Olivia reacted fast. In a blur, her left hand whipped across the path of the blade to deflect it. The move worked, but instead of Olivia’s hand connecting with the girl’s wrist as intended, it found the razor-sharp edge of the knife. The blade cut deeply, blood spurting from the wound. Instinct took over as the pain seared through Olivia’s left arm. She flicked her right wrist upwards and the baton, still clutched in her right hand, smashed into Mandy’s chin like a prizefighter’s uppercut. The blow lifted the girl from her feet, sending her tumbling backwards, but as Olivia stepped forward to finish her, a voice behind her said, “Give it up, Freneton, it’s over. We’ve got you.”
It was Bottomley, the fat little detective sergeant. Olivia snarled, invigorated by the challenge – he hadn’t even got a weapon; he was just standing there, slightly hunched. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thyme climbing groggily to his feet. This was getting out of control. As Bottomley took a step towards her, she flicked her liberally bleeding hand at him, spraying blood into his face. He faltered and she swung the baton at him, catching him in the mouth. There was a choking yell as he grabbed at his face and sank to his knees.
“Stop, you bitch!”
It was Hurst. He was stumbling towards her, his right arm dangling. He was clearly in great pain. She had to leave: there would be uniforms arriving in seconds and she’d be lost. Hurst was about eight feet away and advancing. She weighed the baton in her hand and then threw it hard at him. It was a clean shot, catching the side of his head and bouncing off into the bushes. As he too sank to his knees, Olivia took to her heels, tucking her bleeding hand under her right arm as she raced off along the track.
Standing about six feet to one side of the motorcycle’s rear wheel and well shadowed by bushes, Jennifer was startled by the commotion along the lane that began with Derek and McPherson screaming as they wrenched open the Passat’s doors, the noise intended to disorient and distract the occupants. She considered running to join the men but then she remembered Hurst’s order. She pulled a face. Better get back to the Mini Cooper and wait; the four of them should have no trouble subduing Freneton. Moments later, as she turned away from the bike, she heard Hurst’s voice yelling at Freneton to stop. She froze in her tracks. His voice had sounded different, strained. When Hurst’s cry was followed by a dull thump and the crunch on gravel of pounding feet as someone raced down the lane in her direction, she realised that Freneton had not been stopped, that she was escaping. She crouched in the bushes and waited.
The pounding of feet was suddenly replaced by the sound of twigs and small branches snapping as Freneton broke from the lane into the bushes, ploughing her way through the undergrowth towards her bike. Jennifer pulled her body lower and waited.
The stillness surrounding the motorcycle was shattered as Freneton burst from the bushes. Jennifer had half-expected her to vault onto the machine, but instead she stopped on its right side, took hold of the grip with her right hand and eased herself on.
It was then that Jennifer saw Freneton’s left hand tucked under her right armpit. She was injured! Jennifer waited as in one motion Freneton leaned forward on her feet to push the bike off its stand while she reached under the fuel tank to where she’d hidden the key. When she turned it in the ignition switch, Jennifer knew it wouldn’t work: she’d cut the cable feeding it with a small pair of scissors she kept in the bag now slung round her neck.
This was the moment she should have pounced, while Olivia was still processing the fact that the bike was dead. But she didn’t. Instead, she waited the extra second that was all Olivia needed to work out exactly what was going on. When Jennifer burst from her crouch and hurled herself at the figure on the motorcycle, her hands outstretched to grab her collar and pull her off, Olivia was ready. She ducked down, flattening her body onto the petrol tank, shifting the weight of the frame to her right foot as she leaned the bike in that direction. Jennifer saw her move but her arms were committed as they flailed forward. An instant before their bodies collided, Olivia brought her right elbow up sharply, burying it in Jennifer’s diaphragm.
The impact lifted Jennifer’s feet from the ground. Olivia pushed with her right foot, but the bike’s rear wheel slipped on the loose stones and it slid away under her. Both women fell onto the motorcycle’s frame, Jennifer on top but half paralysed by the blow to her body.
Olivia tried to push Jennifer’s body up and away from her, but she didn’t have the leverage and Jennifer sagged back. She needed to use both hands. Wincing with the pain of the cut, Olivia pushed Jennifer’s torso upwards, her bleeding left hand now full in Jennifer’s face. Then, bringing her right knee up to her chest, she shoved her hard with her foot, sending Jennifer rolling away.
Olivia sprang to her feet. She could hear people running along the lane, voices shouting in question. She glanced down at Jennifer, who was clasping her chest, but clearly regaining her strength. She wanted to finish her, this clever little bitch who had ruined her fun. Contingency plans were one thing — there were several outcomes to this mess already mapped out — but retribution was another. One voice in her head was screaming at her to finish the girl now — it would only take seconds. But another voice told her that every second counted; that she had to leave. The first voice got the upper hand and she lashed a foot out at Jennifer’s gut, burying it deeply, a gasp exploding from Jennifer’s mouth. A second vicious kick, this time to the side of her head was rewarded with a loud grunt of pain.
She stood back. She didn’t have time to kick Jennifer to death; she needed a weapon. Her eyes scanned the gloom around the fallen motorcycle searching for a branch, or better, a rock. Then she saw it, a large flat stone four feet beyond the bike’s front wheel. She could hear the blood pumping through her head as the adrenaline filled her body with the strength for this final act before running into the darkness, before torches suddenly filled the scene with stark white light and strong hands grabbed and subdued her. Then above the rushing of her blood, she heard other sounds: the crashing and breaking of undergrowth, and the screaming of a voice getting louder and closer, a desperate, anguished plea for a response.
“Jennifer! Jennifer!”
She had bent over, her hand was on the stone, but it was too late. She stood and looked over to where Jennifer’s now motionless body lay in a jumble of dishevelled clothing, hair, leaves and mud, her face covered in blood. Maybe the final kick to the head had been enough.
“Jennifer! Jen!”
Olivia turned, away from the direction of the lane, away from the shouting and running. She broke into a trot, her right hand pushing away the branches, her left back in the protection of her right armpit. Even this potential escape had been planned, a ‘what if?’ She knew where she was going and she had the edge. The discovery of Cotton’s body would distract them, slow them. She didn’t have far to go.
She was only twenty feet into her escape when she heard Derek Thyme crash through the bushes into the small clearing behind her.
“Jennifer! Oh, Christ. Jen!”
C hapter 44
Swirling grey mist and billowing smoke covered everything, making it impossible to see clearly. There were fires everywhere, fires lapping at her feet, fires singeing her shoes, fires still finding fuel in scrub already blackened to a crisp. But she was cold. So very cold.
She was following two men, one ancient and white-haired dressed in a ragged, stained toga, the other a younger man wearing doublet and hose, like someone out of the Renaissance pageants so popular in Italy. She couldn’t see their faces or hear their voices, but from their animated gestures, they were clearly arguing.
Huge gates loomed into view through the mist and smoke, their tortured hinges creaking, metal tearing against metal. She didn’t want to pass through the gates; she’d have given anything not to pass through them, but she had no choice: the two men ahead seemed to be drawing her on, controlling her feet.
On the other side, through clouds of ash, she could make out a sea of anguished people, te
rror in their faces as they tried to avoid clouds of hornets that stabbed at them incessantly.
As she drew level with the gates, she looked up at an engraved panel filled with writing. The last part was level with her eyes.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
“No!” she screamed. She pushed herself away, back into the mist and smoke behind her. The two men turned and beckoned.
Jennifer. Jennifer.
She was fighting her way through a forest, alone now, then wading through a river blazing with fire that in an instant became a sea of mud, clawing at her, clinging, pulling her down. Thunder crashed and her name echoed across the sky.
Jennifer! Jennifer!
The storm disappeared and the sky filled with a blinding light, dazzling her, torturing her eyes as the sound of the voice calling her name became louder and louder.
Jennifer!
A hand was squeezing hers.
Her eyes opened and focussed slowly on Derek’s face. He was smiling at her but his eyes were etched with fear.
“Jennifer,” he whispered, “you’re back.”
She looked at his face in incomprehension.
“Where have I been?” she croaked.
“I don’t know, Jen, but you’re here now.”
In spite of trying to inject encouragement into his voice, it was full of doubt.
She drifted off again into a troubled sleep of demons. Tall identical female demons all with the same face. Olivia Freneton’s face. One had a hand dripping blood, one was wielding a massive side-handle baton, far too large and heavy to lift but nevertheless she was lifting it. Another was holding a large fluffy white cat in her arms. The cat was terrified. That particular Olivia Freneton pulled her lips back in a snarl as the cat tried to wrest itself from her clutches. The others were all screeching with laughter at its terror.
Jennifer’s eyes shot open.
“Languid!” she screamed.
“Shh. It’s OK, Jen,” said a male voice close to her ear. “Hey, you’re sweating.”
A damp cloth dabbed at her face.
She turned her eyes to see who was holding the cloth.
“Derek?” she said, her voice the thinnest of whispers.
He beamed. “Yes, Jen, it’s me, Derek. You know me?”
She frowned. “Of course I know you,” she whispered. “Why shouldn’t I? What am I doing here? Why does my head hurt?”
She shifted her body slightly and winced. “Ouch. And my chest. Why does that hurt?”
“Jen, they said it would be a while till you remember, they said …”
He stopped. Her eyes had closed again. She was asleep.
He bit his lip. He’d been lying to her. What they’d actually said was that there was a strong chance she’d never wake up, and if she did, she might never regain her memory. Then the doctor had patted him on the arm, thinking perhaps he’d overstated it.
“Of course, she might wake up and be fine, Mr Thyme. It does happen.”
Derek had glared at him. You wouldn’t put money on it though, Doc, would you?
The operation had lasted nine hours. There were blood clots in her brain that if not reached and dispersed would cause permanent damage. And even with them dispersed, her survival was in the lap of the gods. That had been three weeks ago. Jennifer had remained comatose since. Vital signs good, brain functions better than expected, but still comatose.
There was now just a nothing. No people, no spectres, no form, no sound, no colours. Nothing. Then, after about a century, distantly, she heard the faintest sound, the vaguest suggestion of air moving, the gentlest of onshore breezes barely strong enough to disturb a few hairs on her head. Zephyr breezes. And slowly, glacially, the nothing brightened as the breeze picked up. It was soothing, soft, cooling.
She opened her eyes, looking straight up into the light.
“Derek?” she said.
When there was no answer, she moved her eyes to one side. There was someone there but outside her field of vision. She willed her muscles to turn her head. It wasn’t Derek. This man was white. This man was …
“Henry,” she said softly. “Oh, Henry.”
A tear welled from the corner of her eye.
“Welcome back, Jennifer. I knew you’d make it,” he said softly, fighting the emotion in his voice. “No daughter of mine would be beaten by a little bump on the head.”
She stared at him for a long time. Finally she said, “I don’t remember the bump on the head; I can’t have seen it coming. But I do remember her elbow jabbing into my ribs like a spear. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so much pain.”
Henry’s mouth was working, his eyes creased with pleasure.
“You remember that!” He was ecstatic. “How wonderful! Not the pain of course, but how wonderful that you remember. You’re really back, Jennifer.”
He stroked her forehead below the bandage covering her head.
“She broke three of your ribs,” he said. “They were amazed that your diaphragm wasn’t punctured.”
“Did they catch her? Tell me they did.”
When he didn’t answer immediately, she knew.
“But they had the area surrounded,” she protested, her forehead creasing as she strained to remember. “OK, Hurst knew it was a risk but there wasn’t time. She was going to kill the girl. They couldn’t wait for the armed response unit; it would have taken too long. Did they save the girl?”
“Yes,” said Henry, his tone guarded. “They saved the girl.”
“That’s a relief,” she sighed, momentarily missing the hesitancy in Henry’s voice. “So my beating wasn’t quite all for nothing.”
Again, there was no response, only a look of sadness, regret.
“There’s something you’re not telling me. Derek! Is it Derek?”
He shook his head and squeezed her hand in reassurance.
“Derek’s fine. He’s been here for days, sitting by the bed, holding your hand, whispering your name. We all have, but Derek took the lion’s share. I think he felt responsible.”
“Idiot. It was my own fault.”
She paused. “What do you mean, ‘we all have’?”
“Derek, Pietro and I, we’ve sort of taken it in turns.”
“Pietro? He’s here?”
“Yes. He came straight over. He wanted you flown to some top clinic in Switzerland, but they said you couldn’t be moved. Too dangerous.”
“Typical Pietro.”
He squeezed her hand some more.
“Jennifer, I’ve dreamed for the last three weeks of having this conversation, of hearing your voice, hearing you remember.”
His voice faltered. “After what they said, when they operated on you …”
“Three weeks? I’ve been out of it for three weeks?”
“And two days, yes.”
She suddenly grinned. “When did they let you out?”
He laughed, the sound rich, resonant, full of joy. “The day after it all happened.”
“The day after she tried to have you killed?”
“You remember?”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
She sighed. “And they let her get away? How in hell did that happen?”
“I don’t know the details of it. Derek will tell you. I do know they were distracted by what had happened to you. You were obviously badly injured. Your heart stopped in the ambulance.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was close. Very close.”
She nodded as her forehead puckered again in a frown. The fragments of what happened were only coming together slowly.
“I heard Hurst shout. He sounded odd.”
“She’d hurt him. She hurt them all. Not Derek so much, he took a kick to the groin. Just winded really. But …”
“But what?”
“Jennifer. DI McPherson is dead. She killed him.”
“She …” Jennifer thought she would choke as she felt her thro
at contract. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Rob McPherson?”
She sniffed and spluttered a sad laugh through a sob, her lips moving in all directions as she tried to speak.
“He threatened to handcuff me to the steering wheel.”
“It’s as well he didn’t; you’d have been a sitting duck for Freneton.”
“Henry? Can I sit up? Will they let me?”
“I think it’s OK,” he said, leaning forward to put an arm behind her back. “No sudden movement though.”
“Henry, I want you to hold me. Put your arms round me. Oh, God. Poor Rob. He was a lovely man underneath that gruff exterior. Do anything for you.”
She leaned her face into his chest and sobbed. He let her cry; let her pour out the pain.
Later, Derek filled in the rest of the details. Mike Hurst had blamed himself for everything, even though it was understood that any delay would have resulted in the death of the Chinese girl.
“As it was, she was probably only seconds from being whacked,” said Derek. “The bosses reckon he should’ve tried more over the radio on the way. The armed response unit was only a few minutes behind. They claim he should have called them earlier. If he had, they would have been there with him.”
“I don’t agree,” said Jennifer, shaking her head. “He called them as we were running from the hotel. I heard him. He was yelling down the phone as he got in the car. There was no reason to call them before. We just got there first — nineteen minutes, I think it was. Bat out of hell stuff, but it made a difference. And there was no reason to think it would get so violent. He made a tactical decision to go straight in.”
Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller Page 35
