Jigsaw Man, page 10
‘When exactly?’
‘The first text from her is a thank-you for lunch. It was sent on the twenty-ninth of August.’
Donovan thought back. The date meant nothing, but she would look in her diary. She’d been in Bristol at that time, trying to sort out digs and other things in preparation for the academic year ahead. She had barely seen her sister, and when she had it had been pretty rushed. She noted that Steele had left out the details of exactly where and how Claire had met the man, and hadn’t mentioned the flowers he had sent her. Did she think it was unimportant, or had she decided to give Donovan just the very bare bones? Probably the latter, but if she asked about it and let on that she had spoken to Nicola, the shutters would come down and Steele wouldn’t tell her anything more.
‘Can you trace him from the texts and emails?’ she asked.
‘I was coming to that. He told her he lived in Manchester, but the address he gave at the hotel is false, as, I’m sure, is the name Robert Herring. The phone chip he used is untraceable. However, both the emails he sent her and the calls he made to her, came from in and around the London area. West London, to be more precise.’
‘So, he lied. There’s a surprise.’ She felt a surge of anger and tears flooded her eyes. She wiped them away quickly with her sleeve, but they kept coming.
Steele got up and went over to her desk. She opened one of the drawers, took out a bottle of Rémy Martin and a glass and poured a large measure.
‘Here,’ she said, coming back to where Donovan sat. ‘This should help.’ She passed her the glass, together with a box of tissues, then sat down again. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this, Sam? We can save it for another time if you like.’
Donovan blew her nose forcefully and took a slug of brandy. It caught on the back of her throat, making her cough, but the instant warmth felt good. ‘It’s OK. I’ll be fine. Please go on.’
‘There’s no identifiable geographic pattern, unfortunately.’
‘As though he knew someone might look for it.’
‘Maybe. That email address and phone chip were only used for contacting your sister, nobody else.’
‘So you’re suggesting he did this deliberately?’
‘It’s looking that way.’
‘But why?’
‘It could be a simple explanation. He’s married, or lives with someone. Whether he meant to kill her, or just deceive her, is another matter. It’s very possible things just got out of hand in the hotel room.’
‘Do you believe that?’
There was a momentary pause before Steele replied. ‘Difficult to tell at the moment. There are a number of conflicting possibilities. Say he’s married, wants a bit of fun on the side, a bit of romance. He gets himself a throwaway phone and an email address and tells her he lives out of London to explain why he’s not always available. According to the texts between them, they met several times and had had dinner twice before. Your sister books the room, thinking she’s in for a lovely, romantic evening, then something goes wrong. There’s an almighty fight. He ends up killing her and then he legs it, just before one in the morning.’
‘But you must have found his DNA, surely?’
Steele shrugged. ‘It’s a hotel, and the room’s been occupied more or less without a break ever since the hotel opened a few months ago. There’s no sign of sexual contact, if that’s what you’re getting at . . .’
Donovan frowned, trying to think it all through. What had Claire been doing there?
‘Maybe he’s a client or a business contact . . .’
Even as she spoke she remembered what Nicola had told her and realised her error, unless of course Claire had lied to Nicola. But why would she? Claire could have explained away the flowers any number of ways. If only she could get rid of the fog in her brain, maybe things would become clearer. She took another large sip of the brandy, letting it warm in her mouth before swallowing. No sexual contact. What was the point of the hotel room then?
‘That’s very odd,’ she said after a moment, as dispassionately as possible. Steele looked at her and said nothing. ‘I mean,’ Donovan continued, ‘what man would lure a woman up to a hotel room if he didn’t want sex?’
‘I agree. Maybe things got out of hand very quickly and there wasn’t the chance.’
‘There’s another way of looking at it,’ Donovan said, after a moment. ‘Maybe from the outset he meant to kill her.’
‘OK, but if that’s what he wanted, why go to so much trouble? If he wanted her dead, there must be so many easier ways to do it. And, anyway, why would he want her dead? He’s not some ex-lover gone berserk, she barely knew him. The texts from both of them make it all very clear. We’ve checked the system and there’s no record of anything similar happening anywhere else in the country, which is why I feel that, for some reason, it all went pear-shaped up in the hotel room.’
Steele spoke in her usual quick, clipped manner. She seemed to be talking frankly, but Donovan was sure it was an edited version. The strange, little, quirky details were missing. They were what mattered, what made all the difference, but there was probably no way of prising them out of her. Donovan decided to crosscheck everything Steele was saying with Tartaglia later. Maybe she could also use what she had learned as a lever to persuade him to be more open.
A series of loud explosions shattered the quiet and the sky through the window was filled with another burst of multi-coloured light. She folded her arms and sat watching the arching trails of green and red mingled with gold. Shimmering splashes of white stars, like giant sunflowers, took their place, accompanied by more explosions. She needed to go home, get some sleep and think it all through again in the morning. Hopefully, the mist would lift and she’d be able to see clearly once more.
* * *
Tartaglia pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and started to unpack the contents of Chapman’s rucksack, which he’d laid out on a plastic sheet on the floor of his office. Chang sat beside him making an inventory.
‘One pair blue denim GAP jeans size forty, one pair Primark navy tracksuit bottoms size XXL, one pair black Adidas shorts XXL, one pair Nike trainers size forty-eight and a half—’
‘Forty-eight and a half?’ Chang exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell! Didn’t know they made them that big.’
‘Goes with the rest of him,’ Tartaglia replied. ‘You’ve seen the photos. He could have given Shrek a run for his money. One wash bag containing toothbrush, razor, Lynx Africa body spray . . .’
The list went on, a collection of unremarkable personal items and clothes, most well-worn and in need of a good wash, no items of any value other than a very scratched iPod. The side pockets yielded little of interest until he found a pocket inside another pocket, which was zipped shut and held together with a small combination padlock. They broke it open and found Finnigan’s passport (expired) inside, along with just over two thousand pounds in cash, a very sharp knife with a retractable blade and a bundle of letters rolled up and held together with a rubber band. Tartaglia unfurled them and began quickly skimming through the contents of the various envelopes. A couple of letters and postcards were signed by Chapman, with a few from one of Finnigan’s children, as well as a birthday card and a bunch of letters from his mother, sent from an address in Nottingham. Reading the letters, a mother’s blind, unwavering love came through loud and clear: in spite of everything, Finnigan had been her blue-eyed boy. They would have to organise someone from the local force to go and see her as soon as possible in order to break the news of her son’s death.
In amongst the pile, he found a letter from a woman called Tatyana. Written on cheap lined paper, the sort found in any local newsagent, the English was poor and the handwriting childlike. It revealed nothing about how they had met, but she talked about having been to see Finnigan in prison and ‘liking very much’ what she saw. The gist of it was that she couldn’t wait for him to get out and that she was going to send him some ‘very special pictures’ of herself. He hadn’t come across any photos in the bag, so either Finnigan had got rid of them or carried them with him, possibly in his wallet. It seemed very likely that she was the woman he had gone to meet. There was no address on the letterhead, just a date a few weeks before Finnigan was released from jail. The date corresponded to the postmark on the envelope, which showed that the letter had been posted in South West London.
‘Call the prison. She will have had to produce ID and a proof of address to see him. I’ll carry on here until you’re done.’
While Chang went off to make the call in the next-door office, Tartaglia finished unpacking the rest of Finnigan’s possessions. When he was sure there was nothing else of any interest, he began folding up the clothes and putting them back carefully in the bag with the other items. Finnigan’s mother would probably want her son’s things. He was just finishing the last few entries on the inventory when Steele poked her head around the door.
‘Busy?’
‘Yes. Justin’s gone to make a call. With any luck, we may have found one of the last people to see Jake Finnigan alive.’
‘OK. I’ll get someone else to run Sam back to your flat, then.’
‘Sam?’
‘Yes, she’s in my office. She wanted to know a bit more about what happened to Claire. I could see she wasn’t going to give up on it so I gave her the basics. I just left out the material details. In case she asks you when you see her later, I’ll fill you in before you leave.’
As she disappeared from view, Chang came back into the room. ‘She’s called Tatyana Kuznetsova and she lives in Kilburn. I’ve got the address. Do you want to go over there now?’
‘No. I’ve got things to do. Call the local station, see if you can get an interview room, then you and Nick bring her in. I want to make this formal. When you’re there with her, call me.’
Fourteen
Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ blared from loudspeakers as the last straggling tail of the procession pushed through the gateway at the top of the sports fields. Dressed for the cold, most still carried lighted torches and sparklers from the walk down the high street. They mingled with the rest of the crowd, already collected in huddled groups around the various food vans. Josh scanned their faces for Alfie and Ben, but there was no sign of them. Their mum was always running late. He just hoped they’d get there in time for the fireworks.
The voice of the announcer cut through the music.
‘We’ll be lighting the bonfire any minute now. Make sure you stand well back behind the tape. Fireworks start in half an hour.’
The crowd swarmed across the pitch and down the adjoining field towards the dark row of trees. Josh ran forwards, trainers slipping in the mud as he threaded his way as quickly as he could to where the giant tepee of wood stood at the bottom of the slope, near the stream. He eventually managed to push his way through to a place at the front by the rope, next to a group of teenage girls eating hotdogs. The smell of fried onions and ketchup made him feel hungry and he wondered what he’d be having for his tea. His breath made a cloud on the icy air and he hugged himself, tucking his hands under his armpits as he stamped his feet, trying to get some warmth into his toes. He gazed up at the bonfire. It was way bigger than last year’s, made up of all sorts of things, from what he could see in the dim torchlight: planks, branches, pieces of furniture, and the gaps at the base stuffed with twigs and scrunched up newspaper. Looking up, he could just make out the bulky shape of the Guy, sitting like a king on top of it all, in an old red armchair.
‘Here we go,’ the announcer said cheerily. ‘Light him up, boys. Let him burn.’
A couple of sixth-formers from school stooped down in unison, holding their lit torches briefly to the edges of the bonfire before scuttling back behind the rope. For a moment nothing happened; the twigs seemed to catch alight before being blown out by the wind with little puffs of smoke. He caught the smell of damp, smouldering leaves as well as a strong whiff of petrol. It had been raining heavily the night before and he was just beginning to wonder how long it would take to get going when flames jetted up in several places from the base of the bonfire, as though someone had turned on a gas fire.
In the flickering light he could see the Guy more clearly. He’d been dressed in an old pinstriped suit, with a shirt and tie, and a pair of work boots on his dangling feet. A cowboy hat was jammed down on his head, above a leering mask for a face that made him look like The Joker. The flames took hold quickly. Before long, they were licking the Guy’s feet, catching the bottom of his trousers, then creeping like fingers up his bent legs. Josh could feel the heat on his cheeks and held out his hands, trying to blot out the music and the buzz of voices around him, until all he could see was the burning figure in the midst of the flames. A gust of wind sent a cloud of smoke and a shower of sparks over the onlookers but he stayed where he was, listening to the cracking and spitting of the wood as the flames leapt higher. The Guy’s hat was on fire now, the mask blistering away until it had all but disappeared, leaving just a black, featureless blob of a head.
The flames reached high into the sky, the Guy caught in the middle of the blaze. Josh stared deep into the heart of the fire, imagining shapes and faces from long ago, instruments of torture, the masked executioner and the screams of a man being burned alive. Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot . . . As the words flowed rhythmically through his mind, the Guy’s head tipped forwards, lolling onto his chest. For a moment it looked as though he had gone to sleep. Then the head dropped into the fire. It bounced against something and rolled out onto the grass, coming to rest right by where Josh was standing. It lay there charred and smoking. Looking closer, it was amazingly lifelike, with a nose, dark sockets where the eyes should be, and a mouth. He even thought he could see teeth between the parted lips. Wondering if anyone else had noticed it, or if it was perhaps some sort of a joke left over from Halloween, he glanced around. Most people seemed to be busy talking amongst themselves, sipping their drinks, or watching the fire. He caught sight of a man standing on his own by the rope just a few feet away. He was looking right at Josh as though he had been watching him.
Then a woman screamed.
Fifteen
‘I don’t give a flying fuck that your visa’s expired and that you’re here illegally, Miss Kuznetsova,’ Tartaglia said. ‘But if you don’t cooperate, the immigration services will be the least of your worries. Do you understand?’ He smacked his hand hard on the table in front of her, making her start. She had the sullen, defiant stare of somebody used to being interrogated and he had decided that subtlety or charm would be wasted on her.
She pressed her thin red lips together and nodded.
They were sitting in an airless meeting room in Kilburn police station, he and Minderedes together on one side of the small, coffee-stained table, Tatyana Kuznetsova opposite. It had taken a while to track her down but they eventually found her waitressing in a Turkish restaurant in Salusbury Road, Queens Park – conveniently just a stone’s throw away from the police station. She had refused the services of an interpreter, saying that she spoke English, although she seemed to understand a lot more than she was capable of expressing. She was younger than he had expected, in her mid-twenties, with short, chin-length black hair and a round, not unattractive face, spoiled by too much make-up. She was still in her work clothes: a grubby apron tied around her waist over a short black skirt, white shirt struggling to stretch across her show-stoppingly large and artificial-looking breasts. They seemed all the more extraordinary perched on her scrawny, bandy-legged little frame. Nonetheless, Finnigan must have thought ten Christmases had been rolled into one when she visited him in jail, particularly after his long stretch inside.
‘Do you recognise this man?’ Minderedes asked, holding up a photograph of Jake Finnigan.
She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
He leaned across the table and waved the photo in front of her face but she avoided eye contact, looking straight ahead like a sulky child pretending she was somewhere else. He slapped the photo down hard on the table in front of her. ‘Look again. I think you do. You went to see him in Wormwood Scrubs Prison last March.’
She made no reply.
‘There’s a record of it. We’ve got scanned copies of the IDs you showed.’ He held them up in front of her nose. ‘Crystal?’
‘Do you understand?’ Tartaglia asked.
She shrugged, shifting her gaze momentarily to Tartaglia. ‘OK. Maybe I go see him. What’s the problem?’
‘Jake Finnigan’s dead. He was murdered. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ He spoke slowly and deliberately. He wanted her to be in no doubt.
She nodded.
‘This happened shortly after you went to see him, when he came out of prison.’
A flicker of something crossed her face and she narrowed her black eyes, as though quickly calculating something in her mind. Then her expression shut down again. ‘This is very serious, Miss Kuznetsova,’ Tartaglia continued. ‘We have a letter you wrote to him after you went to see him. You sent him some photographs. “Very special pictures” you called them.’
‘Dirty pictures,’ Minderedes said, with an unpleasant tone.
She looked blank.
‘Pornographic,’ Tartaglia added. He was only guessing. They hadn’t seen the photos she had sent to Finnigan, but the odds were well in his favour.
‘Do you like to take photographs of yourself naked and send them to older men?’ Minderedes asked.
Her cheeks turned pink as though she had been slapped, the first sign of any emotion, but she made no reply.
