Jigsaw Man, page 25
She laid the various boxes and packets out on the counter, making sure that she hadn’t forgotten anything, then switched on the kettle. She hadn’t eaten since the day before, but she felt so pumped up and high that a cup of tea was all she could stomach. Just as the kettle pinged, the phone rang. It had been happening every few hours since she had moved back into the house. After five rings, the answer machine kicked in and she heard Claire’s voice, followed by the sound of the dial tone as whoever it was hung up. She didn’t bother to dial 1471. The number would be withheld. He was checking to see if she was there. She would answer later, when she was ready, and let him know that she had finally come home.
‘What have you got?’ Tartaglia asked, looking up at Sharon Fuller, as she came striding into his office, grinning from ear to ear.
‘I think I’ve found the connection, Sir, or at least one of them. Finnigan and Simpson were both in Pentonville at the same time and in the same wing. And there’s more. Simpson was transferred there from Dartmoor so he could see his wife and child.’
‘I thought Finnigan was in the Scrubs?’
‘He was. But he was only sent there following an incident.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, Finnigan and a few of his mates assaulted a couple of the other prisoners in the showers. One of the men was so badly beaten he had to be hospitalised. He was also raped by Finnigan. That man was David Simpson.’
He felt the adrenalin rush, his heart pumping. Fingers steepled against his lips, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled. At last things were starting to fall into place. ‘Well done,’ he said, jumping out of his chair and starting to pace around the small room as he thought it all through. The report on David Paul Simpson lay open on his desk. The tissue samples found in the hospital fridge, which had been taken from the Peckham fire victim, had been confirmed as belonging to Richard English, and the body in the pauper’s grave was due to be exhumed that night. Steele was busy breaking the news to Lisa English and Ian Armstrong, although for the time being no details would be released to the press connecting English’s death with the Jigsaw killings. Melinda would have to wait a little while longer for her scoop.
Was Simpson the Jigsaw Killer? He had been eliminated as being one of the other victims. They had checked his DNA profile stored on the system against the DNA profiles of the body parts from the two fires, but there was no match. He had a motive for killing Richard English, who had put him in jail, and also one for killing Finnigan, for what had happened to him once he was there. However, it wasn’t completely clear cut. There was no connection so far with John Smart and, although Simpson was nearly six feet tall, the photographs on file showed a Billy Idol lookalike, with a plump, boyish face, a thick neck and short, gelled, bottle-blond hair. He was certainly overweight at the time of his arrest and he could have easily have changed his physique in a gym, but he wasn’t an instant fit for the man known as Spike. More importantly, even though the MO for the English and Finnigan murders was different, both killings had required a significant degree of organisation and forward planning. He struggled to see how somebody with Simpson’s volatile personality and problems could have executed the murders, in particular Finnigan’s.
He turned to Fuller. ‘Who were the other prisoners involved?’
‘Finnigan’s two mates are both still safely under lock and key, as is the other victim. None of them have been out since the attack.’
‘Get back on the phone to the prison. I want to know who Simpson was close to when he was inside, if he had any other enemies, and who visited him. Every single person. Don’t forget we still have two unidentified bodies to account for, one of which is a youngish male. While you’re at it, speak to Simpson’s probation officer. See if they have a record of where he was living when he came out of prison and get contact details for whoever he gave as his next of kin. I have a feeling he’s the key to unlocking all of this.’
Thirty-nine
Tartaglia followed Fuller out of the room into the corridor and automatically stopped at the coffee machine. He pressed the button for black, still pondering the connection between Finnigan, Simpson and English and the two still unidentified bodies. As he waited, his phone rang. Checking the screen, he saw it was Hannah Bird.
‘I’ve just been to see Marek Nowak’s ex-girlfriend,’ she said. He heard the noise of traffic in the background and gathered she was driving. ‘She doesn’t have any idea where he went. She didn’t see him for several days before he disappeared as they’d had a row. Apparently she’d told him she was seeing somebody else and he was very upset. She assumed he’d taken off because of that, although she said she didn’t believe he’d stolen anything. It’s more or less what she said to CID when the theft was reported. What else do you want me to do?’
‘That’s enough for now, I think.’
‘I’ve also managed to get hold of Rosie, John Smart’s daughter. She’s in London for the day and I’ve arranged to meet her in twenty minutes in the high street. I’m on my way there now, if I can only just get over the bridge. The traffic’s murder.’
‘I’d like to see her. Where are you taking her?’
‘I thought we’d go to the food gallery.’
One of the many disadvantages of their office in Barnes was a lack of interview rooms. It wasn’t set up like a normal police station, with areas for public access, and if they wanted to make it formal they had to go to a station somewhere else and borrow a room. However sometimes a more relaxed atmosphere was better, and at least there were several good cafés and pubs nearby. ‘I’ve just got a few things to do, then I’ll meet you there,’ he said, tipping the foul black liquid away. He could do with a decent cup of coffee to keep him going.
‘I’ve explained about the two fires,’ Bird said to Tartaglia as he slid into the seat next to her half an hour later. Rosie sat opposite, her hands tightly cupped around her cup of coffee as though she needed the warmth. He recognised her immediately from the photos Smart had taken of her.
‘Good. So you understand why we’re here?’
Rosie nodded. ‘It’s about Dad. I know he’s dead. And I now know he’s part of these Jigsaw killings that have been in the papers.’ Her voice was soft and a little breathless and she winced as she spoke, clearly finding the subject painful. Dressed in a big, baggy, colourful jumper and gypsy skirt, with a lot of silver jewellery, she looked nothing like Isobel, Smart’s other daughter.
‘Then you’ll know that he wasn’t the only victim. We’re trying to find out what was going on in his life in the few weeks leading up to his murder. There’s nothing in his diary that raises alarm bells, but somewhere, somehow, he came across the person who killed him. Based on what we know, it’s likely to have been shortly before he disappeared.’
Rosie brushed a wisp of dark hair from her face. ‘I can’t really tell you very much,’ she said, putting the cup carefully back in the saucer. ‘And I didn’t know for weeks that he was missing. Nobody thought to tell me.’ She started to ramble on about how horrible Isobel Smart had been to her.
‘But you know now when it was he went missing?’ Tartaglia interrupted.
‘Yes. The last time I saw him was about a week before he disappeared. We went to see a film, then we had a quick bite to eat before I had to catch my train. He seemed completely normal, nothing at all wrong. We were talking about his coming down to my cottage to stay for a weekend, if only he could square it with Isobel. He didn’t want to have to lie to her, but he hadn’t quite plucked up the courage to tell her. I wanted to spend some time with him, get to know him a bit better. And my mother also wanted to see him. She’s widowed now and I thought maybe . . . Well, he certainly appeared quite keen on the idea of meeting her again, even after so many years. I’m not sure how I’m going to break all this to her.’ She started to describe how her parents had met and about their affair and how she had discovered who her real father was.
‘Is there anything else you remember?’ Tartaglia asked, wanting to keep her on track.
Rosie sighed. ‘We talked about his work. He was doing a play on the radio the following week. There was somebody in the cast he couldn’t stand and he told me some pretty funny anecdotes about them. I’m pretty sure it was a woman, not a man. And he wasn’t that keen on the producer either, but Dad was a bit like that. He could be tricky sometimes.’
‘You don’t remember their names?’ Bird asked.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ Tartaglia said. ‘We can easily find out. Is there anything else?’
She sighed again and hugged herself. ‘It’s so difficult trying to think back. Half the time I can barely remember what happened yesterday, let alone two years ago.’
‘Just tell us what you can. It all helps.’
He didn’t want to push her, make her feel guilty for not being able to remember anything significant. It was quite possible John Smart wasn’t aware of any potential danger to himself or, if he was, that he hadn’t told her about it. But maybe there was something, buried under the sea of little memories.
‘Well, I was just so happy to see him. We didn’t get to spend much time with each other, what with my living out of London and Isobel trying to keep him on a tight rein. She was so bloody jealous.’
‘But he seemed fine to you? He didn’t say he was worried about anything? Even something small?’
She looked at him blankly, then shook her head. ‘He looked well, I thought. He’d lost a bit of weight and seemed on really good form.’
He saw tears in her eyes. ‘Do the names Richard English, Jake Finnigan, or Dave – possibly David – Simpson mean anything to you? Do you remember your father mentioning any of them at some point?’
She frowned, then shook her head. ‘Sorry. I’m pretty hopeless, aren’t I?’
‘There’s no reason why you should have heard of them. I just needed to check. If you think of anything else, however trivial, please call me.’ He handed her his card and stood up. ‘DC Bird will drop you back to the Tube if you want.’
‘It’s OK,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m going to pop over to the Sun Inn now, before I leave London. It’s where I used to go with Dad and his mates. I think I’ll raise a glass to him, wherever he is now, God bless him.’
Forty
‘Is Peter there?’ barked the deep voice at the other end of the phone.
‘Peter?’ Adam replied.
‘Don’t be a plonker. You know who I mean.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘Stop dicking around and go get him. I haven’t got all day.’
Adam slammed the kitchen phone back in its cradle. It was the third fucking call for Gunner he’d had to answer that morning. The previous time, when the caller had asked for Peter, he’d replied ‘Peter who?’ and the caller had said ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. I know he’s there.’ The voices were different, but they were similar in tone and rudeness. They all sounded like clones of Gunner, aka Peter. He couldn’t think of him as Peter. Gunner suited him much better.
There had been no phone calls at all until that morning. He’d assumed Gunner had a mobile, although he’d never heard it ring or noticed him using a phone. It was odd that people had suddenly started calling him now on the landline. Was he feeling more secure, more master of the house? Was he intending on staying for a while? The thought made Adam seethe. He was also surprised that Gunner hadn’t rushed to answer the phone, seeing as how he’d been giving out the number so freely and must know the calls were for him. Maybe he’d gone out again. And maybe, for once, he’d forgotten to lock the bedroom door . . .
Adam finished tidying away his lunch things in the dishwasher and went upstairs. The door to the sitting room on the first floor was wide open and the room was empty. On the landing above, he paused and listened. All he could hear was the distant drone of traffic and the clatter of the Tube as it passed under the street further along. Maybe Gunner was asleep. He took off his shoes and crept up to the second floor, treading carefully on the old stairs, hoping that the creaks weren’t too audible. The door to Kit’s bedroom was ajar, daylight coming from within. He put his head around the door and peered inside.
The curtains were open and the bed was a mess, sheets and duvet half on the floor, as though Gunner had had a bad night. But there was no sign of him. He paused again and listened, just in case Gunner was in the bathroom, but there was no sound coming from inside. Apart from the bed, the room looked tidy, Kit’s pictures and bits and pieces from his travels displayed exactly where they were before. But although he scouted around, there was no sign of Gunner’s clothes, his shoes or large rucksack. He checked the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, which were still full of Kit’s winter things, then went into the bathroom. The towels had been thrown in a pile in the middle of the floor. He picked them up and felt them. They were still damp. Otherwise there were no clothes or other personal items belonging to Gunner, only the few things of Kit’s that Adam hadn’t chucked away. A small puddle of water on the floor by the bath, and a smear of toothpaste in the sink, were the only other signs of recent occupation. It seemed that Gunner had gone.
He sat down on the bed and gazed around the room, not sure whether he dared celebrate. Gunner’s departure had been as sudden and unannounced as his arrival. Did it mean anything? Or was he reading too much into things as usual? From his point of view, the timing of Gunner’s leaving was perfect. Perhaps he should just accept it as a stroke of luck, although he knew not to trust in such things. Luck had a way of biting you back if you got too complacent. The visit from the policeman, coupled with the mysterious Mr Ripley book, had unnerved him. Even with Gunner gone, he couldn’t relax back into the house, much that he’d like to. It was risky staying there any longer, but all he needed was one more night.
Forty-one
‘I can’t believe anyone’s that vague,’ Hannah Bird said with feeling, as she and Tartaglia started to walk back to the office after leaving Rosie. ‘She doesn’t even have her mobile switched on half the time. She said she lost it, which is why it took me so long to get hold of her. Then she found it in the fridge. Can you believe it?’
He smiled. ‘She does seem a bit daffy and some people just have better recall than others.’ He paused for a moment, taking refuge in a doorway to light a cigarette. Bird’s broad face was etched with tiredness and he sensed her frustration. They were all working flat out, sifting through whatever came in, however nonsensical, spurred on by the desperate hope of turning up the one thing that would prove to be pivotal. He knew from experience it was out there somewhere; it was just a matter of time. They were making good progress, he reminded himself. But Bird, being new to the roller coaster ride of a murder investigation, didn’t yet have that conviction.
He took a deep drag on his cigarette and started walking again, skirting around a group of shoppers who were gathered outside Barnes Bookshop, admiring the window display.
‘Look,’ he said after a minute, as they approached the pond. ‘If there was something material Smart was worried about, and he told Rosie, she’d have gone straight to whoever was running the Missing Person investigation. And the other daughter, Isobel, would’ve done the same. It could easily be just some little thing that he spotted somewhere when he was out and about and he poked his nose into the wrong place. Maybe he didn’t even realise something was wrong until it was too late.’
His breath plumed out on the air as he spoke. It was just beginning to get dark and the temperature had dropped. He turned up his collar and jammed his free hand into his pocket. As they passed the pond, he heard a loud quacking and flapping of wings. A group of small children and adults stood by the edge of the water feeding bread to the ducks.
‘But where, then?’ Bird asked.
‘Where what?’
‘Where do we start looking for whatever was troubling him? It wasn’t like he had an action-packed life.’
‘It could be something small and it could be anywhere. His photography certainly took him all around town. Maybe he was taking photos at the wrong time and somebody saw him. It could be something as simple as that.’
They walked on in silence along Station Road and had nearly reached the entrance to the office car park when he turned to her. ‘I know it feels like we’re going nowhere, at least as far as John Smart’s concerned, but we just have to keep plugging away. Something will come up. It always does.’
She gave him a wan smile, but said nothing. She clearly didn’t buy into the glass half full theory.
‘Look, once you’ve finished the paperwork, why don’t you go home and get an early night? You’ll feel much fresher in the morning.’
She was saying she might just do that when his phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket and saw it was Sharon Fuller.
‘What have you got?’ he asked, following Bird through the gates into the yard at the back.
‘I spoke to Dave Simpson’s parole officer,’ Fuller said. ‘He told me Simpson had some sort of a nervous breakdown in prison. When he came out, the address he gave for next of kin was his ex-wife’s.’
‘Was she the one who reported him missing?’
‘Yes. She’s no longer living at that address but Nick’s trying to trace her.’
‘OK. While he’s doing that, I want a full background report on Dave Simpson.’
He was sitting at his desk half an hour later, scanning his backlog of emails, when his desk phone buzzed. It was Hannah Bird’s extension.
