Evil in Return (24 page)

28

Donovan parked the Golf a few houses along from Tartaglia’s flat and switched off the engine. It was just before seven in the morning.

‘You’d better climb in the back,’ she said, nudging Chang, who was in the passenger seat beside her, listening to an iPod with his eyes half closed. ‘I’ll go and ring the bell.’

She was about to get out when she saw Tartaglia’s front door open and a young woman appeared on the threshold. Sinking back in her seat, Donovan caught her breath and watched. Tartaglia had said that his upstairs neighbour was away, so she must have come from his flat. Pausing briefly to put on a pair of huge sunglasses, the woman stepped out into the sunshine and started walking towards them. She was small and skinny, with a mass of long, dark hair. She was wearing what looked like a simple white petticoat made of some sort of satiny fabric that clung to her in all the right places and was practically transparent in the light. The only other thing she appeared to have on was a pair of black, over-the-knee boots.

‘Bloody hell,’ Chang said, as he slid into the back and slammed the door. ‘Who’s that? Isn’t that Mark’s house?’

‘Shut up,’ Donovan said. ‘Not a word about this to anyone.’

‘Of course not. It’s nobody’s business and I don’t gossip.’

Donovan said nothing. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Her hands were trembling and she let go of the door handle. She wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. She was jealous – so jealous she could barely breathe. The force of the feeling took her by surprise. Did she really care that much? She wished Chang were a million miles away. She took a series of slow, deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

The woman came towards them. As she got close, Donovan could hear her humming something to herself. What with the hair and the glasses it was difficult to see much of her face, but she looked very pretty. From the easy sway of her hips and the way she held her head, she knew it, too. She pulled a phone from her bag, checked the screen and smiled. Still looking down at the phone, she passed their car, busy tapping out a text or email as she carried on along the street.

‘Do you want me to go and get him?’ Chang asked, once she was out of sight.

‘No. I’ll do it.’

Wondering if Chang had guessed how she felt or if he was just trying to be helpful, Donovan wrenched open the car door, strode across the street and up the path. The front door wasn’t properly closed and she walked straight into the small, communal hall. Pausing briefly outside the door to Tartaglia’s flat to wipe her eyes, she knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again, louder this time. She was about to go back outside and ring the bell when the door opened and Tartaglia peered out at her, frowning. He looked dazed. He was barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of old jeans that he must have pulled on in a hurry; he hadn’t even done the zip up properly.

‘You told me to pick you up at seven,’ she said. ‘It’s five to now.’

‘Jesus, is it really?’ He rubbed the thick stubble on his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry, I must have overslept. I’ll get dressed as quick as I can. Why don’t you come in and make us some coffee while I take a shower.’

‘No thanks, I’ll wait in the car. I’ve got Justin with me.’

‘I’m sure he can manage on his own. I could do with something good and strong to wake me up.’

‘You certainly look like you need it. If you’re desperate, you can get a coffee on the motorway. I’ll be outside.’ She couldn’t keep the sharpness out of her voice, but she was past caring what he thought.

‘Sam?’

She was already halfway down the path and didn’t turn around. Her pulse was racing, every muscle tense. She had no desire to make small talk with Chang either and she sat down on the low wall of the next-door garden to wait, closing her eyes and letting the sun warm her face. Times like this, she wished she hadn’t given up smoking. She felt sick and angry. Angry with herself, as much as him. She remembered the first day he was back in the office after his holiday, being struck by how fit he looked, the deep colour of his skin accentuated by the white of his shirt. He had never looked more handsome, she had thought. He had been diving off the coast of Sicily with his cousin Alessandro. There had been no mention of anyone else. Alessandro lived in Milan where he worked as a stockbroker. She had met him a few times, and although he was attractive and good fun, she had marked him down as a bit of a playboy. Although Tartaglia wasn’t like that, she could picture the two of them on holiday together and it wasn’t a comfortable thought. She had studied Tartaglia carefully on his return. As far as she could tell, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him, no air of inner excitement or something held back, no unusual texts or phone calls or other telltale signs. As far as she knew, there had been nobody important for a long while. So who was the woman? Maybe she was a friend of Nicoletta’s and he had lied to her. Whoever she was, she hated herself for wanting to know.

There were times when she thought he looked at her a little differently, almost thought that something might happen between them. Occasionally, he even seemed a little jealous when someone else paid her attention. Then again, it could be her imagination, or wishful thinking. Why don’t you tell him how you feel, Claire had said to her on more than one occasion. But what was the point? If he didn’t see it, let alone feel the same way, there was nothing to be done. Saying something would only make things more awkward between them, particularly as they worked so closely together, and she couldn’t bear the likely humiliation. It was best he had no idea. She inhaled a deep draught of the sweet morning air. She couldn’t simply turn her feelings off like a tap, but nor could she carry on torturing herself every time he took a woman to bed. Friendship was no longer enough of a substitute. For a while she had been thinking that maybe she needed to put some distance between them. She needed something to give her a push and maybe that something had now come.

She heard the clunk of a car door and opened her eyes. Chang was strolling towards her, hands in pockets, whistling a tune that sounded familiar, although she couldn’t place it.

‘Lovely morning,’ he said. ‘Mind if I join you? It’s too nice to stay in the car.’

She shrugged. ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’

He sat down next to her. ‘Gum?’ He held out a pack of Juicy Fruit.

‘No thanks. What were you whistling?’

He unwrapped a stick and put it in his mouth. ‘Mozart. Marriage of Figaro. I’ve been listening to it on my iPod.’

‘It sounded nice. Cheerful.’

‘In a way. It’s about love.’

She stared steadfastly ahead, glad of her dark glasses. Was it an innocent remark or was she completely transparent?

‘You look tired,’ he said, glancing over at her after a moment. ‘Were you up late last night?’

‘No. I went to bed relatively early for a change, but I still feel worn out. I think it’s this weather. It’s difficult to sleep.’

‘I know what you mean. I can share the driving with you, if you fancy a kip.’

‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’

‘What’s the plan?’

‘We drop Mark off at the hotel where the lake is,’ she said, in what she hoped was a normal tone. ‘He’s meeting the DI from Avon and Somerset there. Then you and I go to Bristol and start checking with MisPer. Fingers crossed the girl was reported locally.’

‘Sounds good.’ He stretched and yawned. ‘I feel knackered too, but I only have myself to blame. I didn’t go to bed until two.’ He laced his fingers together and clicked his knuckles in a satisfied manner.

She said nothing. She had no idea what he did in his personal life and had no intention of asking.

‘You know, I could really use a cigarette,’ he said after a moment.

‘You smoke?’

‘Used to. I stopped when they brought in the ban. There didn’t seem much point in carrying on when they made it all so difficult, but I still get the occasional craving.’

She looked at him, surprised. He always seemed so disciplined, so squeaky clean. He didn’t seem the type to have vices. ‘It’s funny. I gave up last autumn, but I was just thinking a few minutes ago how I’d really like a smoke. Maybe it’s the sunshine, or sitting here on the wall with time to kill.’

He nodded. ‘There’s definitely such a thing as a cigarette moment.’

‘Only a smoker, or former smoker, would understand.’

‘It’s why I chew gum. I find it helps, stops me thinking about it. You should try it some time.’

‘I don’t think it would be the same.’

‘You’re probably right. Ah, here’s Mark,’ he said, getting to his feet as Tartaglia came out of his front door. ‘We’d better be going.’ As they started across the road towards the car, he glanced over at her and smiled. ‘Shame, really. Nice moment, even without a cigarette.’ He was still smiling as he slid into the back seat, leaving her wondering if she had heard correctly.

There was little traffic on the roads at that hour on a Sunday morning and they made it to Ashleigh Grange in just under two hours. Tartaglia sat in the passenger seat beside Donovan, with Chang asleep in the back for most of the time, headphones plugged in. Donovan seemed unusually silent, insisting on listening to Heart FM instead of talking, which suited him fine, the way he was feeling. Leaning his head against the window, he had dozed for most of the journey. In his more wakeful moments he thought back to the night before, images of Anna replaying in his mind. His last vague memory was of her getting out of his bed earlier that morning and moving around in the dark, no doubt looking for some of her things. He had glimpsed her momentarily silhouetted in the doorway as she went out into the hall. He remembered vaguely wishing that she would come back to bed again and that he could put off going to Bristol until later. Then he must have fallen asleep. Not long after that, or so it seemed, the sound of someone hammering on his door woke him. Wondering if it was Anna, he had struggled out of bed. The only traces of her were her article, still lying folded up on the coffee table where he had left it, and the wine glasses and the lipstick-marked cigarette butt in the ashtray.

He had found Donovan in the hall, looking tense for some reason. She had been in a strange mood all morning. Something was still eating her, although he had no idea what it was. He wondered if it was anything to do with a man, more specifically a DI called Simon Turner who had worked for one of the other teams. As he pictured Turner’s big, bony face and arrogant, ice blue stare, he felt the bile rise. As far as he was aware, he and Donovan were no longer in touch, but whatever was at the root of it, whether it was Turner or someone else, it would have to wait for another time. He had dressed quickly, made some instant black coffee for the sake of speed, and taken a cocktail of painkillers. Even so, he felt the dull throb of a headache that would only get worse over the course of the day, but the hangover was the least of it. Lack of sleep was doing his head in; his memory was fogged, his thought processes running in slow motion. Underneath it all, he had the uneasy feeling that he had done something seriously unwise.

When they reached junction 18 of the M4, he called Graham Roberts to let him know they would soon be arriving. They found Ashleigh Grange easily and Donovan dropped him in the main car park where Roberts was waiting as arranged, sitting in the driver’s seat of a navy blue Saab with the door wide open and reading the Mail on Sunday. Catching sight of Tartaglia, he put the paper away and got out of the car. He was a type of policeman that Tartaglia knew well: medium height, stocky build, with thinning, very short greying brown hair, and a tidy brush of a moustache. He must be near retirement age, but he looked trim and fit, dressed in a polo shirt, navy Nike tracksuit bottoms and trainers. He reminded Tartaglia of a Glaswegian rugby coach who had trained him at school.

They shook hands. ‘Still no sign of anything, I’m afraid,’ Roberts said in a London accent, which had surprised Tartaglia over the phone. He had been expecting some sort of a West Country burr. ‘Do you want to go straight down to the lake now? The new search team has only just got started.’

‘Please.’

‘OK. We’ll go via reception. It’s probably easiest.’ Roberts locked the Saab and they wove their way through the ranks of expensive-looking cars and started down the drive towards the house. It was bordered on either side by a high hedge of laurel and rhododendron and it was difficult to see much beyond it. ‘I’d hoped for a quicker result,’ Roberts said, ‘but there’s all kinds of rubbish in the water which is slowing down the search. It seems the lake was used as an unofficial tip by the locals until the hotel chain took it over. I’m surprised they didn’t bother to clear it out, but I suppose it costs too much money and, as nobody really uses the lake anymore, what the eye doesn’t see . . .’ Tartaglia was silent, happy to let Roberts do the talking if he felt like it. ‘The last time it was dragged,’ Roberts continued, ‘was back in the Sixties. A young boy went missing from one of the cottages on the estate and they had everyone in the area out looking for him. The boy eventually turned up safe and sound at a friend’s house, but in the meantime they found a vintage Rolls Royce in the lake. Back in the Twenties or thereabouts, someone – drunk no doubt – had just driven it into the water and left it there. It must have been worth a packet, even after all those years covered in mud. Sadly, we haven’t found anything interesting like that.’

Tartaglia yawned. ‘Looks like the hotel’s doing good business, if the car park’s anything to go by.’

‘Yes. Being so close to Bath, what with weddings and tourists and the like, it’s packed most weekends until the autumn. We’ve cordoned off the grounds and the woods around the lake but we’ve had a job keeping the guests out of our hair. We’ve given them the run of the golf course to keep them quiet, and the spa, but that’s all they’re allowed for the moment. As you can imagine, there’ve been no end of complaints and they’re all dying to know what’s going on. After all the stuff on the telly, everyone fancies themselves an amateur detective these days.’

‘If we find the body, how are you going to get it out of here discreetly?’