Jigsaw Man, page 13
She took a sip of tea. It was good and strong, but Sharon had put sugar in it. She put the mug down and stared at Sharon. ‘You said you’d tell me what’s going on with the investigation,’ she said. ‘You said you’d find out. Is there any news?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Something must be happening. There must be some progress.’
‘I can ask again, but they won’t give me the sort of details you want. You know that.’
Donovan shook her head. It wasn’t true. If Sharon wanted to find out, she could. They would tell her. It wasn’t just Sharon either. They were all keeping things from her, important things, the details that mattered, the details that would help her find out who had killed Claire. They thought they were doing their best for her, protecting her from the truth, but they were treating her like a child. There must be another way to get the information she needed . . .
Eighteen
Tartaglia and Minderedes followed Ramsey’s car along the main road for a short distance to the small town of Aldford. It was nearly the lunch hour and the high street was busy with pedestrians and cars. The road was lined on both sides with fancy-looking teashops, antique shops and boutiques, and there was an ancient half-timbered building half way along on one side. It was raised off the ground on tall stone pillars, and a collection of market stalls stood in the space beneath, spilling out on either side along the road in front. Groups of shoppers gathered around. A car pulled out just in front of them and Ramsey motioned Minderedes to take the parking space while he carried on driving up the street. A few minutes later they saw him walking towards them on the opposite side of the road and they got out and crossed over to join him.
‘I’d forgotten it’s market day,’ he said, stopping in front of a large café that occupied the width of two shops. They followed him inside. The room was full, buzzing with conversation, punctuated with the cries and laughter of small children. A queue of people stood waiting to be served in front of the counter, which was laden with cakes, salads and sandwiches. A short, dark-haired woman stood at the end, making coffee behind a huge espresso machine. Seeing Ramsey, she came out from behind the counter, quickly wiping her hands on her apron, and greeted them.
Ramsey introduced Tartaglia and Minderedes.
‘I’m afraid there’s nowhere to sit,’ Liz Hallion said with an apologetic look. ‘We’d better go into my office. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s definitely quieter than in here.’
They followed Liz into a small room at the back of the kitchen and she explained how she ran a cake and coffee stand at the fireworks event every year. She had been busy setting up when she noticed a man hanging around. She thought there was something odd about him.
‘What sort of time was this?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘About four-thirty.’
‘So, it was getting dark.’
She nodded. ‘We’d just started to put up the lights for our stand, when he sort of appeared from nowhere.’
‘This was up by the top of the football pitch, near the recreation centre,’ Ramsey explained. ‘Not down by where the bonfire was.’
‘Our stand is the first one you come to when you go through the main gate,’ Liz continued. ‘Anyway, this chap just seemed to be wandering around for no reason, watching what people were doing. Members of the public aren’t allowed onto the ground until six o’clock, so I asked him if he was looking for somebody but he didn’t answer and just walked off. I was a bit worried, as lots of young children come to the party.’
‘The Guy was already on the bonfire by this time?’ Tartaglia asked Ramsey, who nodded. Assuming it was the same man who had put the body on the bonfire, it was classic behaviour to hang around watching and be involved in what was going on.
‘Can you describe him?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘He had a beard, with a woollen hat pulled down over his head.’
‘What colour was the hat?’
‘Navy, I think, or black. He was tallish, quite a bit taller than me, at any rate. I particularly remember his coat. It was long and a bit old-fashioned, made of dark grey tweed. Quite an expensive one, I think, which was odd, as he was pretty dirty-looking, like he slept rough or didn’t wash very often. I thought maybe he’d picked up the coat at a charity shop.’
‘By beard, do you mean stubble or something more than that?’
‘A good weeks’ growth, I’d say.’
‘What sort of age are we talking about?’
She grimaced. ‘Difficult to say. He was so covered up and his face was grimy, but somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, I’d guess.’
‘You didn’t hear his voice?’
She shook her head. ‘As I said, when I asked him what he was doing, he didn’t answer me. He gave me a look, as if telling me to mind my own business, then just wandered off with his hands in his pockets.’
‘Is this the man you saw?’ Minderedes asked, producing from his bag a copy of the E-FIT that Tatyana had helped put together.
Liz took the sheet and studied it for a moment, head to one side. ‘I’m trying to picture what he’d look like clean-shaven, but I just don’t know. Sorry.’ She handed the sheet back to Minderedes.
They took their leave and walked up the high street, Ramsey and Minderedes in front, discussing football, Tartaglia lagging a little behind. He was thinking about travellers and homeless people and beards and men possibly disguising themselves. Richard English was far too old to be the man Liz Hallion had seen, but had he disappeared by joining the ranks of the homeless? If so, why? It would have been a desperate measure and it didn’t fit with the little he knew of his character, although it wasn’t impossible.
At the far end, they turned right into another wide street lined on both sides with shops. Half way along, the shops petered out and a row of small, multi-coloured Georgian houses took their place. Ramsey stopped in front of one of them – the words The Old Bakery written in italics above the fanlight – and knocked. A moment later the front door opened and a woman stood on the doorstep. She greeted Ramsey and introduced herself as Annie Nichols to Tartaglia and Minderedes.
‘Is Josh here?’ Ramsey asked.
‘I sent him to school this morning but when your office rang, I called them. It’s only up the road. He’ll be back any minute now. You can wait in here if you like,’ she said, ushering them into a small, comfortably furnished sitting room at the front of the house. ‘If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.’
There was practically no mobile signal in the house and Minderedes and Ramsey went out to the street to use their phones. Tartaglia sat down in a chair by the fireplace, where a large wood-burning stove was giving off a considerable amount of heat. He stretched out his legs, enjoying the warmth, and picked up a copy of the Hampshire Chronicle, which was lying on the floor by the fire. It was dated that day and he leafed through it quickly but there was no mention of what had happened the previous night. No doubt the next edition would be full of it.
The front door slammed shut, he heard voices, and a moment later a scruffy, freckle-faced boy with spiky brown hair burst into the room, followed by Ramsey and Minderedes. He looked to be about ten or eleven and was dressed in school uniform.
‘Come and sit down, Josh,’ Ramsey said. ‘This is DI Mark Tartaglia and DC Nick Minderedes. They’d like to ask you some questions about what you saw yesterday, if that’s OK.’
Josh sat down on a small stool by the stove, while Ramsey and Minderedes took the sofa. He leaned forwards, looking at Tartaglia, then Minderedes. ‘It’s a real head, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘It’s possible,’ Ramsey answered.
‘But you think it is?’ Josh asked. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t stop the fireworks if it’s just a dummy?’
‘We can’t take any risks,’ Ramsey said. ‘We have to do things by the book, just in case.’
‘Well, it smelt pretty funny,’ Josh said. ‘And it looked like a real head. It had teeth.’
‘Tell us about the man you saw,’ Tartaglia said. ‘I hear you thought he was watching you.’
Josh shrugged. ‘The head was right at my feet, sort of smoking, like. It looked pretty weird but nobody else spotted it for a bit.’
‘Apart from the man,’ Ramsey prompted.
‘Yeah.’
‘Tell me about him,’ Tartaglia said.
‘He was looking at the head and then at me, like he knew what I was thinking, like he wanted to see what I’d do. I thought he was pranking me.’
Was the boy reading too much into things, Tartaglia wondered. But boys of that age were generally pretty sharp. ‘Is there anything else you remember?’
Josh shook his head.
‘How far away was this man from where you were standing?’
Josh looked across the room towards the open door. ‘About over there, where Mum’s bag is.’
Tartaglia followed his gaze out into the small hall. ‘So, quite close?’
‘Yeah.’
‘But it was dark?’
‘Not with the bonfire. I saw him, no problem.’
‘OK. What happened next?’
‘I was looking at the head, then this woman screams. Real loud it was, and she’s pointing at it and screaming, then these stupid girls start screaming, then people start running back up the hill to the car park.’
‘What did you do?’
Josh shrugged. ‘Nothing. It didn’t bother me.’
‘So you stayed put?’
‘Until the police come along and told us all to go.’
‘What about the man? What happened to him?’
‘I dunno. He wasn’t there when the police come. They made us all wait and took everyone’s name and address and asked us if we’d seen something. You were there,’ he said to Ramsey, as though Ramsey knew it all and it was pointless asking him anything else.
‘If you saw the man again, would you recognise him?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘Sure.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘A coat and a beanie.’
‘What sort of coat? What colour?’
Josh looked at him blankly. ‘It was a coat. It was grey, I think.’
‘Not a jacket, or anorak?’
‘No.’
‘What about the beanie?’
‘Black, maybe.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘He had a beard . . .’
‘A proper beard, or stubble?’
‘Stubble. Don’t remember his face.’
‘What sort of age was the man?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Have a guess.’
Josh scrunched up his mouth. ‘Well, he looked a bit like my friend Steve’s dad. He’s nearly forty but he tells everyone he’s thirty-two.’
Tartaglia smiled. Children were usually very bad at estimating adult age, as though anything over twenty was a stretch too far to think about. However, his description of the man he had seen tallied almost exactly with what Liz Hallion had said. ‘OK. Take a look at this computer-generated image and tell me if the face you see looks at all familiar.’
Minderedes pulled out the sheet and passed it to Tartaglia. As he held it up for Josh to look at, Tartaglia watched the boy closely but there was no immediate reaction.
Josh frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘If he had a beard, might that make a difference?’
Josh studied the image thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. Maybe it’s the man I saw.’ He clearly wanted it to be so, but his tone was uncertain.
‘Thank you,’ Tartaglia said, giving Minderedes back the paper. There was no point pushing it. He could see that Josh was disappointed.
‘The head is real, isn’t it?’ Josh asked again, as Annie Nichols appeared through the doorway.
‘Josh, do be quiet,’ she said. ‘Of course it’s not real.’
‘You think the man I saw put it there, don’t you?’ Josh asked, still looking at Tartaglia.
‘Josh,’ Annie said. ‘Stop badgering the poor policeman.’
Tartaglia stood up. What was the point of lying? Confirmed or unconfirmed, the story that the Guy Fawkes dummy had a real human head would be all around school by now and there would soon be coverage in the local press. Whether it had anything to do with the Sainsbury’s fire was another question.
‘Yes, Josh. The head’s real and it’s possible that the man you saw may have had something to do with it being on the bonfire. That’s as much as I can tell you for now.’
‘Goodness,’ Annie said. ‘So it’s true?’
Josh jumped to his feet. ‘Told you. Was the rest of his body real too?’
‘It’s very likely,’ Tartaglia said truthfully, his thoughts already elsewhere. A human head and body parts in a burnt-out car in London. A human head and body on a bonfire in Hampshire two weeks later. Even without a positive ID of the E-FIT, what were the chances?
Outside in the street, Tartaglia turned to Ramsey. ‘I’ll need to speak to whoever’s doing the autopsy. There are certain things they must be made aware of as soon as possible, just in case there’s a link with the case we’re investigating.’
His phone started to ring. Steele’s name was on the screen. Turning away from Ramsey, he gave her a quick run-down of what he had learned.
‘I need you here right away,’ she said, as soon as he had finished. ‘We’ve had the DNA results back from the lab and there’s no familial link between Richard English’s son and any of the body parts in the Sainsbury’s car park fire.’
‘Then maybe Richard English isn’t his father either.’
‘His first wife was adamant that he was. She said there was no question of it.’
‘Then maybe he’s still alive. Maybe he’s behind all of this. Maybe he planted the wallet and keys as a double bluff. Maybe he wanted it to look as though he was definitely dead.’ As he spoke, he knew it didn’t really make sense. Richard English would have known that it wouldn’t take them long to run the DNA tests. And anyway, why would a man like English have done such an extraordinary thing? What was there to be gained by it? They would have to investigate his background and the financial side of things a lot more thoroughly.
‘There’s one bit of good news,’ Steele continued. ‘We got a hit from the Missing Persons database. The tests confirm that the head from the Sainsbury’s fire belongs to a man called John Smart. He was in his sixties and disappeared about a year ago from an address in Battersea. His daughter’s listed as next of kin. Her name’s Isobel Smart and Sharon’s trying to contact her as we speak. I’ll email you the summary of the police report, so you can look at it on the journey back, and Isobel Smart’s address.’
‘OK. I’ll get a train from Winchester as soon as I can. Nick can stay and speak to the pathologist down here.’
Nineteen
‘Please can you tell me what happened to my father?’ Isobel Smart asked Tartaglia. ‘The female detective I spoke to earlier didn’t say much, except that he’s dead and that you’re treating it as a murder investigation. She said you’d fill me in.’ She looked at him expectantly, her wide mouth slightly open.’
It was early evening and they were sitting at the table in the kitchen of her mansion block flat in Battersea. She had arrived home from work only half an hour earlier and was still wearing a shapeless navy blue suit and pale blue blouse. She was on the tall side and overweight, but she had a pleasant oval-shaped face, framed by neat, chin-length brown hair. Looking at Isobel Smart, the words ‘functional’ and ‘businesslike’ sprang to mind; the sort of person who usually made a reliable witness in court. She sat awkwardly in the chair, shoulders slightly hunched and her large hands resting uncomfortably in her lap, fingers tightly intertwined as though she didn’t know what to do with them. Based on what he had read in the report, she had nothing to gain, financially or otherwise, from the death of her father.
He chose his words carefully. ‘We’ve found a body, or at least a part of a body, which we believe is your father’s.’ He didn’t know how else to describe it, not wanting to mislead her.
Her brown eyes stretched open in horror. ‘A part of a body?’
‘Yes. His remains were discovered in a burnt-out car a few weeks ago, but it’s likely he’s been dead more or less since he went missing.’
‘What happened?’ she asked, her voice barely audible. ‘How did he die?’
‘At the moment, we don’t know what happened, Miss Smart, but he certainly suffered a blow to the head that would have been enough to kill him.’
‘A blow? Could it have been an accident? He was often walking into things, not looking where he was going. His mind was always somewhere else.’
Tartaglia shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. And before you ask, I can’t tell you anything more for now.’
She sat back heavily in her chair. Her eyes filled with tears and she was silent for a moment, turning away to look out of the window into the darkness that had already fallen outside. He followed her gaze. Battersea Park was just on the other side of the street and the distant lights along the Thames embankment sparkled through the bare branches of the trees.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Smart. I wish we had more answers at this stage,’ he added.
She brushed the tears away with her hands and rubbed her eyes, then looked at him. ‘I guess in a way it’s a relief that you’ve finally found him. It’s been terrible not knowing where he was, wondering each day if he’d suddenly walk in through the door.’
‘Do you feel up to telling me what happened the day he went missing?’ The gist was in the Missing Persons report but he wanted to hear it first hand from her in case she could add any more colour.
She nodded, took a crumpled tissue from her jacket pocket and blew her nose. ‘I left the flat as usual about seven-thirty to go to work. He was having his breakfast. When I came home that evening he wasn’t here. His hat and coat were gone, along with his backpack. There was no sign that he’d changed his clothes, so I assumed he just hadn’t come home yet. I made supper and waited, but he never appeared. It wasn’t like him not to let me know where he was, and I was getting worried. I tried his phone but he didn’t pick up, so I called the police but they told me to wait twenty-four hours.’
