Jigsaw Man, page 18
‘In spite of what the police said, it didn’t make sense his disappearing,’ Tony Boyle said. ‘He wouldn’t just go off somewhere, so I knew something must have happened to him.’
‘You saw him the night before he disappeared?’ Minderedes asked.
Tony nodded. ‘He’d been working on that BBC thing . . . what’s it called?’ He looked over at Jim.
‘It was a play for Radio 4, one of the Sherlock Holmes stories.’
‘That’s right. He came into the Sun afterwards for a pint on his way home.’
‘He seemed perfectly normal,’ added Jim. ‘Other than some gripe about how little he was getting paid, not a care in the world.’
‘What did you talk about?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘Nothing particularly interesting, as far as I can recall. I remember they’d finished the recording and he wasn’t working the next day.’
‘He didn’t mention being worried about anything, however small?’
Tony grimaced. ‘He certainly talked about the plans for his birthday at the weekend. He was really looking forward to it, although Isobel had insisted on organising it, which was tricky.’
‘Tricky in what way?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘Well, he couldn’t exactly ask Rose, could he? But I could tell, even though he didn’t want to criticise Isobel, he really wanted her to be there too and I think he and Isobel had had a bit of a row about it. They were barely speaking the week before he disappeared.’
‘Is Rose his girlfriend?’
Jim laughed. ‘Good lord, no. She’s his other daughter.’
‘I didn’t know he had another daughter,’ Tartaglia said.
‘Nor did he, until a couple of years ago,’ Jim said. ‘Then this woman writes to him out of the blue, saying she’s his daughter. It was quite a shock.’
‘Is this Rose?’ Tartaglia asked, taking out the photo of the young, dark-haired woman from his bag.
‘That’s her,’ Tony said. ‘She’s a lovely girl. He often used to bring her to the pub for a drink or a bite to eat. He couldn’t take her home, of course, what with Isobel being so tricky.’
Jim nodded. ‘Rose got in touch with him via his agent. At first he thought it was a try-on, someone after some money, or something. But then he met her and she was the spitting image of him, only pretty. There wasn’t any point doing any of that DNA testing business. It was clear as crystal she was his.’
‘Who’s the mother?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘Some actress he had a fling with when he was in rep, back in the early eighties,’ Tony said. ‘She only told her daughter who her real father was recently.’
Jim nodded. ‘John said the woman was also married so I suppose that’s why.’
‘And Isobel knows about all of this?’ Tartaglia asked, thinking back to their conversation. It explained why she had wanted to shut out all questions about her father’s private life. She had then lied about not knowing who ‘R’ was.
‘Most definitely. Eaten up with jealousy, I think, poor thing. Didn’t want to share her father with anyone.’
‘I suppose she was just defending her mother, or her mother’s memory,’ Tony said. ‘But Isobel refused to meet Rose and it really hurt John. His son, Ian, was OK with it in the end, luckily. He’s got a family of his own and I guess he could afford to be more grown up. But Isobel was a right bitch about it, if you’ll excuse my French. She said if Rose came to his birthday, she’d leave.’
‘Do you know how we can get in touch with Rose?’ Tartaglia asked, deciding he would speak to Isobel immediately the interview was over.
Tony shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen her since John disappeared.’
‘She lives out of London, somewhere,’ Jim said. ‘I remember she was worried about missing her train home. I think it went from Paddington.’
‘Isn’t she an actress?’ Tony asked.
‘A set designer, I think,’ Jim said. ‘Freelance. Or at least something to do with the theatre. It’s obviously in the blood, although Isobel hasn’t inherited any of it. She’s much more like her mother. Not at all artistic.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Rose?’ Tartaglia asked, practically shouting. He didn’t care who heard.
‘Because it isn’t important.’ Isobel Smart clamped her thin lips shut as if that was the end of the matter.
They were standing in a small meeting room at the office in Marylebone where she worked as an accountant. He had hauled her out of an internal meeting, threatening to take her down to the local station if she didn’t cooperate.
‘This is a murder investigation. Everything’s important. What else have you lied about?’
‘Nothing. I swear. I didn’t tell you about her because there was no point. She couldn’t help you anyway.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. She seems to have seen your father quite often, and he certainly seems to have cared about her. Maybe he told her something he didn’t tell you.’
Isobel looked as though she had been slapped but made no reply.
‘I need her phone number. Right now.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘I tell you, I don’t have it. Why would I want it? I didn’t want to speak to her.’
‘If I find you’re lying again . . .’
She glared at him, arms folded tightly across her ample chest. ‘I don’t have it. When Dad disappeared, she kept calling me at the office; he must have told her where I work. Anyway, she drove me nuts. She wanted to come over to the flat and look through his stuff. She probably wanted to take something . . .’
‘Maybe she was genuinely worried. Maybe she wanted to find out what had happened to her father.’
‘Well, she had no right. He wasn’t her father. That was a story to try and get money out of him.’ Tears were streaming down her face now. In a way he sympathised. The bubble of a perfect family life had been burst by a secret from the past. She had clearly idolised her father and her reaction was no different to that of a jealous lover – and equally irrational.
‘What did you say to her?’
‘I said the police were handling it and that I’d get a solicitor onto her if she didn’t stop harassing me.’
‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’
‘About a year ago. She called me again and I told her the police had found nothing. I haven’t heard from her since.’
‘Did she contact the police?’ There had been no mention of another daughter in the Missing Person report.
‘How the hell do I know? And I don’t bloody well care. Now can I get on with my work?’
Twenty-six
The front door slammed shut and he heard Gunner’s footsteps pound down the path towards the street. He grabbed his jacket and followed him outside. It was cold, the sky a deep iron grey, rain threatening. He put on his jacket and peered around the hedge. Gunner was nearly at the end of the road, walking fast. From a distance, it looked as though he was wearing a suit. Adam followed, ready to dip into a gateway if his quarry looked around. At the corner of Kensington Church Street, Gunner stopped, scanned both ends of the road, and a moment later stuck his hand in the air to hail a cab.
As he climbed in and drove off, Adam ran to the end of the street and did the same.
‘Follow the cab in front,’ he said, jumping in and slamming the door. It was such a cliché but he didn’t know what else to say. ‘I’ll give you double money if you don’t lose it, but I don’t want them to know. OK?’
‘No problem,’ the cabbie said flatly, as though used to such instructions.
The drive took them along the Bayswater Road and into Hyde Park. It looked as though Gunner was heading into town. Adam hadn’t seen him in a suit before and wondered if he was going to an interview. In the few days Gunner had been staying at the house, he appeared to have no regular routine, going out and coming back at unpredictable times. He also appeared to be an insomniac, habitually making noisy forays down to the kitchen in the middle of the night. He certainly didn’t seem to have a regular job.
The traffic slowed considerably as they negotiated Park Lane and turned off into Mount Street and then into South Audley Street, Adam’s taxi now two cars behind. At the bottom, they turned right and, just before Grosvenor Square, Gunner’s taxi pulled up on the left-hand side.
‘What do you want me to do?’ The cabbie asked in a bored tone.
‘Drive past. Stop over there, behind that red car.’
Through the back window of the taxi Adam saw Gunner disappear into one of the houses. He paid the cabbie, waited a minute to make sure Gunner wasn’t coming straight out again, then walked back along the street to where he had last seen him. Behind the eighteenth-century façade was an office building, like the majority of the others in the street and surrounding area. He took a quick look through the window at the front, but all he could see was a dark, empty meeting room. A fish-eye security camera stared out above the brass entry plate, which was engraved with the initials G.R.M.A. He took a photo of the plate with his phone. Wondering what to do next, he spotted a café on the corner, just a block and a half away, with tables and chairs outside on the pavement. He made his way there and sat down, tucking himself away in a corner that was well screened from the road by some large tubs of laurel. Through a gap he had a clear view of the building Gunner had entered. He turned on the patio heater and ordered a latte. As the waitress went inside, she shouted out instructions in Polish to the man behind the bar, along with a rude remark about customers who were stupid enough to sit outside in the cold. Since joining the EU, Poles had taken over London and you couldn’t move without hearing their foul language being spoken. He understood the gist, having been brought up in London by his Polish grandparents who had insisted he speak Polish at home.
Using his phone, he googled the company acronym, along with the office address. It stood for Global Risk Management Associates, whatever that was. Keeping one eye on the street, he tabbed through the website menu. The company seemed to be mainly active in Africa and the Middle East, ‘protecting companies’ risks abroad’, according to the blurb, with particular focus on the oil industry. The phrases ‘security consulting’, ‘security solutions’ and ‘experts in multiple security disciplines’ appeared many times, as well as the strapline ‘G.R.M.A. helps its clients to make security an integral part of their business model.’ Along with sections on personal and business protection, the other main tab was headed ‘Kidnap, Ransom and Extortion,’ with a paragraph that referred to personnel having ‘backgrounds in the military and special forces’. He thought of Gunner’s physique, his tanned face and forearms, the tattoo of the crow and skull on his chest. It all made sense and it filled him with foreboding. What was he doing in Kit’s house? Was he really Kit’s lover? Or had he been sent there by somebody else?
Twenty-seven
‘So, where are we with the fires?’ Tartaglia asked, looking over at Justin Chang.
It was early evening and Tartaglia had called an impromptu meeting for those members of his team who weren’t still out on the road. The small room was stuffy, the heating having decided to work overtime for a change.
‘I’ve been in touch with the Coroners’ Association and asked for details of all fires in the various jurisdictions involving human fatalities over the last two years,’ Chang said. ‘It’s roughly eight hundred incidents. The majority were fires in the home caused by poor wiring, cigarettes, chip pans catching alight. That sort of thing. There were less than a hundred cases where deliberate ignition was suspected.’
‘Anything interesting?’
Chang looked unenthusiastic. ‘It’s difficult to tell. There’s a heck of a lot of stuff to get through and it’s not straightforward. So far, I’ve found three incidents worth checking into further, but I’m waiting for more info.’
‘What about you, Sharon?’
Fuller yawned. ‘Nothing new to report from the Scrubs, although both inmates I saw remembered Finnigan talking about having some hot Russian babe come to see him. Sounds like he wasn’t discreet with the photos of her either. Finnigan wasn’t a popular guy, by all accounts, but neither of them could think of anybody with a specific grudge. According to the warder, Finnigan mixed with a pretty heavy crowd inside, but he didn’t cause any actual trouble and kept himself to himself for the most part. He’d been transferred there from Pentonville because of some sort of incident. I’m waiting for the details.’
‘Any news on finding Smart’s daughter Rose, Hannah?’ he asked, turning to Hannah Bird who was leaning against the door, arms folded. Everything about her face and body language spoke of tiredness. He couldn’t remember what her previous role had been before she joined the murder squad, but he guessed she was unused to the pace and the hours. He had seen it before, and wondered if she would learn to cope. It was either sink or swim and his bet was on the former.
‘There’s only one Rose, or Rosie, in John Smart’s contacts,’ she said, trying not to yawn. ‘I’ve left messages on her home number and mobile but she hasn’t called me back yet. Do you want to send someone over to her address? She lives in Frome, in Somerset.’
‘Keep trying, but if you don’t get a reply by tomorrow morning, get somebody over from the local station. It’s important we find her. Smart may have told her something.’
As he spoke, the door behind Bird was pushed open and she moved aside to let Minderedes in.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I’ve been over at the house next door to Jane Waterman’s. The woman who lives there had just got back from work. She and her husband haven’t been there that long and didn’t know John Smart, but she did remember the Polish gardener, Marek Nowak, because he did a few hours of gardening and DIY for them as well. She described him as always cheerful and hardworking and said she was very surprised to hear he’d run off with some of Jane Waterman’s things. I’ve also dug out the crime report for the burglary. Waterman’s nephew alleged that various items of silver and jewellery had been stolen from the house by Nowak.’
‘This was when?’
‘About three months after Smart disappeared. According to the report, Nowak hadn’t been staying at the house long, but he had worked for Jane Waterman on and off before, so he may have crossed over with Smart at some point.’
‘Did they check to see if he had a criminal record back home?’
‘I don’t think so. Nowak apparently did a runner, so charges were never brought. But there is mention of a girlfriend being interviewed, although she wasn’t very helpful.’
‘You’d better go and talk to her in the morning. She might be more cooperative if she knows it’s a murder investigation.’
As he finished speaking, Carolyn Steele put her head around the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mark, but I’ve had Ian Armstrong on the phone. Someone has tipped him off that Richard English may be a victim of the Jigsaw Killer, as the press are now calling the perpetrator. I told Armstrong there was no DNA match with the London fire, but that didn’t satisfy him. Is there any news from Hampshire?’
He shook his head. ‘We should get the results this evening, or tomorrow morning at the latest. I spoke to Ramsey earlier and he’s chasing his end too.’
‘Has anyone managed to trace the tramp?’
‘Still no luck.’
‘OK. Let me know as soon as you hear from Ramsey. I said I’d call Armstrong back. I didn’t, of course, tell him we’re treating English as a possible suspect.’
When the meeting was over, Tartaglia headed back to his office just in time to see Chang bounding down the main stairs two at a time towards the exit. He found Fuller standing by the coffee machine further along the corridor, punching buttons.
‘Where’s Justin off to so fast?’ he asked.
‘Keeping an eye on Sam. It’s his turn tonight.’
Twenty-eight
Adam closed the front door quietly behind him and took off his coat. He had waited at the café for well over an hour for Gunner to come out, but in the end he had given up and spent the rest of the afternoon walking aimlessly around the streets north of Oxford Street, wondering what to do. Gunner’s presence in the house threatened everything, but getting rid of him wasn’t a simple matter. The sheer practicalities of killing him and disposing of his body might be overcome – he had thought about several ways he might manage it, even given the man’s strength and size. He could spike a bottle of his favourite drink, which appeared to be either whisky or Red Bull – and sometimes a mixture of both – with an elephant-sized dose of Rohypnol. When mixed with alcohol, it could paralyse even somebody with Gunner’s physique quite quickly. And there were also other drugs he had used that had a similar effect. Once Gunner was out of it, killing him would be child’s play, although he would have to think carefully about how to deal with the body. But would killing Gunner be enough? He somehow doubted it would end there. The questions kept gnawing away at him: Who else knew Gunner was there? Why was he there? Was it to do with Kit or something else?
The hall was dark and he paused just inside and listened. Was Gunner home? After a moment, he picked up the sound of the TV coming from the basement sitting room. He had been planning on watching a film. They were showing The Runaway Jury, followed by The Fifth Element on Film4. His mind was churning and he needed the distraction. Fucking Gunner. It was the only television, and more importantly the only comfortable place to sit, in the whole house. But he had no desire to be in there with him.
He decided to go and make a cup of tea. On the way downstairs, he stopped outside his bedroom and put the key in the lock. It wouldn’t turn: the door was already unlocked. He had rushed out of the house in such a hurry earlier; had he forgotten to lock it? He didn’t think so. He opened the door, went inside and scanned the room. Superficially, it looked undisturbed. The top two drawers of the small chest were exactly as he had left them, a couple of millimetres open, and the bottom drawer fully pushed in. He checked inside. Nothing seemed out of place. Using his phone torch, he knelt down and checked under the bed where he had stowed his rucksack. He could see the padlock, still intact, the numbers scrambled in the order he had left them. Then he noticed a faint line in the dust, only visible because of the angle of the light. It looked as though it might have been made when a loose strap brushed along the floor as somebody carefully lifted out the rucksack from under the bed. It hadn’t been there that morning. The rucksack contained his most important possessions: his gun, his grandfather’s hunting knife, sharp as ever, which the old man had used to scalp more than one Nazi in the war, and the rest of his basic kit – the disposable gloves, the plastic ties, the handcuffs and the Rohypnol. There was also five thousand pounds in cash, in fifty-pound notes. He undid the padlock and took out the two fat wads of money. He counted them out three times before he was satisfied that not a single note was missing. But maybe Gunner wasn’t after his money . . .
