Jigsaw Man (18 page)

‘If he had a beard, might that make a difference?'

Josh studied the image thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. Maybe it's the man I saw.' He clearly
wanted it to be so, but his tone was uncertain.

‘Thank you,' Tartaglia said, giving Minderedes back the paper. There was no point
pushing it. He could see that Josh was disappointed.

‘The head
is
real, isn't it?' Josh asked again, as Annie Nichols appeared through
the doorway.

‘Josh, do be quiet,' she said. ‘Of course it's not real.'

‘You think the man I saw put it there, don't you?' Josh asked, still looking at Tartaglia.

‘Josh,' Annie said. ‘Stop badgering the poor policeman.'

Tartaglia stood up. What was the point of lying? Confirmed or unconfirmed, the story
that the Guy Fawkes dummy had a real human head would be all around school by now
and there would soon be coverage in the local press. Whether it had anything to do
with the Sainsbury's fire was another question.

‘Yes, Josh. The head's real and it's possible that the man you saw may have had something
to do with it being on the bonfire. That's as much as I can tell you for now.'

‘Goodness,' Annie said. ‘So it's true?'

Josh jumped to his feet. ‘Told you. Was the rest of his body real too?'

‘It's very likely,' Tartaglia said truthfully, his thoughts already elsewhere. A
human head and body parts in a burnt-out car in London. A human head and body on
a bonfire in Hampshire two weeks later. Even without a positive ID of the E-FIT,
what were the chances?

Outside in the street, Tartaglia turned to Ramsey. ‘I'll need to speak to whoever's
doing the autopsy. There are certain things they must be made aware of as soon as
possible, just in case there's a link with the case we're investigating.'

His phone started to ring. Steele's name was on the screen. Turning away from Ramsey,
he gave her a quick run-down of what he had learned.

‘I need you here right away,' she said, as soon as he had finished. ‘We've had the
DNA results back from the lab and there's no familial link between Richard English's
son and any of the body parts in the Sainsbury's car park fire.'

‘Then maybe Richard English isn't his father either.'

‘His first wife was adamant that he was. She said there was no question of it.'

‘Then maybe he's still alive. Maybe he's behind all of this. Maybe he planted the
wallet and keys as a double bluff. Maybe
he wanted it to look as though he was definitely
dead.' As he spoke, he knew it didn't really make sense. Richard English would have
known that it wouldn't take them long to run the DNA tests. And anyway, why would
a man like English have done such an extraordinary thing? What was there to be gained
by it? They would have to investigate his background and the financial side of things
a lot more thoroughly.

‘There's one bit of good news,' Steele continued. ‘We got a hit from the Missing
Persons database. The tests confirm that the head from the Sainsbury's fire belongs
to a man called John Smart. He was in his sixties and disappeared about a year ago
from an address in Battersea. His daughter's listed as next of kin. Her name's Isobel
Smart and Sharon's trying to contact her as we speak. I'll email you the summary
of the police report, so you can look at it on the journey back, and Isobel Smart's
address.'

‘OK. I'll get a train from Winchester as soon as I can. Nick can stay and speak to
the pathologist down here.'

Nineteen

‘Please can you tell me what happened to my father?' Isobel Smart asked Tartaglia.
‘The female detective I spoke to earlier didn't say much, except that he's dead and
that you're treating it as a murder investigation. She said you'd fill me in.' She
looked at him expectantly, her wide mouth slightly open.'

It was early evening and they were sitting at the table in the kitchen of her mansion
block flat in Battersea. She had arrived home from work only half an hour earlier
and was still wearing a shapeless navy blue suit and pale blue blouse. She was on
the tall side and overweight, but she had a pleasant oval-shaped face, framed by
neat, chin-length brown hair. Looking at Isobel Smart, the words ‘functional' and
‘businesslike' sprang to mind; the sort of person who usually made a reliable witness
in court. She sat awkwardly in the chair, shoulders slightly hunched and her large
hands resting uncomfortably in her lap, fingers tightly intertwined as though she
didn't know what to do with them. Based on what he had read in the report, she had
nothing to gain, financially or otherwise, from the death of her father.

He chose his words carefully. ‘We've found a body, or at least a part of a body,
which we believe is your father's.' He didn't know how else to describe it, not wanting
to mislead her.

Her brown eyes stretched open in horror. ‘A
part
of a body?'

‘Yes. His remains were discovered in a burnt-out car a few weeks ago, but it's likely
he's been dead more or less since he went missing.'

‘What happened?' she asked, her voice barely audible. ‘How did he die?'

‘At the moment, we don't know what happened, Miss Smart, but he certainly suffered
a blow to the head that would have been enough to kill him.'

‘A blow? Could it have been an accident? He was often walking into things, not looking
where he was going. His mind was always somewhere else.'

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘I'm afraid not. And before you ask, I can't tell you anything
more for now.'

She sat back heavily in her chair. Her eyes filled with tears and she was silent
for a moment, turning away to look out of the window into the darkness that had already
fallen outside. He followed her gaze. Battersea Park was just on the other side of
the street and the distant lights along the Thames embankment sparkled through the
bare branches of the trees.

‘I'm sorry, Miss Smart. I wish we had more answers at this stage,' he added.

She brushed the tears away with her hands and rubbed her eyes, then looked at him.
‘I guess in a way it's a relief that you've finally found him. It's been terrible
not knowing where he was, wondering each day if he'd suddenly walk in through the
door.'

‘Do you feel up to telling me what happened the day he went missing?' The gist was
in the Missing Persons report but he wanted to hear it first hand from her in case
she could add any more colour.

She nodded, took a crumpled tissue from her jacket pocket and blew her nose. ‘I left
the flat as usual about seven-thirty to go to work. He was having his breakfast.
When I came home that evening he wasn't here. His hat and coat were gone, along with
his backpack. There was no sign that he'd changed his clothes, so I assumed he just
hadn't come home yet. I made
supper and waited, but he never appeared. It wasn't
like him not to let me know where he was, and I was getting worried. I tried his
phone but he didn't pick up, so I called the police but they told me to wait twenty-four
hours.'

‘His phone was still switched on?' There had been no mention of this in the report.

‘Yes. It rang a few times and then went through to voicemail. I left several messages
but he never called back. Do you think he was being held somewhere?'

‘We don't know at this stage. Please go on.'

She sighed. ‘I tried calling again the next day and it still kept ringing. It was
a really basic model and it held its charge, unlike mine. But by the evening it was
either switched off or had run out of juice. I was worried sick by then, so I called
the police again.'

‘What sort of phone was it?'

‘Just an old Nokia. It used to be mine. He didn't want anything too complicated.
He just used it to make the odd call.'

According to the summary that had been emailed to Tartaglia, the full missing person's
report listed both telephone records and voicemail transcripts for the two weeks
leading up to Smart's disappearance. However, he was sure he had seen no mention
of phone location analysis. Even if Smart's phone were too old or basic to be equipped
with GPS technology, as long as it was switched on, it would still have been sending
out a signal that would give them a rough idea of his movements. He made a mental
note to check the file again when he got back to the office, but if it hadn't been
done, he would make sure it was prioritised.

‘Can you tell me a bit about your father?' he asked. ‘I understand he lived here
with you.'

‘Yes. I'm divorced and I've got no kids. When Mum died six years ago, he sold their
house and I told him he could move in with me. We were always very close. I guess
I was a real daddy's girl. I miss him terribly, you know.' Her mouth puckered as
she tried to stop herself from crying.

‘Is that him?' He gestured towards a large, framed black and white photograph on
a shelf above the counter, next to a handful of cookbooks.

She gave a wan smile. ‘Yes. When he was a bit younger.'

‘His face looks familiar.'

‘Dad was an actor. His stage name was John Sharp. He used to do loads of telly and
commercials in the eighties and nineties.'

‘I'm sure I've seen him. I spent my life watching the box as a teenager.' He saw
tears in her eyes again and decided to change tack. ‘Your father was in his sixties
when he went missing?'

She nodded, looking down at her hands. ‘He was going to be sixty-five the next day.
My brother and his family were coming over and we were going to have a celebration.'

‘It says in the missing persons report that your father was a little forgetful.'

‘I suppose so, but it was nothing serious. They tried to make out that he had Alzheimer's
. . .'

‘They?'

‘The police. I guess they were trying to find reasons to explain why he might have
gone off and not come back.'

‘But there was no truth in it?'

‘Well, he did have some problems remembering his lines on one particular job. His
agent made him go and see his doctor about it, but the doctor just told Dad not to
worry, that it was all part of getting older and he just needed to get a bit more
rest.'

‘You told the police this?'

‘Yes, but it made no difference. They wouldn't listen.'

Tartaglia had quickly skimmed the doctor's report, which had been attached to the
summary of the Missing Person's report. The investigation had considered all the
usual angles; all the shops and places John Smart visited on a regular basis had
been checked, but nobody had seen him the day he disappeared and the police had
failed to find any evidence whatsoever to trigger the launch of a full-scale murder
inquiry. As with Richard English's disappearance, there were no suspicious circumstances
or any known threats to Smart. Even though the report had touched on the possible
issue of dementia, he wasn't viewed as being vulnerable in any way. However unreasonable
it sounded to his family and close friends, the conclusion was that he had, for some
reason, decided to go off of his own free will. There was nothing illegal about
that.

‘Did he have any close friends?'

‘You'll want to speak with Jim and Tony. They were his best buddies. He'd known them
both for well over thirty years.' Tartaglia made a quick note of their details. ‘They're
usually to be found in the Sun Inn,' she added. ‘That's where Dad used to hang out
even after he'd moved to Battersea.'

‘You mean in Barnes?'

She nodded. ‘I grew up in Bellevue Road, around the corner.'

‘I know the Sun Inn well, our office is just up the road. What about girlfriends?
Was your father seeing anybody?'

‘No.' She replied a little too quickly and emphatically and he realised it was a
sensitive subject. For the first time in their conversation, he wondered if she was
hiding something.

‘You're sure?' he asked, looking at her closely, noting the way she suddenly avoided
eye contact.

‘Of course I'm sure. After Mum died, he had quite a few women chasing after him.
He was a terrible flirt but he didn't mean anything by it, he just liked the attention.
Said it made him feel alive. I gave his organiser to the police so they could check
up on where he'd been and who he'd been seeing. I'd quite like to have it back at
some point.'

‘So, there was nothing going on in his personal life? Nobody—'

‘No. He was a family man, Inspector. He also valued his close friends, people he'd
known for years. He didn't need anybody else.'

He still wasn't convinced, sure that there was something behind her almost prudish
reaction. John Smart's sex life probably wasn't relevant and Isobel was not a suspect.
But he needed the full picture of Smart's day-to-day life, however uncomfortable
it might be for his daughter. If she wouldn't discuss it, he was sure Smart's friends
would have no such issue. ‘I'll make sure you get all of his things back when we're
finished with them,' he said. ‘So what would a normal day look like, for your father?'

‘It depends if he was working, or not. If he wasn't, he'd be off on his bicycle after
breakfast, usually to his allotment. He was very into his gardening.'

‘This was where?'

‘At the back of one of those big houses on Castelnau. The woman who owns it joined
the local allotment scheme.'

‘Sorry, you'll have to explain. I know nothing about allotments.'

‘Dad really missed his garden after Mum died. He tried to get an allotment from the
council, but it was impossible. It seems you have to wait for at least twenty years.
Then he saw an ad in the local paper about the garden scheme. Basically,
residents
who have a spare plot of garden and no time to look after it themselves, let other
people use it to grow veg and flowers. In return, they get half the produce. It
seems to work quite well. Dad was always growing all sorts of wonderful things. I
think the lady who lived there must have really loved him.'