Jigsaw Man (20 page)

‘I know all about Mr Fawkes and his remarkable face,' she shouted. ‘Poor little boy
must have got quite a shock. Must have been just like Halloween.'

It was worse than he'd anticipated. He swung around to face her, hoping his expression
didn't betray his confusion. Where the leak had come from wasn't clear, but that
didn't matter for the moment – it wouldn't be the first time that things had leaked
during an investigation. Press briefing aside, if she knew about it, it would be
all over the papers by the morning.

‘Who else did you have to screw to find that out?' he shouted back.

She laughed. ‘Nobody. Look, I've just got a few little questions,' she said breathlessly,
trotting towards him. ‘It won't take a minute. Honest. Then I'll leave you in peace.'

‘I don't want to talk to you, Melinda.'

‘Yes you do, Mark. You always do. Come on, let's go and get a drink and we can have
a nice little chat. Off the record. And I mean it this time. Promise.'

He could smell her perfume. It was strong and spicy and he couldn't decide if he
liked it or not. Her heavy silver bracelets jangled as she swept a lock of hair off
her face. Her black-lined eyes sparkled. He hadn't the energy to fight. Also he
needed to find out what she knew.

‘Just a very quick word, then.'

She was still smiling. ‘Guide's honour.'

‘As if you were ever in the Guides. You've changed your hair colour again, I see.'

‘I got bored of being a blonde.'

‘I preferred it black.'

‘Yeah, but I kept getting mistaken for Amy Lee, which got really annoying. Every
time I went out for a pack of fags, I'd get pestered for my autograph. Who'd be a
celebrity, eh?' She looped her arm into his and they crossed Barnes High Street and
walked into the small front garden of the Sun Inn. In summer it was a suntrap and
always packed, whatever the hour. But on this damp, late-autumn evening it was deserted,
apart from a young couple having a smoke and what sounded like a row under one of
the patio heaters. They went inside and up to the bar.

‘What do you want?' he asked.

‘It's on me.'

He shook his head. ‘Can't let a hack like you buy me a drink.'

‘Post-Leveson paranoia getting to you?'

‘I don't want to be in your debt, however small.'

‘Alright, I'll pretend we're on a date. Vodka and Slimline please. Make it a double.
I'll go and get us a quiet corner.'

‘No. We can stay at the bar. I want this to be open and above board, plus this is
not going to be a long session.'

She made a face. ‘OK. But let's sit outside. Please? I'm dying for a fag.'

He watched her go, noticing the easy sway of her hips, the flash of her heels, and
feeling annoyed with himself that he had allowed things to get this far. He ordered
her drink and a single malt for himself. While he was waiting for them, he glanced
around the room. He could understand why it was popular with the locals. It was a
nice, cosy place to sit and enjoy a drink, with its old wooden floors, comfy leather
sofas and low lighting. The food wasn't bad either. He wondered if any of the people
dotted around at various tables were Jim Adams and
Tony Boyle, John Smart's old drinking
buddies. There was no point approaching any of them with Melinda at his heels. In
any event, before they were interviewed the next morning, he wanted to spend more
time reading through the Missing Persons report on Smart's disappearance, as well
as Smart's diary, both of which were now in his bag. Just one quick drink and then
he'd go home.

The barman slid the two glasses towards him and handed him his change. He carried
the drinks outside and found Melinda sitting on a bench against the wall, under a
heater. She took a cigarette out of her bag and put it to her lips. He lit it for
her and sat down opposite.

‘Cheers,' she said, holding up her glass.

‘This is not a celebration, nor is it a date. Let's get down to business.'

She smiled sweetly. ‘It's really nice to see you too, Mark.'

‘What do you want, Melinda?'

‘OK. I know about the Guy Fawkes body, or bodies, should I say? There's no point
asking me how I know.'

‘I didn't for a minute think there was.'

‘Do you have IDs for them yet?'

‘No comment.'

She was watching him closely. ‘I'll take that as a “no”, then, but we're talking
about a serial killing, of course, and you know how everyone loves a serial killer.
Now, the fire in the Sainsbury's car park, that has many similarities, doesn't it?
There's this ex-con, plus two others. The killer assembles them a bit like a jigsaw
puzzle—'

Tartaglia slammed down his glass and stood up. ‘How the fuck, Melinda! You've gone
too far. Where did you get this from?'

‘Why is it too far? I just know what you know, more or less. It's only what you'll
be feeding everyone else at the briefing in
the morning, isn't it? What's wrong with
my knowing a few hours early?'

‘It's not yet decided how much will come out at the briefing. How did you get that
information? Who did you have to pay?'

‘Stop being so high and mighty and sit down. I didn't pay, and you know full well
that as a journalist, I can't and won't reveal my sources.' She reached over and
grabbed his hand. ‘Anyway' she went on, ‘why the hell should we have stuff dribbled
out to us as and when it suits you? The public have a right to know.'

‘But somebody on the inside sold you that info.'

‘Not true. As I said, I didn't have to pay. Please will you sit down? Pretty please?
There's more.' She opened her blue eyes wide.

How
much
more, he wondered, pulling his hand away. He needed to find out. Then he
would call Steele. Reluctantly, he sank down in his chair. Why, if she seemed to
hold all the cards, was she there? What did she really want from him?

‘Who's been talking? Is it a member of my team, someone I work with?'

‘It doesn't matter, but no, it's not, if that makes you feel better. What matters
is that people are going missing. They leave home one day and don't come back. Loved
ones are left waiting, hoping . . . Hoping that the ring of a phone or the sound
of a key in the lock is the person they're desperately missing. But they're not coming
back, are they? There's a nutter on the loose and he needs to be stopped. How many
more victims do you think are going to be taken off the streets, killed and set on
fire? How many?'

He took a mouthful of whisky. ‘Save the purple prose for your rag. This isn't getting
us anywhere.'

‘But it's all true.'

‘When is this tripe hitting the front page?'

‘Tomorrow. We're calling him the Jigsaw Killer. Do you like that?'

‘Jesus. Can't you give the hard-bitten journo act a break for once? You're in danger
of becoming a cliché.'

‘It's what our readers want, Mark. I'm just doing an honest day's work, same as you.'

He shook his head wearily. ‘Honest doesn't come into it.'

There was a softer side to her, a side that he really liked, but those moments were
fleeting and seemed far away. He'd often wondered what she would have been like in
a more caring profession, but in the end he couldn't imagine her doing anything else.
Like so many hacks he had met in the course of his work, she lived on the adrenalin
buzz of making a discovery. In some ways, she was no different to him.

‘Why are you telling me all this? What's the point?' he asked.

‘Because I want your input. What do you think of it all? Surely even you must find
it weird?'

‘Murder is weird.'

‘Are the killings random, do you think?'

He said nothing, just shook his head again and stared down into the dark yellow depths
of his drink.

‘OK. At least you can tell me who's going to run the operation. I'm assuming it's
the Met. I mean, the Hampshire Constabulary have no real expertise in serial killings.'

He held up his hand. ‘Just stop right there. Nice though it is to see you, Melinda,
and it is nice, or it would be in other circumstances, you know I can't tell you
anything. You'll find out all the answers you need at the press briefing tomorrow.'

‘Let's talk in general terms, then. I'm fascinated by the
psychology of it. I mean,
what point is the killer trying to make?'

‘Your guess is as good as mine.'

‘What about fire? Is it symbolic, do you think? Are we talking the eternal flames
of punishment or purification?' She frowned. ‘Problem is, I don't get it. I just
don't get the point of it. Why . . .'

‘You've been doing this long enough to know that things don't often make sense.'

‘Well, it bugs me.' She took a drag on her cigarette and leaned back in her seat,
narrowing her eyes as she blew out a series of perfect rings. ‘Will you get a profiler
involved?'

He shook his head. ‘Come on, Melinda . . .'

‘OK. I know profiling's not the flavour of the month these days. Too many bloody
cock-ups, I suppose.'

He gazed at her for a moment, wondering why she was talking such a load of drivel.
She was never one to waste her breath and it struck him that she was trying to hide
what she really wanted in a cloud of less important things. There was definitely
something else and he decided to make her work for it. ‘Right. I think we've covered
everything. I'm tired and I need an early night.' He knocked back the remainder of
the whisky and made a move to stand up.

She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘Wait, Mark, please. Just one more little thing.'

‘Sorry. Gotta go.'

‘This is the last thing, I promise.'

‘What is it?'

‘Say I'm the killer, murdering people, cutting them up, reassembling the bits .
. .'

‘You're making him sound like Dr Frankenstein.'

‘He is a bit like Frankenstein, you're right. I didn't think of
that. But if he's
Frankenstein making a monster, why set fire to the poor monster, and why stop at
two fires?'

He sighed. ‘Why do you expect any of this to be logical? You know better than that.'

‘But think about it. Even if I only kill a few people, I've got enough spare parts
to—'

‘Get to the point.'

‘OK. Do you think there's been another fire somewhere?'

He stared at her for a moment, but it was useless trying to gauge anything from her
expression. Her face was blank, as though she were asking a simple, unloaded question.
But it was far from that. The same question had been popping up in his mind like
a nagging Jack-in-the-Box ever since seeing Dr Moran. The basic screens had yielded
nothing so far, but maybe they needed to dig a little deeper. He wondered if in fact
she knew more than he did. Maybe she had uncovered something – it wouldn't be the
first time. Or was she just fishing?

‘Another fire?' he asked guardedly.

‘Another body – another collection of body parts – on a fire. You know what I mean.'

‘Been, or will be?' He tried to sound uninterested, forcing his spiralling thoughts
away.

She was looking at him just as intently. ‘Either, I guess. I mean, somebody like
this doesn't just stop, do they?'

She was right and he felt the inexorable pressure of her words. It was the race against
time beloved by the media. Cold-blooded serial killers like the one they were hunting
kept on killing until either they were caught or they died. The nightmarish fear
of every detective was failure to find them in time to save another life, but he
couldn't let his worry show. ‘You said “been”. Past tense. The future is hypothetical.
We can all theorise endlessly about that.'

‘Don't be such a bloody tease. Is there a third fire? Come on, you must have had
the same thought, surely? Yes? Or have you . . .' Her eyes flicked up to a point
over his shoulder and she stopped speaking, mouth slightly open.

He looked around. DCI Steele was standing immediately behind him.

‘Hope I'm not interrupting anything,' she said to Tartaglia, with a glance at Melinda.

‘Not at all.' He stifled a sigh of frustration. Her timing couldn't have been worse.

‘Justin said he'd seen you heading this way for a drink and then I spotted you two
sitting out here.'

Melinda stood up. ‘I'm just going.' She stubbed out her cigarette and knocked back
the rest of her vodka in one. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mark.' As she picked up her
bag and turned to go, she made a phone sign and mouthed the words ‘call me' to Tartaglia.
She then blew him a kiss.

‘You two looked rather cosy,' Steele said, as Melinda Knight exited through the garden
gate.

‘Hardly.'

‘What's it about then? Or is that a stupid question?'

‘Work. And it's bad news, I'm afraid. Can I get you a drink? I certainly need another.'

‘Diet coke. I'm driving.'

They went inside and up to the bar. ‘A diet coke and a Lagavulin,' he said to the
barman. ‘Actually, make that a double. On the rocks.'

‘Not driving?' Steele asked.

‘No.'

‘Where's the Ducati?'

‘In the garage for a service. I haven't had time to pick it up.'

‘How were you getting home?'

‘Unless it starts raining again, I thought I might walk. I need to clear my head.'

‘I'll go and find us another table,' she said. ‘If it's all the same to you, I'd
rather sit inside.'

Twenty-One

‘Same again?' Adam asked, indicating her empty glass.