Jigsaw Man, page 21
‘He could have ordered a cup of coffee, if that’s all he wanted, and it would have come a hell of a lot quicker.’ She sat back in her chair and shook her head angrily. ‘What he ordered was important, in its own right.’
He frowned, trying to picture what he had seen on the trolley, not understanding at all what she was getting at.
‘Because it’s a message,’ she continued. ‘Just like the words he wrote on her leg.’
‘A message to who?’
‘Ah. That’s the key question.’ She looked at him strangely and bit her lip before saying, ‘It’s all about the details, Mark. Every single tiny detail is significant. Isn’t that what you used to say? It’s why you’re usually so bloody good at what you do. But this time, you’re missing an important piece of the puzzle.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She sighed impatiently. ‘The message wasn’t meant for you, but from where I am, it’s all suddenly pretty clear. The champagne – Justin said it was Krug – the oysters, the turbot, with hollandaise. Don’t you remember?’
He gazed at her blankly. It meant nothing to him. Her eyes were rimmed with red and she looked almost unhinged. He realised it was a mistake to have allowed the conversation to go so far. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Anyway . . .’
‘Never mind,’ she muttered, shaking her head. ‘Maybe I never mentioned it. Doesn’t matter. Do you believe in justice, Mark?’
‘What do you mean by justice?’
‘What do you think should happen to a man like this? A man who viciously and deliberately takes away someone’s life, as though it were just a game, depriving them of a future and destroying the lives of those around them?’
‘You know what I think, Sam. The system isn’t perfect but—’
‘No. It’s far from perfect. In fact, it stinks. He’s done this before, Mark, and he’s got away with it.’ Tears ran down her face as she held his gaze. ‘You’re just not looking at things straight.’
He spread his hand in desperation. ‘Then tell me your theory. Explain what it is I’m missing. I want to help.’
She shook her head again. ‘There’s no point. You won’t do what’s needed. And to be fair to you, you can’t.’
She stood up, picked up her jacket and handbag and walked out of the room towards the bedroom. He heard the door close.
He sat for a moment, stunned. However unreasonable she was being, he knew he had failed her, yet he had no idea how to put it right. He lit a cigarette and sat waiting for her to return, but she didn’t. Grief affected people in many different ways and the anger she was feeling was only normal, although the paranoia was more worrying. None of what she had said made sense. There was no point in blaming poor Chang for revealing the details. If it hadn’t been him, she would have found somebody else to tell her.
Wanting to try and understand her reaction better, he picked up his phone and dialled Chang’s mobile. When Chang eventually answered, he sounded sleepy, as though he’d already long since gone to bed. Tartaglia gave him the gist of the conversation with Donovan.
‘I just want to understand what’s going on with her,’ Tartaglia said. ‘Somehow she seems to have got it into her head that Claire was specifically targeted and that the man meant from the start to kill her. Do you have any idea why, and what this is all about?’
‘No. She asked me a whole load of questions. I just answered as best I could. I didn’t know half the time what she was getting at.’
‘She talked as though it’s all part of a game, with some other end in mind. Where did that come from?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know.’
‘You must have said something that triggered it. What was it?’
Chang sighed. ‘I think the turning point was when I told her about the room service trolley and the food. She seemed pretty normal before that. I actually thought she was coping quite well, all things considered.’
‘You said what?’
‘She asked me to talk her through the crime scene, to describe blow by blow what we saw on the video.’
‘Did she explain what was so important about the trolley?’
‘No. But it wasn’t just the timing of it all, it was what was on the trolley. It really seemed to shake her. She also got very excited about the air con being on low. It meant something to her, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was. She said she needed to speak to you.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, imagining that Chang hadn’t been pleased about that, although his tone gave nothing away. ‘She didn’t say anything about the air conditioning, but she wasn’t making a lot of sense. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He hung up. He took a pull on his cigarette. Something niggled. Why hadn’t she mentioned the air con to him, if it was something significant? He stubbed out his cigarette, went into the hall and knocked on the bedroom door.
‘Sam, can I have a quick word.’
‘What is it?’ she called out.
‘What do you make of the air conditioning in the room being on low? Why is that important?’
There was a small pause before she said, ‘Because he doesn’t want sex.’
‘So?’
After a moment, the door opened a crack and he saw her shadow behind it. ‘Because he gets excited in other ways,’ she said. ‘Because he knows he does. He’s a real pro. If I’m right, I’m telling you, this was all very carefully planned.’
‘Go on.’
‘You got no DNA hits from the room.’
‘No. But as I said, we think he’s a first-timer.’
The door opened wider and her small, pale face peered out at him. ‘Or he’s already on the system, which is why he’s so careful not to leave any. Killing’s a contact sport, or at least it is for him. He likes to get real close. He’s probably clothed head to toe in something to stop himself shedding, but he can’t cover himself up completely or it will spoil the fun. He’s got to see what he’s doing, talk to her as he’s doing it. That’s all really important. That’s what turns him on.’
‘What you’re describing is a serial killer. Somebody who’s done this sort of thing before.’
‘I’m telling you he has. Imagine him on the bed with Claire . . .’ She paused, still holding his gaze. He said nothing, trying not to think about it. They shouldn’t be talking about it. ‘She’s lying there drugged, totally out of it, thank God. He’s on top of her, straddling her, hands around her neck, looking down at her as he strangles the life out of her. He’s hot and the more excited he gets, the more he’s going to sweat. The air con being on as low as it will go when it’s practically freezing outside means he knows the score, he’s been through it all before, and he really cares that you might find something.’
‘But we found nothing.’
‘Maybe he was so damned careful there’s nothing to find. But maybe, just maybe, you weren’t looking in the right places. You need to check if he sweated on her. Particularly check her face, her eyes, her mouth . . .’
‘Her face and mouth were tested for semen and saliva but nothing was found. And the grip areas were negative for DNA. The only profile that came back was hers.’
She said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘So you haven’t actually profiled the tapes from her face?’
‘I don’t know. Look, it’s not my case any longer, Sam.’ Even as he spoke he realised how empty it sounded and he saw her expression harden. He couldn’t be expected to follow the detailed ins and outs of the investigation, particularly given the fact he was working flat out on another case. But even if he had been stretched in fifty different directions, it still would have been a lame excuse. He owed her more than that. He also had failed to fully understand how desperate she must feel being stuck on the side-lines, even if it was the best and safest place for her to be. It was stupid to expect her to wait around passively, doing nothing. She would not rest until Claire’s killer was found and, in her shoes, he would have been no different.
Her description of what might have happened seemed just about plausible, even if the look in her eyes made him question her sanity. But she had a point. It was easily possible that after everything else had tested negative, the tapes used to take samples from Claire’s face and neck hadn’t been prioritised for DNA profiling. They might not even have been sent off yet. It was a detail that should be followed up as soon as possible, if nothing else to tick the box and reassure her. ‘I’ll talk to Steele first thing in the morning,’ he said, hoping to placate her. ‘I’ll make sure it’s done.’
‘Good.’
Before he could say anything else, she closed the door.
Thirty-one
Adam parked Kit’s battered old VW Golf in the little street in Hammersmith by the river. It was one in the morning and he had been on a round trip, via Ealing, to see his grandparents’ old house. He had set it on fire before leaving the UK a year before and it was boarded up, standing like a blackened, rotten tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth. He was still technically the legal owner but there was no chance of his ever being able to reclaim it. No doubt the council would eventually take possession. Sitting outside in the road, looking up at it and remembering the events that had led up to his escape abroad, he had felt extraordinarily detached. The thirty-plus years he had endured there, both with his grandparents and then after their deaths on his own, along with the final, absurdly dramatic denouement, meant nothing. He was dead to it all and everything it represented. It was as though the house embodied somebody else’s foul history rather than his own.
Checking that there was nobody around, he got out of the car and locked it. It had been raining and as he walked along the street, his footsteps echoed on the wet pavement. A cat scuttled away under a car, the only sign of life. The houses were small and low-built, traditional two up, two down. What estate agents referred to picturesquely as ‘cottages’, trying to turn their mean proportions into a virtue. He had never been to the house before but he had memorised the address and he remembered what she had told him a while back about the layout when he had asked her to describe it. Sitting room and study on the ground floor, with a kitchen at the back. Two bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor. It had been a pleasant enough dinner, until she had later spoiled it.
He stopped in front of the house, on the opposite side of the street, and looked up. It was dark inside, the curtains on both floors still open. She slept at the front, he remembered her saying. So she wasn’t back home yet. He had the keys in his pocket and for a moment he fancied letting himself in and having a snoop around. But he wasn’t ready yet. He wasn’t quite there. Fucking Gunner was putting him off his stride, making him feel unusually nervous. No point in doing something spur of the moment and risk ruining things. He would come back again when he was better prepared.
Thirty-two
At ten o’clock the following morning, Tartaglia and Minderedes stood in Choumert Road, Peckham, outside the boarded-up house where the unknown man had died.
‘You take Leonie,’ Tartaglia said. ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Tier.’
She lived on the ground floor of a small housing trust block, just across the street. Her front windows were set back only a few feet from the pavement and she would have had a good view of the comings and goings opposite. As he approached the door to her flat, he heard the deep bark of a large dog inside. He rang the bell. More barking. Wondering if he had drawn the short straw, he heard the sound of several locks being unclicked. The door opened a fraction, on the chain, and a pale, elderly face, framed by artificially red hair, peered out. He heard snuffling behind her, followed by a deep bass growl.
‘Back, Max,’ she bellowed in a surprisingly loud voice, he assumed to the dog. ‘Get back.’
He held up his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia, from the Met Police. May I have a few words with you about the fire across the road?’
‘Will this take long? I’m not dressed.’
‘Just a few questions, that’s all. I’ve already read the statement you gave at the inquest.’
‘I’ll just go and put Max in the kitchen.’ She closed the door behind her and locked it again, returning a couple of minutes later. This time, she opened the door a few inches, without the chain. She had put on a dressing gown and slippers, as well as a slick of red lipstick.
‘Poor man,’ she said, through the gap. ‘They never found out who he was, did they?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to do.’
‘A journalist came by the other day asking questions about what happened.’
‘I know,’ he said, wanting to short cut the process. ‘I just need to ask you a few more things. The dead man was in the room normally occupied by a man called Spike. From what we can tell, he was quite a bit older than Spike. Did you ever see anyone like that going down to the basement flat?’
‘I wasn’t out spying on them, if that’s what you think. I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
‘Of course. But was anyone else living down in the basement with Spike? There must have been at least two rooms.’
‘I can’t really say. Leastways, he was the only one I saw coming and going through the basement door.’
‘Do you have any idea who the dead man was?’
‘I’d have told the inquest if I had. My husband was a policeman, Inspector. I know how important these things are. They said he was middle-aged, but I never saw nobody like that go in the house, unless it was people from the landlord trying to talk to them squatters.’
‘But you knew Spike?’
‘Oh, yes. He was a decent enough sort, compared to the rest of them.’
‘How would you describe him?’ Although he had the journalist’s notes, he wanted to hear it for himself.
‘Thin as a rake. No meat on him, to speak of. Mid-brown hair in a ponytail. He always had a ponytail. And he was always in those dark glasses. Couldn’t see his eyes.’
‘What about his clothes?’
‘Nothing special.’
‘Did you notice if he had any scars or tattoos or any other distinguishing marks?’ he asked, thinking about what Tatyana had said about the man who had called himself Chris.
‘Not that I noticed. Sorry.’
‘Was there anyone else in the house he was particular friends with?’
She shook her head. ‘He was a loner. He’d speak to the others but he didn’t have much to do with them. Can’t say I blame him, neither.’
‘Could you take a look at this image and tell me if the face is at all familiar?’ He passed a copy of the E-FIT Tatyana had helped them put together through the gap. He saw her hold it out in front of her, squinting. She turned it to one side, then the other, as though unsure.
She sucked in her breath, then looked up at him. ‘Is this supposed to be Spike?’
‘I’m asking you if you recognise the person in the image.’
There was silence for a moment as she peered at it. ‘It’s not a great likeness. The hair’s different and a bit darker. He wasn’t a ginger. And I told you, I never saw his eyes. His face was thinner and longer. But it might just be him.’ He could see the doubt in her eyes as she handed him back the paper.
People often said things just to try and be helpful. But ‘might’ was nowhere near good enough. Computer-generated images, like the old-fashioned artists’ impressions, were only as good as the input and the intermediary. It had been late evening when Tatyana had helped to put together the E-FIT. Tiredness aside, memory was a tricky thing and having to describe somebody – even somebody you knew quite well – didn’t always translate fluently onto the screen. Maybe Tatyana hadn’t remembered Chris clearly enough for the image to be a good representation and he started to have doubts about using it. They should get her back in for a second attempt.
‘Tell me about Spike. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘A couple of days before the fire.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He was off on his bicycle. Don’t know where.’
‘Did he have any other form of transport?’
‘I saw him in a white van a couple of times, but I don’t know if it was his.’
‘Did you ever see him after the fire?’
‘I saw him in the street on his bicycle one day,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It was getting dark and I was dusting the windowsill in the front room. He comes along and stops right in the middle of the street outside his old house, just looking at it. It was all boarded up by then. I knocked on the glass and called out his name, but he didn’t look round and a minute later he’s off again.’
‘This was when?’
‘A few days after the inquest. I was surprised he left it so long after the fire to come back. I mean, he must’ve heard what happened. But maybe he didn’t want to risk being spotted and having to give a statement and all of that business. I suppose he must’ve felt a bit guilty. After all, it was his room and his stove that caught alight and burnt that poor bugger. It might’ve been him on that mattress, but for the grace of God.’ She peered up at Tartaglia with pale, watery eyes.
‘He was just looking at the property, then? He didn’t try to get in?’
‘Perhaps I put him off. He didn’t even get off his bike. Don’t know what he was doing. He must’ve known all his stuff ’d gone up in smoke. Maybe he was feeling sentimental. But you know, maybe he did come back again later.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, someone broke the lock on the fence a couple of days after. They had to send somebody out to repair it, to stop the bloody kids getting in and playing in there.’
He thanked Mrs Tier and caught up with Minderedes in the street.
‘I showed Leonie the E-FIT,’ Minderedes said. ‘She thinks it could be Spike.’
‘Thinks?’
‘Well, more or less.’
He sighed. ‘I suppose it will have to do for now. When we’re done here, I want you to go and find Tatyana and bring her back in. Get her to do the whole thing again.’
Minderedes checked his watch. ‘I’m supposed to see Marek Nowak’s girlfriend in an hour.’
