Evil in Return (6 page)

He looked up at Ryan again. ‘Do you write these yourselves?’

Ryan smiled. ‘No. They’re all genuine quotes. As you can see, it was very well reviewed and deservedly so, in my opinion.’

‘Why’s it called
Indian Summer
?’ Donovan asked.

As she spoke, Tartaglia felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket and pulled it out. He saw a text message from Minderedes: Found journalist Anna. Call when u r done. Nick.

‘Writers can be funny about titles,’ Ryan was saying. ‘Joe must have changed it at least five times . . .’

Not waiting for her to finish, he scraped back his chair and got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.’ He handed Ryan a business card. ‘Sergeant Donovan will need to speak to Logan’s publicist and we’ll also need his agent’s details. If you think of anything else, please give us a call.’

7

‘Please answer the question, Miss Paget,’ Tartaglia said irritably.

Anna Paget fixed him with a look that was diamond hard. ‘Why won’t you tell me what happened to Joe?’

As she spoke, he saw the flash of a tongue stud. She had what his grandmother would have described as a gin-soaked voice, surprisingly low, and ragged at the edges, with a vague London twang. Not unpleasant to listen to, he thought, in another context. ‘I’ve explained why,’ he said.

‘Surely you can at least tell me how he died. The papers said he was shot. Was it an accident?’

‘Answer the question, Miss Paget. What happened that night?’

They were seated in the rear alcove of Kazbar, a Moroccan café bar just off the Earl’s Court Road, Tartaglia and Minderedes perched opposite Anna on a pair of uncomfortably low velvet stools. Her laptop lay open on the coffee table, along with some papers and a half-drunk diet coke. She had a deadline to meet and was trying to finish off a piece. To save time, she had asked that they meet at the bar and, even though it seemed an odd choice, Tartaglia – wanting to put her at her ease – had agreed. The bar was no more than a five-minute walk from where Logan’s body had been found. As a rule, he didn’t believe in coincidences, but he didn’t know what to make of it. At least there was little chance of their being overheard, the only other clientele being an elderly man engrossed in a copy of
The Spectator
, and a trio of women drinking coffee, their conversation deadened by the background thud of Led Zeppelin. An old-fashioned fan, better suited to some far-flung colonial outpost, circled lazily above his head, barely stirring the air. Even though he hadn’t been there long and had removed his jacket, his shirt was clinging to his back. What with the music and the heat, he was finding it difficult to think straight, let alone follow what Anna was saying. He hoped the interview wouldn’t take long.

She held his gaze as though she hoped he would weaken. Then she gave a petulant shrug and retreated back into the depths of the ancient brown leather sofa, crossing her slim, bare legs and folding her arms defensively. ‘I waited here – exactly where I’m sitting now – for three quarters of an hour. But he didn’t show. Simple as that.’

After Maggie Thomas’s description he had been half expecting to meet Anne Hathaway, although he seemed to remember Anne Hathaway had brown eyes. The reality was less conventional, but more arresting. Anna was wearing frayed denim shorts that barely covered her bottom and a skin-tight black vest that left nothing to the imagination. He took in the mess of long dark hair, the broad, upturned nose and wide apart, heavy-lidded blue-grey eyes. Sitting there, lolling back amongst the cushions, playing irritably with a loose thread from her T-shirt, she could almost pass for a teenager. Until he looked into her eyes. What he glimpsed, a hardness and an unexpected hostility, took him aback. He wondered what lay behind it, and whether Maggie Thomas had been right about Anna’s relationship with Logan, that Logan had fallen for her.

‘So you left?’

‘I was pretty pissed off, but what else could I do? I thought he’d stood me up.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Home. My flat’s around the corner.’

‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

‘No. I live on my own.’

‘What time were you supposed to meet Mr Logan here?’

‘Seven-thirty.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Why?’

‘We need to establish a timeline.’

The last person to see Logan alive had been Maggie Thomas, when she met him coming along the towpath with his bicycle just before five o’clock. If he had been on his way to meet Anna, maybe that explained why, according to Maggie, he had made an effort with his appearance. But the journey from Maida Vale to Kazbar in Earl’s Court would take about half an hour or so by bike. There were roughly two and a half hours unaccounted for. He must have been going somewhere else first. ‘Do you have any idea what he was doing before he was supposed to meet you?’

‘No.’

‘Why had you arranged to meet?’ Minderedes asked, looking up from his notebook. ‘Hadn’t you finished interviewing him?’

She gave him a weary look. ‘I had some more questions.’

‘Why didn’t you go to his boat as before?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘Is it important?’

‘I’m just curious. Why the change of venue?’

‘No big deal. He suggested coming my way for a change, but I didn’t want him in my flat so I suggested here.’

‘Why not your flat?’

‘It’s too small to entertain. Anyway, I like to keep my business and personal lives separate.’

She spoke emphatically. Although not convinced after what Maggie had told him, he accepted the statement at face value for the moment. First, he wanted to establish the basic chronology of what had happened between her and Logan. He also needed to get her to loosen up and lower her guard.

‘So when was the last time you saw Mr Logan?’

‘About a week ago.’

‘Which day?’

‘Friday, I think.’

‘I’ll need you to be more precise.’

With a theatrical sigh, she pulled out a BlackBerry from her bag, tabbed through it. ‘Friday, as I said. I had a lunch meeting that day and I went over to see him straight afterwards. I got there about three, before you ask.’

‘So, what did you talk about?’

‘About him. About his life. That’s why I was there.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Around seven, I guess. I was going out, so I went home to change.’

Again, she spoke matter-of-factly. He found her lack of emotion curious, wondering if it really was genuine. She uncrossed her legs and stretched forwards to pick up her coke. As she lowered her gaze and took a long, slow sip, he studied her for a moment, noting the curve of her slender shoulders, the sheen on her skin, the small tattoo just above her ankle, wondering how to get through to her. Unless Logan was sexually abnormal, he must certainly have found her attractive. Had there been a mutual connection, or had she merely been using Logan? From the little he had seen of her, his money was on the latter. If so, he pitied Logan.

‘You seem very unmoved by what’s happened. Don’t you care?’

She glanced up at him and he caught a wariness in her eyes, as though she hadn’t anticipated the question. ‘What do you want me to do? Burst into tears? I’m not a hypocrite.’

‘But he was murdered. It was a violent death. Surely that must mean something to you?’

She put down her glass and carefully folded her arms. ‘Look, I’m very sorry Joe’s dead but he wasn’t a close friend or anything.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

She held his gaze. ‘Yes.’

He didn’t believe her but he had nothing to confront her with except Maggie Thomas’s suspicions. She had slipped off her flip-flops and was tapping her bare foot on the floor impatiently. She reminded him of a spoilt child, used to getting her way, and it angered him. He took a deep breath.

‘OK. Let’s go back to the beginning. How did you first meet Mr Logan? How did you persuade him to let you interview him?’

‘I tried the usual channels first, but when that didn’t work, I wrote him a letter care of his publisher.’

‘Just a letter?’

‘And copies of a few interviews and articles I’d done, plus some general background info on me. I didn’t know if they’d pass it on, or if he would read it, but about a month later, he called me. He said he wanted to meet and talk first. He wanted to suss me out, see if we got on, before he’d let me interview him.’

‘Which paper was it for?’

She mentioned the name of one of the big Sunday spreads.

‘Did they commission this interview?’ he asked.

‘No. It was my idea. I used to do a regular interview slot for the Standard so it’s what I’m known for, although I’m freelance now and do other things too.’

‘I’m told Logan hated publicity and refused to give any interviews. What made him choose you?’

She shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

A lock of dark hair fell across her face and she flicked it away as though swatting a fly. She was being disingenuous and he remembered what Maggie had said about her:
She held Joe in the palm of her hand and she knew it
.

‘I’d like to see a copy of what you sent.’

‘I wrote the letter by hand. I can give you copies of what I printed out but it really won’t tell you anything.’

‘I’d still like to see what you sent.’

It might mean nothing, but her manner aroused his curiosity. He was determined to see what Logan had seen, try and figure out what had made him agree to meet her when he had turned everybody else down. How had she hooked him? What had she said or shown him? If nothing else, it might reveal something about Logan. Maybe a simple photograph had done the trick, slipped in with her package of articles and references. Anything to get a foot in the door. If so, he couldn’t blame her, but it highlighted Logan’s vulnerability. He wondered what Logan had done with the letter, if he had kept it, and he made a mental note to get Jane Downes to have a thorough look again through Logan’s papers.

‘So, when was your first meeting?’

‘About a month ago. Maybe five weeks.’ She consulted the BlackBerry for a moment, then gave him the date and time.

‘And what did you do?’ he asked, as Minderedes noted down the details.

‘We met in a pub and had a few drinks and chatted. About general stuff. Life, travel, music, you know. At the end of it, he said he felt comfortable with me and that I could interview him. We arranged a time to meet the following week.’

‘Why were you so interested in him? Why did you go to so much trouble to get an interview with him? He was hardly an A-list celebrity.’

Anna stared at him as if he were mad. ‘Because of the book, of course. Because I absolutely loved
Indian Summer
. If you bothered to read it, you’d understand. I wanted to get under his skin.’

‘And did you?’

She sighed. ‘Maybe not as much as I’d have liked, but it still makes a great story. Failed actor and jobbing teacher – a pretty sympathetic character, the way I paint it – struggles for years, then writes debut novel and hits the jackpot.’

‘You saw him how many times in total?’

‘After the first meeting, just three times. That’s all.’

‘How did you spend your time with him?’

‘We mostly stayed on the boat. It was a real dump, but he seemed to feel comfortable there, he didn’t like going out much. I wondered if he was a bit agoraphobic.’

‘You were with him for how long?’

‘A few hours each time. It was difficult to get him to focus so we’d just chat for a bit, have a drink or two, listen to some music. I went along with whatever he wanted. I needed to get him to relax so he’d open up. When his mind wasn’t on it, lots of stuff came out, about his childhood, about his time at school, little glimpses of what made him tick as a man, which is what interested me. I felt a bit like a therapist. I don’t think he’d talked to anyone in a long while.’

‘Did he mention his family or his friends?’

‘Only in passing.’

‘What about his love life?’

‘From what I gathered, there hadn’t been anyone around for a while. He said that writing was a solitary business and that he wasn’t easy to be with when he was working. He said he was pretty hopeless at relationships.’

He looked at her closely but there was nothing in her expression to indicate that she was lying. It still didn’t explain what had gone on between her and Logan. ‘Did you go out with him anywhere?’ he asked, thinking back to what Maggie had told him and wanting to see what Anna would say.

‘Once we went for a walk along the canal. It was a lovely sunny day and I hated being stuck inside. I told him he needed some fresh air. I’d arranged for a photographer mate of mine to come and take some shots of him. I thought it would be nicer if it was somewhere along the canal and not in that manky old boat.’

‘I’ll need the photographer’s name.’

‘He cancelled. He had to do a shoot at the last minute, so Joe and I ended up having a drink at a place he knew.’

‘We’ll still need the photographer’s name and details.’

With a shrug, she reeled off a name and mobile number from her BlackBerry.

‘And what about the pub? Where is it?’

‘I can’t remember what it’s called, but it’s right on the canal, past all the big houses. About a five-minute walk.’

‘This was when?’

‘Last week, as I told you. The last time I saw him.’

Minderedes looked up from his notes. ‘Do you normally spend so much time with someone you’re interviewing?’

She gave him a blank stare, as though she didn’t appreciate the question. ‘No. Usually their publicist provides me with the background stuff, then it’s just a quick drink or a lunch and off they go, with maybe a follow-up over the phone to check some details.’

‘Why was it different this time?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘I’d had such a tough time getting to meet Joe, I wanted to take it slowly, not scare him off. After the first session I wasn’t totally happy, but I thought I probably had enough to be going on with. Then he called me and said he wanted me to come over, said there were some other things he wanted to talk about. Bottom line is he was lonely. He just wanted some company, that’s all.’

Lonely. It was a word that had already come to mind, although there were a lot of people who were happy in their own company, who liked a solitary life. ‘How would you describe your relationship with Mr Logan?’

‘I told you, this was work,’ she said sharply.

‘We have a witness who describes the two of you as being close.’

She shook her head. ‘Whatever someone’s told you, they’re wrong.
Nothing
happened between me and Joe.’

‘Maybe he felt differently.’

Tartaglia saw the colour rise to her cheeks. Guilt or anger? He wasn’t sure. Maybe she did feel something after all. ‘You’re making way too much of this,’ she said, with a fierce look. ‘Sure I spent time with Joe, I had to. He wasn’t the easiest person to talk to and he’d never given an interview before.’

‘But somehow you managed to get him to talk. You obviously have a special touch.’