Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (35 page)

“OK,” said Hurst. “See if he gave the number to reception. If she’s left it on, we might be able to trace it. Neil, get onto the tech people. Tell them to be on standby.”

Bursting back into reception and rekindling Anju Patel’s alarm, Jennifer didn’t even ask as she took over the keyboard.

“Got them!” she called to Derek, who had followed her down the stairs. “There’s the car reg and type. It’s a Passat, and there’s a mobile number.”

“Sing out the car reg, Jen,” said Derek, heading for the main door. “I’ll check the car park.”

As he ran back in a minute later shaking his head, he saw that Hurst, McPherson and Bottomley had joined Jennifer. Hurst was checking his watch.

“Shit,” he said, “it’s eleven twenty. We’re running out of time. How long will the techies take to trace the phone, Neil, assuming it’s on?”

“I’ll call them,” replied Bottomley.

Hurst ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

“Where has the bitch gone?”

“I don’t think we need to wait for the techies,” said Jennifer.

They all turned to look at her.

“I’ve been thinking about it, about where Freneton would go. Everything we’ve found this evening has shown that she’s copying her script for the Henry Silk case. Right down to changing her bra—”

“What?” interrupted Hurst.

“I’ll explain later. But the point is, it’s all for show. It’s all to wave two fingers at us. She knows that Baines is never going to be a suspect. She’ll have his phone, yes, but she will probably have turned it off. If she has, we won’t find her that way.”

She looked up at Hurst to see his features sag into weary submission.

“It doesn’t matter,” she continued, “we don’t need to. Given what she’s shown us so far, there’s only one place she’d go. In her shoes, it would certainly be my choice.”

Hurst was still frowning.

“Of course,” said Derek. “Harlow Wood.”

C
hapter 42

T
he girl, who called herself Mandy but whose real name was Gwo Li-fen, was nervous. Some of the other girls had warned her about taking on clients who wanted to pick her up in a car. Clients she didn’t know. Miruna had gone to her death like that, even though she’d had options. Mandy had fewer options: she needed every client she could get. She wasn’t attractive like Miruna, in fact Mandy wasn’t attractive at all. Rail thin and flat-chested, with poor teeth, small eyes and plain, round features, her client list was short, comprising mostly Chinese and other Asian men, many of whom were brutal, scornful of her and tight-fisted. Some even refused to pay her at all. She had debts; she needed the cash, and whoever he was, Johnny had sounded like he had money he was willing to sling around. Mandy hadn’t yet learned that if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Waiting on the warm August night in the shadows of the dilapidated house on Forest Road West, she took note of every passing car. She had learned to judge their speed and their driving manner, learned to look for an air of studied nonchalance on the faces of the drivers. She had also learned to spot cars that passed more than once in ten minutes and cars she had seen passing on other nights, cars that didn’t belong in the area. The police were a constant problem for her and the other girls. And she had to be especially careful because she was illegal. She had no genuine papers, and despite having paid a fortune for the fakes in her handbag — money she was still repaying at exorbitant interest rates — she knew they wouldn’t stand scrutiny. The last thing she wanted was to be sent back to China.

She was nervous, pulling at the strap of her bag, playing too much with her hair. She envied the other girls. They had all learned to adopt that amazing air of looking busy without actually doing anything. Avoiding eye contact and gazing into the middle distance, they could pace a ten-yard patch for hours, mobile phones attached to their ears like floor walkers in a stock exchange, giving the impression that any interruption would seriously disrupt their day.

She checked her watch. The man had called over twenty minutes ago saying he’d be only fifteen and there was still no sign of the car. Unbeknown to her, she had missed the first pass of the Passat when she had rushed back into the house to fetch her mobile phone from its charger.

A car was coming down the road. Was that the one? Its headlights flashed; it had to be. She tottered from the shadows to the kerb on heels too high for her and bent to check. The window was down and a single word barked from the dark interior. “Johnny.” She pulled open the front passenger door, got in and the car accelerated away.

“You’re late,” said the man. “Why weren’t you ready? You know there are patrols.”

“Sorry,” muttered the girl. “Forget phone.”

The man said nothing more as they drove along Forest Roads West and East, both of them keeping an eye out for any likely interception.

After stopping for the traffic lights, the car turned left onto the A60, heading north. Time for a question, thought Olivia.

On cue, the girl said, “Where we go?”

“Not far,” was all the man said, but now that Mandy was settled and taking in the surroundings of the car, his voice didn’t sound right. She needed to hear him say more.

“How much you pay?”

“I told you on the phone. A hundred. More if you’re good.”

It was enough for Mandy. As the car slowed near a junction behind two others, her hand was on the door handle, but Olivia anticipated the move. The locks clicked.

“Nervous, Mandy? No need to be.”

“You woman.” It was a statement.

“Is that a problem?”

“You police?” This time it was a question.

Olivia turned her head briefly to Mandy, her smile all reassurance as she dropped the Birmingham accent.

“No, Mandy, I’m not police, no way. I’m someone who likes a good time, but I need to be careful. I especially like Asian girls, Chinese girls like you.” She brushed Mandy’s cheek with the back of her hand. “And I can be very generous.”

She paused, but Mandy was still looking straight ahead, both hands clasping her handbag.

“Surely going with a woman isn’t a problem for someone with your experience?” purred Olivia gently.

Mandy chewed at a fingernail. She couldn’t care less but she wasn’t about to admit it. Reluctance might make this woman willing to pay more. On the few occasions she had had female clients, she’d found them far better than the men — they were more gentle, they always paid what she asked and they hadn’t beaten her up.

The tired buildings of northern Nottingham began to thin out. Mandy was suddenly nervous again. She didn’t know this area well and she didn’t know the countryside at all. Miruna had been killed in the countryside.

“Where we go?”

“Somewhere nice and quiet where we can relax on this lovely evening. Have some fun in the night air. It’s not far.”

Mandy was still far from sure and she certainly didn’t want to be lying on the ground in some field. She was, however, reassured by the fact that this woman seemed to be in no hurry, her driving pace leisurely.

“What your real name?” she asked.

Olivia smiled, wondering what name she should use. But why did it matter? Within half an hour this girl would be dead.

“Olivia,” she said.

“Pretty name,” said Mandy. “I like Western name. That’s why I Mandy. You give me money now?”

Olivia pointed to the glove box. “There’s an envelope in there.”

In a flash the girl had opened the glove box and was counting the five crisp twenty pound notes. She was wide-eyed, but it didn’t prevent her wanting more.

“You say you pay more,” she said, a hint of petulance in her tone.

“I might, Mandy.” Olivia glanced at her and caught her eye. “If you’re good.”

“I good,” said Mandy, tossing her head.

Half a mile from Harlow Wood, Olivia tensed as she heard the sound of a siren as a police car hurtled towards them from the opposite direction, blue flashes lighting up the fields in the distance. She braced herself for a confrontation. She didn’t really want to kill young uniforms, but she would if she had to. The car appeared from round a bend but raced past them. Without slowing, Olivia watched it in the mirror until it disappeared.

She stopped the car by the barrier, the same one as before, which she knew from a check earlier wasn’t locked. As with Miruna, she asked Mandy to get out and lift it, but unlike the Romanian girl, this one obliged without a hint of protest. Olivia was amused to watch as the girl stumbled along unsteadily on her high heels in the gravel and mud.

The barrier down once again, Olivia drove the car the three hundred yards along the unsurfaced lane to where she had stopped with Miruna.

She turned off the engine and, clicking on the interior light, she turned to study the girl’s face properly. She was surprised by how unattractive she was, despite a heavy application of make-up. No wonder she was pleased to see the money; pity she’d never enjoy it.

She turned off the light again, plunging them into darkness.

Mandy felt her nervousness increasing. She didn’t like the dark and she didn’t like the woods. The trees, backlit by the almost-full moon, waved their branches in the slight breeze, beckoning to her. To Mandy’s eyes, the movement was eerie and threatening; she knew that woods harboured ghosts. She wondered where Miruna had been killed. It was in a wood, she knew, but she didn’t know where. The name would mean nothing to her anyway. Her eyes darted around the deep shadows as she gulped in panic when she thought that maybe it was this wood. Perhaps Miruna’s tortured spirit was lurking here, looking for companionship.

“Not like woods,” she pouted, both her hands clamped on her bag.

Olivia sighed. She needed the girl to relax, to get into position.

“Not a country girl, Mandy?” She reached out and touched her hand. “Don’t worry about this place, I often come here to enjoy the peace and quiet, even at night. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Too dark,” complained Mandy. “Turn on light.”

“Why not?” said Olivia, reaching up for the switch. “There.”

“Big light,” said the girl, pointing towards the front of the car.

Olivia was less happy to do this, but it would only be for a few minutes. She rotated the headlight switch.

As Mandy visibly relaxed, Olivia explained that she wanted her to open the door briefly and give her room to climb into the passenger seat.

“Then you can kneel in front of me,” she added as the girl put her feet down outside. “You’re little; I like that. There’s plenty of room, especially if you slip off those shoes, give yourself more room.”

As the girl settled in front of her, Olivia reclined her seat.

“I can’t wait to get out of these horrible clothes,” she said, tugging on her belt. “Would you like to help me, Mandy?”

While Mandy took over, unzipping the trousers and pulling them and Olivia’s underwear down together, Olivia casually reached her arms back over her head to check the position of the side-handle baton she’d stowed when she got in the car at the hotel. She grasped the handle, ready to strike, but then suddenly gasped. Mandy had moved faster than she’d expected and was already exploring her with her tongue, the thought of more crisp twenty pound notes pinging in her head like a cash register.

Enjoying the sensation more than she’d expected, Olivia relaxed her grip on the baton, stretching her arms and body to enjoy a few more moments of indulgence before she ended the girl’s life.

Jennifer had been wrong about one thing in her predictions of Olivia Freneton’s behaviour: whether it was oversight or deliberate, she hadn’t turned off Baines’ mobile. Its shrill ring, the tone set to that of an old-fashioned house phone, shattered the silence in the car. Olivia sat up with a jolt, instinctively hauling up her clothing and fastening her trousers. She grabbed the device from her jacket pocket, while Mandy sat back on her heels, wondering what was going on.

Olivia glanced at the screen to find that there was only a number displayed. She thought for a moment as the harsh ringing continued. It probably wasn’t Baines’ wife since a name and possibly a photo would display. But Baines was a louse — Olivia wouldn’t be the first woman he’d picked up in a hotel bar. It could be a girlfriend or some previous conquest, and he’d be stupid to put a name against the number in case his wife saw the contact list. She smiled to herself. This was an opportunity to screw him a little further. She punched the answer button.

“Yes,” she purred into the phone, her voice deep and seductive.

“Good evening, Olivia,” said Mike Hurst. “Your car is surrounded and all the exits from this wood are blocked. Don’t make matters worse for yourself by hurting the girl. Let her be and give yourself up.”

C
hapter 43

M
ike Hurst’s car, driven by Neil Bottomley, had arrived minutes earlier at the barrier marking the entrance to the lane leading from the main road. The patrol car that had led the way had pulled up on the tarmac beyond the barrier, the driver having been instructed by Hurst through the radio to kill the siren and flashing lights about two miles down the road.

A uniformed constable ran from the patrol car to lift the barrier and Bottomley drove slowly through, followed immediately by Derek driving his Mini Cooper. Jennifer was in the front passenger seat.

On the way, Hurst had radioed for backup and had now received confirmation that patrol cars, six in all, were in position at strategic points in the square of roads beyond the boundaries of Harlow Wood. An armed response unit was still some minutes away.

As they rounded a bend about fifty yards along the lane, Hurst suddenly instructed Bottomley to stop.

“Rob,” he said to McPherson, who was sitting in the back, “go and tell Thyme to leave his car there and join us here in mine. And tell Cotton that she’s to remain in Thyme’s car. Emphasise that until we’ve got Freneton in custody, she is not to move and under no circumstances to leave that car. She’s not jacketed like us, and I don’t want her involved in any action. Don’t leave her in any doubt; threaten to handcuff her to the steering wheel if she objects.”

He reached up to move the interior light switch so that the light wouldn’t come on when the door opened.

“And, Rob, quietly does it,” he added, his voice low.

McPherson ran back to the Mini Cooper, indicating to Derek that he should lower the window.

“First thing, Thyme,” he said as he stuck his head into the car, “is move that switch on the interior light.”

“Already done, guv. Jennifer—”

“Good,” interrupted McPherson. “Next thing is that Hurst wants you to join us in his car. Only you, Thyme. Cotton, you’re to stay here and not move a muscle.”

“But guv—” started Jennifer.

“Hurst said that if you objected, I was to handcuff you to that,” he said, pointing to steering wheel. “So shut it.”

Jennifer narrowed her eyes at him, her lips pressed together in frustration, but said nothing further. Instead, she watched in steely silence as the two men ran over to the other car and got in. Its lights off, it disappeared into the darkness around the next bend.

As the lane straightened out, the four detectives saw the Passat about two hundred yards ahead of them, its interior lights burning and its headlights picking out the trees and lane ahead of it in stark relief.

“Stop here, Neil,” said Hurst as he reached into the glove box for a pair of binoculars.

Bottomley had been inching along at a slow walking pace. Rather than touch the footbrake, which would send a red glow out behind them, he pulled on the handbrake.

Hurst passed the binoculars to McPherson while he radioed the patrol cars once again to ensure that one was in position at the far end of the lane. He didn’t want a car chase should Freneton spot them and drive off.

“The doors are closed, Mike,” said McPherson as he focussed the binoculars on the Passat. “Freneton’s still in there with the girl. They’re in the passenger seat; the girl in front facing her.”

“Christ!” said Hurst, through clenched teeth. “That’s where she was when she clobbered Miruna. It can’t be more than a few moments until she does the same to this girl.”

He considered his options. His main concern was that if they charged the car, Freneton might still injure or even kill the girl out of spite. But if they waited for the armed response unit, the outcome would probably be the same: the girl could die as they waited.

He turned in his seat to look directly at Derek and McPherson. Speaking fast, he said, “We can’t afford to wait, but she mustn’t know we’re coming. Slip out of the car and get along the lane to the Passat. Keep low. Thyme, go to the left, there’s a slight clearing by the car. Stay in the dark. She won’t see you approaching from the passenger seat. Rob, take the right side of the lane. When you’re both close, I’m going to try Baines’ number. If you hear it ring, give her time to answer it. She’ll be distracted for a second or two, giving you time to dive for the doors. Thyme, try to extract the girl. Her life is a priority. Rob, the driver’s seat is empty. Immobilise the car by grabbing the key from the ignition. As soon as I see you open the doors, Neil will hit the throttle and we’ll be with you. If Baines’ number doesn’t work, we’ll hit the lights which will be your cue to move.”

Derek opened the rear passenger door next to him and slipped out. McPherson did the same on his side.

“Lads,” called Hurst in an urgent whisper. “If you see Freneton raising the baton to strike the girl, don’t wait, go for the doors.”

Keeping one eye on the Passat’s passenger seat for Freneton’s arms, Hurst peered into the gloom immediately ahead of them. He could just make out the two men on either side of the lane as they ran in a crouch towards the car.

“Mike,” said Bottomley, as he saw Freneton’s arms reach behind her. His hand twitched on the gear stick, ready to move.

Hurst lifted the binoculars to his eyes and saw that Freneton’s arms had stretched upwards, her hands still not holding anything. “Wait!” he hissed.

“They’re in position,” said Bottomley. “Thyme’s moved to the left and Rob’s hovering low by the boot.”

“OK, I’m dialling the number,” said Hurst.

A moment, then, “It’s ringing.”

Hands gripping the steering wheel, Bottomley heard his boss say, “Good evening, Olivia. Your car is surrounded and all the exits from this wood are blocked. Don’t make matters worse for yourself by hurting the girl. Let her be and give yourself up.”

Before Hurst had finished, he saw the two detectives spring forward from their respective positions. In one fluid movement, Derek opened the passenger door, grabbed the girl and pulled her out of the car. He used the momentum of the pull to swing her wide and send her rolling towards the nearby bushes.

Bottomley shifted into first and gunned the engine, headlights now on full beam.

No sooner had Jennifer watched Hurst’s car disappear into the gloom than she realised that she was desperate for a pee. The adrenaline rush of the frantic race to the hotel from Freneton’s house, followed by the locating first of Freneton’s hotel room and then Peter Baines’, and finally the high speed race through the mercifully quiet streets from Nottingham had all totally occupied her mind. But now, in the silence and darkness of the car, her bladder made its presence felt and she knew she had to obey, regardless of Hurst’s instructions.

“Sorry, boss,” she whispered, “but when a girl’s got to go …”

She clicked open the door and slipped to the rear of the car. Then she remembered that round the bend immediately behind her were two uniformed officers who at any moment might come charging towards her in response to a call from Hurst. She didn’t want to be squatting in the lane if that happened; she’d never hear the last of it. She thought of going instead to the front of the car, but the same argument applied.

There were dense trees to the left side of the lane, but mainly shoulder-height bushes to the right with a few scattered trees, the going far less dense. She walked quietly into the bushes, sufficiently far that she couldn’t be seen from the lane. She was about to squat down when the moon broke from behind a cloud, its light reflecting on something shiny a few yards ahead of her. She pushed away some branches to reveal a pristine off-road motorcycle resting on its stand under a tree. It was facing along a narrow path that led back to the lane.

Her need to pee temporarily forgotten again, she turned on the torch on her phone and reached down to touch the engine. It was cold; the bike had been here some time. Her eyes roamed over the motorcycle’s sleek lines. A KTM, it appeared to be almost new, not a mark on it. She ran a hand through her hair. No one would leave a bike like this hidden here without a specific purpose. The nearest houses were several hundred yards further along the road in a small estate carved out of one part of Harlow Wood. She shone her torch onto the ground around the stand. There was no sign that the bike had been parked here before — it wasn’t its regular spot. Then the realisation dawned: it
had
been parked here before, just once. This motorcycle was part of a contingency plan, a getaway vehicle if everything went pear-shaped. Once astride it and moving, the rider was only yards from the lane and seconds from the main road. With a bike like this, Freneton wouldn’t even need to stick to the roads: she could cut across fields if she was being pursued. She would have parked it here at the time of the Miruna Peptanariu killing. When it hadn’t been needed, she had come along the next day, long before Miruna’s body had been found, and retrieved it. Today, she was following the same script. And if the interception that was about to go down along the lane went wrong and she escaped, she might well want to use it.

Jennifer’s bladder was now pleading with her once again, one step from taking matters into its own hands. She unzipped her trousers and squatted down. As the sense of relief flowed through her, she considered what she might do to immobilise the motorcycle.

The surprise of two screaming policemen tearing open the Passat’s front doors and the petrified little Chinese prostitute being ripped from in front of her eyes delayed Olivia Freneton’s response by a second at most. Derek Thyme was still swinging Mandy around and away from him when Olivia reached for the side-handle baton. She could see that McPherson’s first priority was the key; his eyes were not on her. He had made the mistake of half climbing into the car as he lunged at the key dangling on the right side of the steering column.

Gripping both the baton’s handles, Olivia executed a vicious swing that connected squarely with the bridge of McPherson’s nose. Blood burst from the flattened tissue, spraying onto the windscreen as McPherson collapsed onto the seat. Olivia raised the baton again and whipped it down on his head with every ounce of her considerable strength. She didn’t wait to see the effect: no one could be on the receiving end of such a blow and remain conscious. Instead, she focussed her attention on Derek Thyme, who was both bigger and stronger than she was. She jumped from the car in time to see him turn towards her as he recovered from the momentum of swinging the girl away from the car. At the same moment, she became aware of the roar from the engine of a fast-approaching car. A grim smile appeared briefly on her lips as she assessed her situation. Neither Bottomley nor the ageing Hurst would pose much of a problem individually — Olivia fought far dirtier than they’d ever imagine possible — but the combination of all three men together posed a problem. And maybe Jennifer Cotton was with them. Four to one were not good odds, and they would be even worse when uniformed officers arrived, which they undoubtedly would.

Derek’s eyes were now fully focussed on Olivia. There was no time for her to circle and feint; she needed to attack. Gripping the baton with both hands and swirling it menacingly, she advanced, hoping Thyme would be distracted into watching it while she positioned her feet. Her eyes not leaving his, she waited until she saw him glance away for the briefest moment. Then she pounced. Stepping forward onto her left foot, she swung her right leg up, snapping it straight into a powerful kick as she did. She was aiming low, given his chest was protected by the reinforced jacket. Her foot buried itself in Derek’s crotch and he tumbled backwards as if his feet had been torn from under him.

It wasn’t a permanently crippling blow, she knew that, although he would be incapacitated for several seconds, at least. She wanted to finish him with the baton but she couldn’t — she could hear Hurst’s car screeching to a halt on the gravel and its doors opening. Any second, at least two overweight men would be throwing themselves at her and she didn’t want to be distracted by killing Derek Thyme as they did.

As she sprinted the few steps necessary to reach the car, she saw Hurst was half out of the passenger door. She launched herself at it, spinning to hurl a kick at the handle. The door smashed back into place, slamming onto Hurst’s right arm. There was a crunch of breaking bone as he yelled in pain. Olivia wanted to gloat, to enjoy the moment, but she couldn’t afford that luxury. She started to raise the baton, ready to give Hurst the same treatment as McPherson when she heard the crunch of twigs underfoot followed by a piercing scream. Spinning around, she saw Mandy launching herself at her, the point of the knife clutched in her hand heading straight for Olivia’s chest.

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.