous Friday. Her visit had clearly been a brief one, she thought. She’d changed, picked up whatever she needed — which must have been packed and ready — and then left. No ties, no attachments.
She was surprised to find the wardrobe was full of clothes, a mixture of police uniforms, both regular and formal, a number of fashionable dresses, trousers, skirts, jumpers, cardigans and blouses, all neatly hung, and next to them a set of unfashionable items. From amongst these, she pulled out a full, pleated dark blue skirt, a worn navy blue jacket that looked like it came from a charity shop, and two cream cotton blouses in a style she would be generous in calling dowdy. Three pairs of spectacles sitting in a box on a shelf next to the hanging items were equally plain. Jennifer picked them up to look through them, doing a double take when one pair proved to be staggeringly thick, while the lenses in the other two pairs seemed to give no optical correction at all. She opened a large and shapeless handbag sitting next to the box. Inside was a copy of Christianity Digest.
“Boss,” she called out to Hurst, who was searching a cabinet in the bathroom, “do you know if Freneton is religious at all?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” he called back. “Hardly fit in with what we know about her, would it?”
“Why?” he added, walking back into the bedroom.
She held up the magazine and pointed to the clothes.
“These must be her disguises from when she was staking out the hotels. I wonder if we looked carefully at the CCTV from the Old Nottingham lobby, we would see her there wearing this stuff in the days leading up to the murder.”
“Certainly worth a look,” agreed Hurst. He tugged at an ear. “Christ, she was nothing if not thorough. Left nothing to chance, did she?”
Jennifer wasn’t into admiration. “Remind me, boss, she was at work in the days leading up to the murder, wasn’t she? I mean, she wasn’t taking time off?”
“No, she was there. Out and about a bit, as I recall — she was always claiming that she needed to get a feel for the city, being relatively new to the place. Why, where are your thoughts leading you now?”
She flashed a brief smile at him.
“Well, she could always have done the staking out in the evenings, I suppose. Come back here, change into this stuff, and go out again. But I reckon that for some things she needed to know, like watching Henry’s movements for example, she would need to be there in the daytime, or late afternoon. She wouldn’t really have had time to come all the way here. So, I’m wondering where she changed. I mean, the apartment or house we think she’s using might be nearby, but I don’t reckon that works since she’s not likely to have used the Old Nottingham more than once. So, I’m thinking somewhere or something more useful, more versatile.”
“Like a van?”
“Yes, exactly. A transit van would be perfect. She could leave it somewhere nearby, change in the back and pick it up whenever was convenient. A nice anonymous white van. There must be tens of thousands of them in this country, which makes them invisible.”
Hurst was now with her.
“But of course, she wouldn’t drive it here. It wouldn’t fit in the garage and she wouldn’t want to be seen in it. So wherever she’s hiding out must have a large garage space, probably with an automatic door. This could be promising, Jennifer. I’ll get some of the researchers onto it first thing. We’ll get hold of all the CCTV tapes from street cameras in Nottingham from the time of the Silk case. See if we can spot Freneton near the Old Nottingham dressed in that gear. She might lead us to where the van is parked and if we’re really lucky, we might see her driving it and get a plate number. With that, we could get an address.”
“Not wishing to appear negative, boss, but that’s a lot of lucky breaks. However, it does raise an interesting point. Freneton would think the same way. What I mean is she might anticipate us thinking along those lines eventually. After all, she is a police officer. She’d know that we’d probably locate wherever she’s staying sooner or later, so this convinces me that once she’s finished whatever it is she’s planning here in Nottingham, she has no intention of returning.”
Hurst took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks.
“You’re probably right, Jennifer, but as we’ve found, she’s not perfect; she makes mistakes. If we can find this place, even if she’s long gone, she might have left something behind. After all, she left that clothing.”
He glanced at the wardrobe and then the bag that Jennifer was still holding. “Anything else in those?”
“Nothing,” she replied.
“You know,” continued Hurst, “you have to hand it to her. When she set up the situation with Silk, and with the others in previous years in other cities, she ran the events like a script from a play. She had everything accounted for; she was leading us by our noses knowing what we’d find and how we’d interpret it. It wasn’t only the sucker she put in prison that was duped, it was us too. She rubbed our noses in it every time.”
He turned and saw that Jennifer was staring intently at him, a light on in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments ago. She was looking at him but not seeing him. She suddenly put down the bag she’d been holding and rushed over to her own bag and papers that she’d put on the bed. She grabbed the sheets of A3 and spread them out, her eyes darting around the data. She ran her fingers over the boxes, arrows, highlights, following the information down to where she’d written ‘Exit Strategy’, ‘Finale’ and ‘Swan Song’.
She looked up, a victorious gleam now in her eyes.
“What is all that stuf—” s
tarted Hurst, but she interrupted him.
“That’s it, boss, you’ve hit the proverbial nail fairly and squarely,” she said as she tapped the words that had thrown the switch in her head.
“I have?”
“Yes. God, it’s so obvious! I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Don’t you see, she wants to leave on a high, to embarrass us, or rather you, the force, since I’m no longer a part of it.”
She paused, frowning. “She’ll definitely have other plans for me. But what better way to collectively rub your noses in it, as you put it, could there be, while at the same time show her superiority, show how clever she is, and how daring.”
She beamed at him.
Hurst had still not turned the page. “You’re not making any sense, Jennifer.”
Jennifer gathered up her bag and the papers.
“She’s planning another murder, boss. She’s going to honey trap some man, drug him, dress up in his clothes, pick up a prostitute, kill her, plant all the evidence and then disappear. You’ll locate the man from the CCTV of his car, connect him to whatever hotel he’s using and to the scene, but you’ll know full well that he didn’t do it. You’ll have the usual ton of evidence but you won’t be able to use any of it. You’ll have to deny its value, say it’s worthless. She’ll still partly achieve her usual aims — she’ll kill a prostitute, demonstrate what a shit the man is by letting himself be picked up, perhaps wreck a marriage into the bargain, and embarrass the hell out of you for letting the whole thing happen under your noses. Reputations ruined, egg on many faces from the chief constable downwards. Meanwhile, Freneton will have flown; probably left the country.”
Hurst was now several shades paler than seconds before. He nodded as he absorbed everything she’d been saying.
Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller Page 31
