Jigsaw Man (15 page)

Tatyana described how Chris had come into the restaurant again two days later. She
told him what had happened with Finnigan and he gave her the money.

‘Didn't you think it was a lot of money for what you did?' Tartaglia asked, still
sceptical. ‘Weren't
you
suspicious?'

‘No,' she replied with a shrug.

‘What the hell did you think was going on?' he then asked.

Her black eyes glittered with anger. ‘I need money. I don't ask questions.'

Chris then said he wanted to take some pictures of her. He told her they were for
Jake and said he would pay her another five hundred pounds. They met up outside Kings
Cross station and he took her to a hotel nearby – she didn't remember the name –
and bought her some drinks. Then he took some
pictures of her in the bar. She had
quite a bit to drink, she said. Then he said he would give her another five hundred
pounds if she would take off her clothes and pose for him, like in the magazines.
He said it would be a professional photo shoot. It wasn't a big deal for her because
she had done some glamour modelling as a student back in Russia, and anyway she needed
the money. Chris booked a room upstairs and they were there for about an hour, she
said. She then had to write another letter to Jake, which he dictated.

‘Did you have sex with him?' Minderedes asked.

She said very insistently ‘No', that he hadn't asked for it or seemed at all interested.
She started to think he must be gay, like a lot of English men. This was said with
a pointed look at both Tartaglia and Minderedes, their dark Mediterranean looks and
un-British surnames clearly lost on her, which amused Tartaglia but made Minderedes
visibly bridle.

Tatyana said that the last time she had seen Chris was about a month later. He had
appeared at the restaurant again and told her that Jake had just come out of prison
and that he wanted to plan something really special for him. She thought he meant
some sort of a party or celebration. He said she would be invited and would meet
lots of new people. He asked her to send Jake a text saying she had heard he was
out and wanted to see him. Again, he told her exactly what to say. He then said he
had a present for her and he gave her a new iPhone. He asked if he could have her
old Nokia in return and she gave it to him.

‘What, with the SIM?' Tartaglia asked.

She shrugged as if it was unimportant.

‘Didn't you think that was odd? He wants your old phone. Why?' Again she shrugged,
as though it wasn't worth thinking about. He was growing exasperated at her stubborn
lack of interest. He couldn't believe she was that stupid. ‘He wants the
SIM. He
wants to use it,' he said, watching her closely. ‘He wants to pretend to be
you
.'
Again, there was no reaction.

Her only response was that the phone was a cheap one and that anything important
was backed up on her laptop, as though that was all that mattered. Tartaglia didn't
believe for a second that she was so gullible, but she was being paid enough not
to ask questions. Chris had then told her he would call her to fix things up for
the party but she never heard from him again. When she finished her account, she
sat back in her chair, arms still tightly folded, and looked at both detectives defiantly,
as though she had delivered the goods and it was over to them.

Tartaglia watched her closely while Minderedes noted down a few more details for
the statement she would sign. He wondered if she was merely a willing pawn or whether
she could be more deeply involved, although she had only been in the country a couple
of months before she went to see Finnigan in jail. There was also no reason to think
she had ever met Finnigan before then, so it seemed unlikely. However, in spite of
her broken English, she appeared sharp and streetwise. She must have had her suspicions
that she was involved in some sort of a con, or at least some sort of elaborate practical
joke, but she had clearly decided to look the other way. After all, whatever was
going on was very profitable for her and, Tartaglia reflected, a lot of people who,
if their palms were sufficiently greased, would happily play their part in strange
situations and not inquire further.

Tatyana's reaction on hearing that Finnigan had been murdered also seemed genuine
enough, and so far there were no grounds to think she had been an accessory to the
crime. He still found it odd though, that apart from his initial wariness, Finnigan
seemed not to have had a clue that he was being
played and had lapped it all up willingly.
What seemed clear was that Chris, or whatever his real name was, had known how Finnigan
would react. He had known the man's weakness, and known that in the end he wouldn't
question the gift that had apparently landed out of the blue in his lap. He had planned
everything down to the last detail, and he had also chosen Tatyana well for her role.
Assuming he wasn't just a middleman with somebody else behind him calling the shots,
his interest in Finnigan was personal. He had used Tatyana to get close to Finnigan
and to lure him to his death. Why Chris had needed her in the first place, why he
couldn't just kill Finnigan on his own, was another question. It seemed a very elaborate
and risky way to go about things and there had to have been a good reason for it.

‘Have you ever seen this man?' he asked when Minderedes had finished, pulling out
a photograph of Richard English.

‘No.'

He studied her carefully but there was no sign of recognition. ‘Are you absolutely
sure?'

She nodded.

‘What about Chris? You'd be able to recognise him if you saw him again?'

‘Of course.'

‘Can you describe him?'

She pursed her lips, looking from Minderedes to Tartaglia.

‘Not old man. Not like Jake.'

Jake Finnigan had been in his late forties, but maybe to her he had looked older.
‘So, twenty, thirty, forty? What are we talking about?'

‘Maybe thirty. And tall like you.'

‘Like me, are you sure?' he asked standing up. ‘Or like DC Minderedes here. Nick,
stand up, will you?' Minderedes was
shorter, around five-foot eight, although he
normally wore shoes with a slight heel in an effort to seem taller. But Tatyana was
very short, so anything Minderedes's height or more might look tall. ‘Stand up, Miss
Kuznetsova. What do you think?'

She got to her feet, put her hand on her hip, and looked sullenly from one to the
other. ‘Like you maybe,' she said after a moment, pointing at Tartaglia. ‘Maybe not
so much, I think. But he is . . . thin. He has no . . .' she pinched her almost non-existent
biceps. ‘How you say?'

‘Muscles?'

‘Yes, like he don't eat good or do man's work.'

‘Was he clean-shaven? Did he have a beard?' He gestured to his face.

She shook her head. ‘No beard.'

‘What about his eye colour and hair?'

‘He have brown eyes, I think.'

‘You're not sure?'

She shrugged. ‘They are nice eyes. But his hair is not black,' she said, still looking
at Tartaglia.

‘So what colour is it? Brown? Dark brown? Light brown? Blond? Red?'

‘Brown, maybe a little red. He look very English.'

‘You mean he has pale skin?' He didn't want to lead her, but he was getting tired.

She nodded and sat back down, as though she had done enough. The description wasn't
very clear but maybe it would translate better onto a computer.

‘OK. We'll need you to help us draw up an E-FIT – that's a computer-generated picture
– of Chris. Nick will organise that straight away. Then you're free to go, although
if you change your address, I want to know. Just in case he turns up, we'll need
you to identify him. OK?

She nodded.

‘Did he say where he lives or where he works?'

‘No.'

‘So he never told you how you could get hold of him, if you needed to?'

‘No. He find me.'

‘And he only came into the restaurant those three times?'

‘Yes.'

‘If he gets in contact with you again, or you happen to see him in the street, I
want you to call me right away. OK? Do you understand?' She nodded slowly and he
handed her his card. ‘Is there anything else you remember? Anything at all distinctive
about him or his behaviour that stands out, however small? Any distinguishing marks,
like tattoos? Something a bit different?'

She looked at him, head slightly to one side, lips parted as though about to say
something.

‘What is it?' he said impatiently.

‘There is one thing.' She was still staring at him, maybe debating whether or not
to say anything.

‘Go on.'

She shrugged. ‘Chris, he have a mark on his hand, here . . .' She held up her palm.
‘How you say?'

‘A tattoo? A scar?'

‘Yes. A scar. Like with knife. Like this.' She drew the sign of the cross on her
hand.

It was past midnight by the time Tartaglia let himself into his flat. The sitting
room was dark, no lights on anywhere from what he could tell. He turned on a lamp
and went into the hall. The door to his bedroom was closed and he hoped Donovan was
asleep. She needed as much rest as possible. He would have
a shower before making
up his bed in the sitting room, but first he needed to unwind and get his thoughts
straight. In the kitchen, he poured himself a good inch of Lagavulin, then unlocked
the back door and went out into the garden. Surrounded by the gardens of the neighbouring
houses, it was small but private. He loved sitting out there whatever the weather,
having a smoke and a drink and, during the day, listening to the birds. He pulled
up a chair, shook a puddle of rain from the seat, sat down and lit a cigarette. With
relief, he saw that the shutters of his bedroom window were closed and there was
no light coming through the cracks. Steele had briefed him about what she had told
Donovan and specifically instructed him not to give her any more information. He
understood Steele's reasons, and agreed. Even though he was sure Donovan could be
trusted, he wanted to spare her knowledge that would only cause her more grief,
particularly the horrific little details that could stick in the mind for ever.

In the stillness, he heard the rasping cry of a fox somewhere nearby. He took a gulp
of the whisky, enjoying its smoky taste. He thought of the mysterious Chris – presumably
the killer of Finnigan and the other three victims – and once more he was struck
by how incurious Tatyana had been, how apparently accepting and unquestioning of
everything that had happened to her. Whether she was blind, or had deliberately looked
the other way, didn't really matter. He wondered how Chris had chosen her; he was
sure she
had
been chosen. Maybe Chris had gone to the restaurant by accident and
on speaking to her, had realised that she would be perfect for his purpose, but it
seemed more likely that he had seen her out and about – on the street, in a shop,
on a bus, or on the Tube – and had followed her back to her place of work. He could
have come across her anywhere. Trying to track him down via the patterns
of her daily
routine would be impossible. Wherever it was, he must have heard her voice to know
she was Russian. It would be worth talking to Chapman again to see if it were true
that Finnigan had a thing for Russian women and, if so, who knew about it. Even though
there was still so much they were missing, at least the shadowy figure of the person
they were looking for was beginning to take shape. He was smart, he was organised
and highly manipulative, and they had an E-FIT, which they could start showing around.
More importantly, they had found somebody who could identify him.

Sixteen

Adam heard the chime of a text and reached over to the bedside table for his phone.

May be able to get away for a quick drink later if you're free. Sxx

He smiled. She was desperate for him, and why not? Women were stupid. They liked
to dream, and a bit of flattery and flirtation went a long way in blinding them to
reality. He put the phone down and lay staring up at the cracked ceiling. He had
set the alarm for eight a.m. but by seven he was already fully awake, his mind buzzing.
Who was the man upstairs in Kit's room? Having failed to find out his real name,
he had decided to call him ‘Gunner', after the Dolph Lundgren character in
The Expendables
.
It suited him better than Jonny, at any rate. Whoever he was, he seemed to know the
layout of the house pretty well, all the funny little places Kit used to put things,
even the drawer where he hid the key to his cellar in case the cleaning lady found
it. Had he really been Kit's lover? Anything was possible with Kit, but it was difficult
to imagine the two of them together. The thought was also disgusting.

Adam had seen Kit naked more times than he cared to remember and it wasn't a pleasant
sight, even if he'd been into that sort of thing. Kit would walk around the house
with nothing on, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Amused at
Adam's discomfort, playfully flaunting himself as though it must be a turn-on, he
called Adam an uptight prude for refusing to do the same. It had been extremely irritating.
He wasn't a prude at all. He looked after himself and was one of the small minority
of people who looked better naked than clothed. But by keeping his clothes on, or
at least some of them, he kept hold of the power with Kit. There was then always
the tantalising promise of more, if Kit behaved himself. It was a precarious dance
of the seven veils and he knew he wouldn't be able to string things out for long.
Luckily, all he needed was a couple of weeks to get things straight and Kit was rarely
together enough to pose much of a physical threat. His memory wasn't that accurate
either.