Chapter 5

 

“Looking good, April, how’ve you been?” her boss of the last three years asked as he took the seat opposite her and Tom.

Superintendent Paddy Frodsham hadn’t changed in the three months since she’d last seen him. Still as portly, more so in fact, and his whisky nose looked marginally redder and puffed up from the copious amounts he most definitely was partial to.

“Not brilliant considering I’ve been locked up for the past twelve weeks,” she answered flippantly.

He had the grace to look sympathetic. “No, I’m sure that must have been difficult, but it has been a necessary evil. Without that spell inside, we couldn’t have moved forward.”

It had been months since they’d initiated the undercover process. She knew exactly what was supposed to happen, but wasn’t entirely sure how much had been shared with the parole officer. She moved her eyes sideways towards Tom Campbell on her left, silently asking the question about how much he’d been briefed.

Her boss read her thoughts. “Tom’s up to speed about everything. He’s going to be your parole officer in every sense of the word. As you know, he’s assisted us with undercover work before.”

It was reassuring to hear everything was in place, so they could move forward straight away. Spending so long incarcerated had been a real endurance test when all her adult life had been about enforcing the law. To have to appear to totally disregard her police officer training in prison had been the stuff nightmares were made of. Frustration didn’t even come close.

“Do you want to explain your part,” Paddy instructed the parole officer.

Tom took his cue. “Everything’s set. Tomorrow I take you to the Carson Rider Gallery, and introduce you to the staff supervisor who’ll complete the necessary paperwork. All being well you’ll start work there the following day.”

April knew the plan. It had been a painstakingly slow process to get to the stage they were at now, and while there were no guarantees they could pull it off, she was confident she could. Failure wasn’t a word in her vocabulary.

“How long do you think we give it before I try my luck with Rider?” she asked her boss.

Paddy’s eyebrows knitted together. “I think that very much depends on when the opportunity arises,” he turned his attention to Tom, “we know Rider has a weakness for beautiful women,” he smiled affectionately at her, “and they don’t come any more beautiful than April. But we also know he’s no fool. We need to take our time, we can’t rush this.”

“How often do I meet with you?” she asked Tom.

“For the first couple of weeks, once a week, and then we can go to fortnightly all being well. It’s important that we do at least have telephone conversations. Parole officers are busy people, we don’t have the time or the resources to be visiting every ex-con.”

Even though her boss has said the sting couldn’t be rushed, she needed some clarification. She’d been away from her family for so long already.

“How soon realistically do you think we can have this all wrapped up?”

“As I said . . .”

“I know what you said, Paddy,” she interrupted, “but I need to have a time frame in my mind, even if it’s just ballpark.”

“We can’t put a time frame on it, April, you know that. We have to find out where he’s stashed the painting. As soon as we know, you’re out of there.”

That was easier said than done. The beautiful Magdalena Portillo portrait had been stolen four months earlier during the transportation from the airport to the National Gallery. There were absolutely no direct leads whatsoever, but intelligence had supported Dylan Rider being behind it. The police, along with the insurance company had examined cases over a number of years and suspected that he, and his brother, were more than likely behind heists of valuable artefacts. The difficulty was proving it. Each operation they carried out was very slick, and while they suspected Dylan and his brother had most definitely masterminded each robbery, it was going to be a considerable challenge getting the evidence to confirm it. To all intents and purposes, both brothers were affluent businessmen with not a hint of criminality between them.

Tom cleared his throat. “Far be it for me to pour water on a strategy the police force and insurance company have devised, but could I just say, while I understand this elaborate plan, and the lengths you are going to so you can expose this man, what makes you think Dylan Rider is going to spill the beans?” He gave a puzzled frown, “Okay, so he likes beautiful women, and even if April does entice him, he’s not going to tell her where he’s stashed one of the most expensive paintings in the world. Are you even sure he has it?”

“He has it alright,” Paddy replied curtly, “and others too. Not as valuable as the Portillo, but we’re confident that he’s got a stash of them and he’s not displaying those in that gallery of his, that’s for sure. It’s finding out where they are right now, and linking him to the initial robbery that’s going to prove difficult.”

“But you must have considered this could end up being a complete waste of time and resources? And to have April incarcerated for so long,” he looked directly at her, “I take it they paid you well for that.”

“She was paid well enough,” Paddy snapped, “and don’t call her April. From now on, she’s Gemma. Gemma Dean,” he emphasised, “have you got that?”

Tom nodded.

“You too,” he repeated to April. “You need to remember the importance of being Gemma from now on. Don’t think of yourself as April anymore, not for the next few weeks, at least.”

“I do know that, Paddy,” she glared, “I’ve been Gemma Dean for three months already.”

Did he not realise how convincing she’d had to be to play the part of a prisoner?

“Good,” he continued, “you don’t need me to remind you, not only do we need to get Rider from a legal perspective, the insurance company are paying millions to get the painting back. This has to work, and I have every confidence it will if we all stick to the plan.” He looked at Tom, “If it was anyone other than Gemma,” he emphasised the pseudonym, “then I’d share your concerns, but I know she will make it happen. There’s nobody better than her at this.”

April took a deep breath in. He was right, she’d done these stings before, but this would be her last. Not that she was going to tell them that. She always played her cards close to her chest, that’s why she was good at what she did.

Paddy began rounding things up. “Right, so everything seems to be in place.”

“Have you got my mobile phone?” she asked. She had the crap pay as you go one, but she wanted her own iPhone with all her contacts in.

“It’s in the flat. In the bedroom, there’s an ottoman. If you take the rug up, the floor boards lift. There’s a handbag in there with your own personal bits in it. It’s all been wiped though and replaced with fake stuff.”

Wiped?

Shit.

“Is my sister’s number still stored in it?”

“Yes, we’ve left that. You’ll find it under, Molly Tym. And there’s a small laptop with a fictitious Facebook account on it with photos of you as Gemma Dean. The password is all one word, MollyTym18. It’s all there in the handbag.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The police department are giving out handbags now are they? It’s not a Michael Kors by any chance, is it?”

“Rest assured, it isn’t,” Paddy replied curtly, “domestic staff cleaning toilets at an art gallery don’t as a rule, carry Michael Kors handbags.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, “point taken. What about the cover story, is that set up on the internet?”

“Yes, that’s been there a while. You worked for Forrest Mount Accountants in Wales and stole some money from the firm with your accomplice, David Grange.  He went to jail for five years, you for two. You’ve spent the last twelve weeks in Colverton open prison pending your release; it’s all there for anyone to see.”

“What about the stolen money?”

“It’s written that David Grange’s assets were frozen so the implication is the money was retrieved. You both got your prison sentences and your transfer to Colverton fits in perfectly as a way of rehabilitation for you, ready for your release. He’s supposedly still inside, and the accountants went into liquidation. As you know, that’s why we chose that particular company.”

“That’s good. They’ll definitely be checking it all out.”

“They will if they’ve got any sense. Dylan Rider’s no dummy. He’ll know everything there is to know about you before you even set foot in the gallery. Remember also, the last girl who went to clean there as part of a rehabilitation programme from prison, has since disappeared. We’re sure they got her involved in something illegal. We know when she left the UK, and she’s certainly not come back as yet. We have a customs alert to flag when she does.”

April turned to Tom. “What time do I need to be at the gallery tomorrow?”

“Five p.m. They like the gallery cleaning in the evening. I’ll introduce you to Ingrid Ruth, the supervisor. She’s had ex-cons before, but I need to warn you, she’s a strange one. Keep your head down, and don’t whatever you do get on the wrong side of her, otherwise she’ll have you out of there and you’ll not be retrieving any paintings, that’s for sure.”

Paddy stood up and moved towards the door. “Give me five minutes before you leave. Remember, Tom’s your point of contact. It’s more legitimate this way. It will be expected he’ll be keeping in touch with you. I’ll see you at eleven on Saturday at Victoria Park. And don’t rush this,” he warned, “we’ve come this far, we need to take our time.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she replied cynically, “you haven’t been locked up in prison for the last three months, and now stuck in a grotty flat for God knows how long.”

She thought about her beautiful home and how desperately she longed to be back sitting in her lounge, listening to music and clutching a glass of red.

“Yeah, but you’ll reap the rewards when the lot of them are banged up. That’s the police officer in you . . . Gemma. See you Saturday.”

“And good luck,” he said quietly as he closed the door behind him.

She stared at the closed door and then, and purely for her own benefit, she spoke out loud.

“This is it then. Goodbye April Masters . . . hello Gemma Dean.”

 

***

 

He was pissed off waiting.

Boredom had made him chew that much gum, his jaw ached. The car was becoming claustrophobic despite the window being open, and his eyes almost ached from staring at the back door of the parole office building.

He’d watched Paddy Frodsham slip in, and waited for him to leave about thirty minutes later. He knew April would give her boss time to get away before she left also, and, as he predicted, he used the back door.

He started the engine and put the car into gear. He wanted to be at the front of the building when she came out. It only took a minute or so and he found a space far enough away, but with a good view of the entrance for when she came out.

He fixed his eyes on the front door of the draconian building.

It had been twelve weeks and three long days since he’d last seen her.

Seconds later, she emerged and stood on the steps. He watched her scrunch her beautiful green eyes up at the bright sunlight, and reach inside her bag to pull out a pair of oversized sunglasses and put them on.

His gut thumped. From a distance she was as stunning as he remembered. Only she could make cheap chain store sunglasses, look sexy.

As she made her way down the street, he watched every step she took. She was graceful, like a gazelle with her long slender legs moving quickly as she hurriedly walked along the pavement.

He started the car and followed her until she stopped at the bus stop.

Where was she off to now?

She appeared every inch a woman without money in her faded jeans, oversized jumper and cap on top of her head. He couldn’t quite make out the logo as he was too far away. It’d be something cryptic no doubt.

Only he knew that underneath that ordinary exterior, was a beautiful young woman who effortlessly slipped into the role of a commuter.

Nobody in the bus queue would have any idea the woman stood alongside them was a highly decorated police officer.