Jigsaw Man, page 31
‘We make a good team, you and I,’ she said, raising her cup.
He shook his head. ‘We are not a team. Don’t go getting any ideas.’
‘Why not? I like to aim high. It always gets me places. Now give me the damn scoop.’
Tartaglia couldn’t help laughing. ‘Of course, that’s all you’re really interested in.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘What else is there?’
He was just wondering if he should take her at her word when the doorbell rang.
‘I hope that’s not another journalist,’ she said sharply.
‘Unlikely.’
‘Well, tell them to go away. You’re busy with me.’
Having no idea who it could be at that hour, but half grateful for the interruption, he got up and went outside to the front door. He opened it to find Sam Donovan looking up at him from the path.
‘Sam . . .’ He fought back a yawn, generated as much by confusion as tiredness. She hadn’t been far from his thoughts all night and delighted though he was to see her again so soon, words failed him. His first instinct was to go to her, put his arms around her and hold her close, as he had done a few hours earlier in the small, dingy interview room in Hammersmith Police station. Not caring who might see them, he had hugged her tight to his chest and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her, thinking how much she meant to him and how much he had missed her. He had so nearly lost her. The awkwardness between them had melted away momentarily and he had thought back again to the time, not so long ago, when Zaleski had tried, and nearly succeeded, to kill them both. Their relationship had been simpler and easier then. If only . . . But there was no point dwelling on the past, the missed opportunities, the mistakes, or longing for that land of lost content. Aware again of the gulf that separated them, he stayed where he was.
‘I know it’s early,’ she said. ‘But I hoped you might be awake.’
‘I’ve just got in.’ He scanned her pale face with concern. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Better than I’ve been for a long while, in fact.
She was still dressed in the same clothes she had been wearing several hours before in the police station and it dawned on him that she, too, hadn’t been to bed yet.
‘Come in. You must be shattered. I’ll make you some coffee, although I’m afraid there’s no milk.’ What she would think of Melinda being in the flat was neither here nor there, he decided. He was past feeling embarrassed about such things and he had never held himself out to be a saint. As for Melinda, things with her would just have to wait until later.
‘That would be nice, but there’s something I need to say first.’ Leaning against the porch, she looked up at him intently. ‘I owe you an apology, Mark.’
‘An apology? What for?’
‘Before Claire died, when we last saw each other back in the summer . . . I said some things. I just wanted to tell you I didn’t really mean them.’
He remembered their conversation in the bar that night and the bitterness of her words. They had hurt him more than he cared to admit, but with the benefit of hindsight he knew they had also been fair. ‘Well, thank you, but it’s OK. Really. I deserved it all.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I was just angry and I was being stupid. There was a lot going on and I wasn’t myself. I’ve had time to think and I just wanted to say I’m sorry. That’s all.’
He shrugged. ‘You don’t need to, but thanks.’
‘And thank you also for putting up with me, having me to stay . . .’
‘It’s what friends are for,’ he interrupted, feeling awkward. He wished he could articulate it better. If only he didn’t feel so tired. There was a lot he, too, wanted to say, but where to start? He hadn’t been a particularly good friend. There was so much more he could have done. She had trusted him, she had tried to tell him what she knew about Zaleski. If only he had listened to her and taken her seriously, things might have been different . . . At least she was safe.
‘Are you coming in?’ he asked, sensing there was more she wanted to say and wondering what other of his inadequacies would be touched on.
‘Yes. I’d like to. The thing is, I’ve got a favour to ask. And please feel free to say no, if it’s not convenient. As you know, my house is a crime scene now and I’ve been kicked out again. I could go to a hotel, but . . .’
Relief flooded him and he smiled. ‘Of course you can stay. As long as you like. But let’s go inside, it’s freezing out here.’ He put his arm around her.
‘Mark, are you coming?’ Melinda called out in the background. ‘What’s going on out there?’
Donovan hesitated. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know you had company. I’ll come back later.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s fine. Melinda’s an old friend. I only got home ten minutes ago and I’m happy to welcome all sorts of waifs and strays at this hour. It’s great to have you back and I really mean that. Although this time, you can take the sofa.’
She laughed as he ushered her inside and the sound warmed his heart. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘That’s the least I can do.’
Acknowledgements
A number of people have helped me in the writing of this book. Particular thanks are due to my editor, Jane Wood, and to Katie Gordon at Quercus; to my agent, Sarah Lutyens, and the team at Lutyens and Rubinstein; to Dave Niccol and Tracy Alexander, both so generous with their time and tireless in answering my many questions; to Ollie Moore of the Black Rat in Winchester, for giving me an insight into the world of a successful chef; to Henry Worsley once again, this time for his input on the firing of semi-automatic pistols; and to Lisanne Radice – as always, the voice of reason. Lastly, I couldn’t have written this book without the support of my friends and family, in particular my husband George and children Clio and Louis.
Elena Forbes, Jigsaw Man
