Evil in Return (15 page)

‘Did she scream?’

‘Not so as anyone outside in the street would hear, or at least I think that’s what she said. You can check her statement if you want. Anyway, she swears she thought Khan was still alive. She then called Craig, who was still out on the balcony admiring the view, and he came over. He tried to turn on the lights by the door, but she said they didn’t work. He then used his phone to shed a bit of light on the scene and that’s when they realised the man on the floor was in a bad way. She says he had blood on his face and it was then she saw she had blood on her hands from where she’d touched him. That totally freaked her out, although they both insist they still had no idea Khan was dead. They thought he’d just been beaten up and was unconscious. What’s really odd is she said she suddenly got the idea that there was someone else in the room with them.’

‘Where?’

‘She didn’t know for sure and she couldn’t see much, but it gave her the creeps. When she told Craig, he wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.’

‘So much for the macho lover.’

‘They don’t exist,’ Gerachty said sharply. ‘When I asked her why she made the call and not Craig, she said he was desperate not to be involved. I get the impression he was more worried about that than the man on the floor. He insisted she make the call while he skedaddled off home to his wife. I don’t think Mandy’ll be seeing him again in a hurry.’

‘I don’t blame her.’

Gerachty gave an affirmative sniff. ‘And before you ask, I can’t find anyone who says they turned the lights off at the mains, so it must have been the killer.’

‘Who turned them back on?’

‘The emergency staff. The fuses were tripped, that’s all. I’m having forensics go over the toilets again, just in case the killer was hiding in there when Mandy and Craig arrived.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ If nothing else, Gerachty was efficient when pointed in the right direction. Maybe, in time, she would learn the rest. ‘Have you had a chance to look at Paul Khan’s emails?’

‘We’ve only just got hold of his work laptop. They didn’t want to give it us, they said there’s all sorts of highly sensitive stuff on it, client confidentiality and all that crap. In the end we had to threaten them with a court order and they backed down. Tell me again exactly what it is you’re looking for?’

‘I’ll send something over to you now. You’ll get the picture when you see it. Have you pulled his phone records?’

‘I should have them soon.’

‘When you do, can you get a copy over to us asap so we can cross-reference them with Logan’s?’

‘Sure. I understand you’re coming to the post mortem.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I’ll see you over there, then.’ There was a pause before she added a muffled: ‘And thanks for earlier.’ Before he had time to say anything, she hung up.

As he tucked away his phone, he smiled. It was the closest thing to an apology he was likely to get.

He rang through to Wightman, and told him to forward Gerachty a copy of the strange email that Logan had received. Minderedes had left the envelope Anna Paget had given them with the photocopied pieces she had originally sent Logan. He looked inside but all he found was a selection of interviews with actors, pop stars and a couple of politicians. The article about missing people wasn’t there, nor was the draft he had requested of her interview with Logan. She had already left two messages for him that day asking for an update, both of which he had ignored. He decided it was time to call her. He punched in her number and she picked up almost immediately, as though she had been waiting for the call.

‘Anna Paget.’

‘It’s Mark Tartaglia. I need to talk to you about the things you sent to Joe Logan.’

Anna Paget sighed. ‘Look, I haven’t finished the article yet. That’s why I haven’t sent it over to you. I’ve been tied up with other things, plus with everything that’s happened it’s needed some major re-jigging. I’d also like to put in some stuff about the investigation as well.’ She was looking at him enquiringly.

They were sitting at a table in a small room behind the front desk at Kensington Police Station, a fifteen-minute ride by motorbike from the office. Anna had tried to suggest that they meet somewhere less formal, but he had insisted. Formal was how he wanted it. If there was air-conditioning, it wasn’t working and he had been forced to open the small, barred window. It let in the smell of fried food from the canteen but no draught. He had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie, but he was still sweating. By contrast, she seemed unaware of the heat, but then she wore little more than a belted T-shirt and sandals.

‘What sort of thing are you talking about?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘The readers will want to know what’s going on, some theory as to why he was killed and what you’re doing to find the killer.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Our crime desk seems to be in the dark for a change and your press office has been less than helpful.’

‘I’m sorry about that, but you’ll get as much out of them as from me.’

‘Look, surely you can tell me something?’ she said, widening her eyes. ‘I mean, there’s been another murder, hasn’t there? Down by the river. They said the man was shot.’

‘Shootings in London happen, as you know.’

‘Is it anything to do with what happened to Joe, do you think? Are we talking serial killers?’

He slapped his hand hard on the table. ‘Jesus! Do you people always just think about the next headline?’

She sat back in her chair, as though stung by the remark. ‘I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean it to come out that way. I just wanted to know if there’s a link.’

‘I know nothing about the other murder. It’s being handled by a different team.’

‘Oh,’ she said, frowning. ‘Another team? So there’s no connection? I’d heard—’

‘It seems not,’ he said firmly, wondering what had been said. No doubt her paper’s crime desk had caught wind of something. However hard they tried, it was difficult to stop the offthe-record little chats and snippets of information. He would have to speak to Gerachty right away and make sure she stopped any leaks at her end. ‘Now, can we get back to your piece? I’d like to see a draft of whatever you’ve done so far. I don’t care if it’s not finished, I still want to see it.’

She shrugged. ‘I still don’t understand why. I mean, it’s not going to tell you who killed the poor sod.’

‘Every little piece of information helps, and in the few weeks before his death you spent more time with him than anyone else. Plus you have an outsider’s objectivity. It may shed some light.’

She seemed disappointed. ‘So you’re in the dark. You still have no idea who did it.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘Which means you haven’t a clue. Poor Joe. I really hope you find whoever did it. Now if that’s all . . .’

As she stood up, Tartaglia put out his hand. ‘It’s not all. Please sit down. How many times did you write to Joe Logan?’

‘Just the once, as I told you.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Well, I sent him a letter and a package of stuff I’d written. I sent it to his publisher, as I didn’t have his address, and they forwarded it on to where he was living. I told you all this before.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘He wrote back asking some questions, mainly about me and what I’d done.’

‘Do you have that letter?’

‘No. Maybe I sent him a note, or maybe I called him, I’m not sure. It’s no big deal, is it? Anyway, soon after that he called me and we met up. I told you the rest.’

He shook his head and pushed a copy of her article on missing people across the table to her. ‘You sent him this, with another note.’ He caught the brief flicker of surprise in her eyes. Maybe she had genuinely forgotten what she had sent, or maybe she hadn’t expected Logan to keep it. He suspected the latter. ‘Did you mark the article, or did Logan?’

‘He must have done.’

‘Do you have any idea why he ringed the first paragraph or why he underlined that sentence?’

‘None at all.’

‘It clearly interested him. You didn’t discuss it when you met him?’

‘We may have done, but if we did, it was only in passing and I don’t remember.’

‘Who’s Gareth?’

‘You obviously haven’t read the article properly. He runs a missing persons’ charity and I quote from him several times. All the statistics come from him too and I thought Joe might like to speak to him.’

‘Was this anything to do with the second book?’

She looked at him strangely, as though she was trying to work something out in her mind. ‘Are you still going on about that? I told you all I know.’

‘OK. Then explain why you chose this particular article to send to him.’

‘Because it’s topical.’

It didn’t ring true. He remembered Logan’s email to Anna and his talk of a connection. Judging by the dates, he must have written it after receiving the second note and the ‘Missing’ article. ‘There’s more to it than that, surely? In the note you say that it’s “close to your heart”. What did you mean?’

‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I’m afraid you must.’

‘It’s personal. It’s nothing to do with what happened to Joe.’

‘I’ll make that decision.’

He held her gaze until she finally nodded. ‘If you really want to know, I’ll tell you . . . not that you’ll find it that interesting. But can we go somewhere else? It’s so stuffy in here and I could do with a cold drink and some fresh air.’

He checked his watch. He was expecting a call from Browne’s office to say that she was ready to do the post mortem, but last he had heard she was running late. He had already had to postpone his drink with Angela Harper. ‘OK. There’s a place we can go and get a drink. It’s only a minute’s walk from here.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, standing up and picking up her satchel. ‘I feel like I’m a suspect or something, sitting here.’

Although she wasn’t a suspect, he was pleased that she felt some discomfort. He was sure she had lied to him, and was probably still lying, although he had no idea why.

19

The wide strip of paved garden at the front of the Scarsdale Arms was awash with multi-coloured flowers in tubs and hanging baskets. The sun had moved off the front, but it was packed and all of the tables outside were already taken. Nobody looked as if they would be moving soon and although he was dying for a smoke, they would have to go inside.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ he asked, as they went into the gloomy wood-panelled interior.

‘Diet coke, please, with a slice.’ She sat down at a table in an empty corner of the room.

He went up to the bar and bought her coke, plus a soda with lemon for himself. As he carried it back to the table, he couldn’t help noticing in the dim light how attractive she was, with her slim, bare legs crossed and mass of long dark hair. Again he wondered what had gone on between her and Logan.

‘Right,’ he said, sitting down opposite. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got long. Tell me why the subject of missing people is so close to your heart.’

‘Before we start, can I just ask you something?’ She was looking at him seriously, head a little to one side.

‘What is it?’

‘Why do you do what you do? I mean, it’s a pretty odd way to make a living.’

‘Because somebody has to,’ he said, a little surprised. He had assumed she was going to ask about the investigation.

‘Yes, but why you?’

‘You want the personal angle? Because somebody needs to find out the truth. It’s vital, both for the person whose life has been stolen and for the family.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘Yes.’

She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘So, you’re one of the good guys. Like an avenging angel.’

‘No. As I said, it’s about the truth.’

‘Do you believe in justice?’

‘What, as an abstract concept?’

‘No. Do you think the system works?’

He could see the headline already and he didn’t like it. He had reservations about a lot of things that he had to deal with in doing his job, the justice system being one of them. Sometimes, through no fault of the system, the guilty still escaped true justice, if there was such a thing. But he had no intention of giving her material for another article, let alone finding himself quoted.

‘We do the best we can. Now, I think you’ve had your question.’

‘This is off the record, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just want to know for myself. Do you think you deliver justice to the victims and their families?’ She spoke as though it meant something to her and as she gazed at him, she looked like a young girl, whose illusions about life were still intact. Was there genuine passion or idealism inside the cynical hack? Maybe this was the side that Joe Logan had seen, that had won him over.

‘We’re only part of the process, but hopefully more often than not.’

She smiled again, this time more thoughtfully and shifted back into her seat. ‘OK. I get what you’re saying. Thank you for being so honest. Just one last little thing, I’m just curious by nature . . .’

‘What is it?’

‘Do you think of yourself as Italian or Scottish? I mean, you look so Italian but . . .’

She was looking at him expectantly. Again her interest appeared to be genuine. ‘Italian, I suppose, although I was born and brought up in Edinburgh. But my whole family’s Italian. My father’s side originally came from a little town called Picinisco in Lazio, near Rome. Now that’s enough about me. It’s your turn. Why’s the subject of missing people something you care about so much?’

She sipped her coke, looking at him for a moment before she put the glass down. ‘It’s not something I generally talk about, but maybe if I tell you you’ll understand and leave me alone.’

‘No promises,’ he said, taking a mouthful of soda.

‘I first met Jennie a couple of years ago.’

‘Jennie?’

‘Jennifer Collins. I quote her in the article. Her daughter Laura’s missing.’

‘Yes, I remember, now.’

‘I was doing a piece on these people who win prizes, you know, they enter loads of competitions and win fridges and cars and holidays. Some people do it more or less as a full time occupation and Jennie’s been pretty successful. She’s even won a prize for winning prizes, can you believe.’

‘I thought she’d had all sorts of personal problems after her daughter disappeared?’

She nodded. ‘She had a breakdown and she still suffers from depression and takes endless pills. I suppose doing the competitions keeps her busy and she can do it from home. She’s mentally too fragile to get a proper job and physically she can’t cope. She had a car accident a couple of years ago and she’s now in a wheelchair, so she can’t get around that easily. Some people have all the luck, don’t they? She’s been totally destroyed by what happened. Anyway, I interviewed her and it came out about Laura. I filed it away in my head, as one does, and when Kirstie Jenson’s remains were found, I decided to write something. We’re really crap in this country at dealing with the whole issue of missing people and something needs to be done.’

‘Things have got a lot better.’

She shook her head. ‘I still think it’s a disgrace. A body turns up in, say, Yorkshire, but unless there’s ID, there’s no easy way of linking it to the kid who disappeared ten years before in Cornwall. You only have to look at how things are in the US, with the FBI running the show, to see how backward we are.’

‘You make the point very well in your piece,’ he said, ‘but I still don’t understand why your interest is personal.’

She sighed and looked away. ‘I had a pretty dysfunctional childhood. I never knew my father and my mother died when I was really young. I don’t want to go into the details, but in the end I decided the best thing was to run away.’

She spoke matter-of-factly and he was struck by her lack of self-pity. He wondered what it had cost her to be so detached. ‘You were in care?’

‘Sort of.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘There isn’t anything to say. I was just one of the statistics. If you read my article you’ll know that the largest category of people who go missing are young girls. If they’re repeat runaways, nobody’s interested. They’re just written off.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Fifteen. I hitchhiked my way to London, slept rough for a bit, then I met someone who gave me a break. Thanks to him I didn’t end up buried under someone’s patio or left to rot in a rubbish bag by the roadside. That’s why, when I read about all these girls, speak to their parents and stuff, it really gets to me. I realise how bloody lucky I am. Maybe I have nine lives, but it could easily have been me if Brian hadn’t rescued me.’

‘Brian?’

‘He was in the music business. He was much older, of course, but it didn’t bother me.’

‘For Christ’s sake, you were fifteen,’ he said, unable to hide his disgust.

‘In heels and make-up I could pass for older. Anyway, I was almost legal.’

‘Come on, that’s not the point. Surely there must have been someone else you could have turned to?’

She met his gaze. ‘No. There was nobody.’

Coming from a close-knit, family-orientated Catholic background it was difficult for him to imagine such total emptiness, although he knew it existed. He wasn’t at all religious but sometimes religion could fill the void. Maybe he didn’t need it because it was there. He shook his head at his lack of sensitivity. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s just the way it was and I knew what I was doing. Brian used to say I was fifteen going on thirty, that I was the adult, not him. In many ways he was right, he was just like a big, soppy child. He had this massive place up in Hampstead full of really cool stuff and he looked after me. It was the first time anyone had ever done that. He was like the dad I never had.’

‘The dad?’ He stared at her horrified, wondering just how dysfunctional her childhood had been.

She nodded. ‘Sort of. He used to take me out shopping and to restaurants and clubs. I was supposed to call him Dad or Uncle Brian when we were out. Occasionally, if I was tired or bored, I’d call him Brian, just to wind him up and make him take me home. It makes me laugh even now. He’d get in such a strop . . .’

‘I’m amazed you can laugh about it. He should have been slung in jail.’

She shook her head. ‘I know what it looks like from the outside, but there are lots that deserve it more than him. He could be a right shit when it came to business, but he was a kind, soft-hearted, decent man to me and he looked after me. He was the one who encouraged my writing.’

‘Really?’ Just like Happy Families, he wanted to say. Maybe putting such a positive spin on everything was part of her survival technique, but she seemed sharper and more observant than most, not the type to delude herself. He wondered if, deep down, she felt anger or bitterness for what had happened to her.

‘As you can imagine, I never had much of a formal education, but even when I was little, I always loved reading, whatever I could get my hands on, whether it was yesterday’s paper or the cereal packet. Then I started writing. First it was just a journal, with my thoughts and things, then it grew. Brian used to have these pop stars and people hanging around the house all the time – it was like one big party. I used to chat to them, ask them questions and stuff and write it all down. They treated me like a kid sister and they didn’t mind talking to me – when they weren’t totalled, that is. I suppose nowadays I’d write a blog and someone would turn it into a bestseller. Diary of Wild Child. It would be good, wouldn’t it?’ Catching his eye, she smiled. ‘Most of them were really quite ordinary, sweet guys. Anyway, I started doing interviews for one of Brian’s mates who had a music paper, and one thing led to another.’

‘What about Brian?’

She sighed. ‘He had a heart attack. It was a couple of years ago. He wasn’t even sixty, poor sod. Too much rock ’n’ roll, I suppose, plus he was in bed with a couple of beautiful Russian hookers at the time. Personally, I hope I die alone in my bed, but I guess it’s the way Brian would have wanted to go if he could have chosen, so I’m happy for him. I’d moved out long before then, but I was still sad when I heard. He was a great bloke and I owe him a lot.’

‘So he was in his forties when you and he—’

‘Hooked up?’ Meeting his eye, she smiled, and said, ‘A bit younger. About your age.’

‘There’s still a word for it,’ he said forcefully, draining his glass. He tried not to imagine what she must have looked like. It was all getting a bit close to home, even though he’d never fancied any fifteen-year-old girl, at least not since he was that age. ‘I now understand where you’re coming from, but why did your article touch such a chord with Joe Logan?’

‘He never actually said. My guess is that he knew someone who disappeared one day and didn’t come back. He seemed really moved by it. Loss is one of the main themes in his book, loss of innocence, loss of youth, loss of friends, which is why I thought he might be interested in the first place. Joe was one of those people who was permanently searching for an answer, but of course he never found it.’

‘You say you’re curious. Didn’t you ask him what happened?’

She shifted in her chair and folded her arms, as though suddenly cold. ‘I’m always curious. It’s part of the job. But as I told you before, he hated discussing anything intensely personal. He’d scuttle back into his little hole the minute you got close. Have you read his book yet?’

‘I haven’t had time.’

‘I thought you liked to get the full picture.’

‘The factual picture, not the fictional one.’

‘There’s a lot of him in that book, but we’ve been over all that before, haven’t we?’

He heard the muffled sound of his phone ringing in his jacket pocket and reached for it. Arabella Browne’s name was on the screen. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, standing up quickly and walking over towards the door to take the call. He couldn’t risk Anna overhearing a word.

‘Where are you?’ Browne said gruffly. ‘Sounds like you’re in a bar.’

‘I’m interviewing someone.’

‘That’s what you lot always say. What’s wrong with a decent interview room?’

‘Too hot.’

‘Well, get your handsome hide over here now or we’ll start without you. This new lady detective of Grainger’s is champing at the bit and I was up ’til three this morning. I want to be done by midnight, if that’s OK by you.’

As Donovan put her key in the lock, she heard the sound of the TV blaring from the front room. Her sister Claire was still up. She let herself in, dumped her bag in the hall and put her head around the door of the sitting room. Claire was lying on the sofa, feet up on one of the arms, still in her work suit. She was watching Newsnight and had a glass of wine in her hand. The remains of a bowl of Frosties sat on the floor beside her.

‘I thought you’d be in bed,’ she said, as Claire looked up and muted the telly.

‘I’ve only just got in myself. You look knackered. Hard day?’

Donovan nodded and sat down on the arm of the sofa. ‘I’ve just been in the pub with Justin and Dave and a few of the others, but I’ve left them to it. I had a couple of J20s and some soup and decided to call it a day. I need my bed.’

‘I’m not surprised. You were out even earlier than me this morning. Remind me, where were you off to?’

‘A school in Dorset. We had to pick up some things belonging to the murder victim, Joe Logan. Sadly, we didn’t find what we were looking for, but some of it was interesting. If you have a sec, I wanted to ask you about Logan. I found out he went to Bristol.’

‘Go and get yourself a drink and I’ll turn this thing off. There’s a bottle of red open on the kitchen table.’

She went down the narrow corridor to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house, and helped herself to a large glass of red. The house was in the middle of a low-built Victorian terrace, only a couple of streets away from the river in Hammersmith. It had just enough space for the two of them, although neither of them spent much time there except at weekends. With both of them working long hours, keeping it tidy was the main problem. She took a wine glass out of the cupboard. How Logan had managed with so few personal possessions amazed her. If she had to pack all her stuff away, it would probably fill several containers.