Jigsaw Man (28 page)

Wanting to try and understand her reaction better, he picked up his phone and dialled
Chang's mobile. When Chang eventually answered, he sounded sleepy, as though he'd
already long since gone to bed. Tartaglia gave him the gist of the conversation
with Donovan.

‘I just want to understand what's going on with her,' Tartaglia said. ‘Somehow she
seems to have got it into her head that Claire was specifically targeted and that
the man meant from the start to kill her. Do you have any idea why, and what this
is all about?'

‘No. She asked me a whole load of questions. I just answered as best I could. I didn't
know half the time what she was getting at.'

‘She talked as though it's all part of a game, with some other end in mind. Where
did that come from?'

‘Honestly, I don't know.'

‘You must have said something that triggered it. What was it?'

Chang sighed. ‘I think the turning point was when I told her about the room service
trolley and the food. She seemed pretty normal before that. I actually thought she
was coping quite well, all things considered.'

‘You said what?'

‘She asked me to talk her through the crime scene, to describe blow by blow what
we saw on the video.'

‘Did she explain what was so important about the trolley?'

‘No. But it wasn't just the timing of it all, it was what was on the trolley. It
really seemed to shake her. She also got very excited about the air con being on
low. It meant something to her, but she wouldn't tell me what it was. She said she
needed to speak to you.'

‘Thanks,' he said, imagining that Chang hadn't been pleased about that, although
his tone gave nothing away. ‘She didn't say anything about the air conditioning,
but she wasn't making a lot of sense. I'll see you in the morning.' He hung up. He
took a pull on his cigarette. Something niggled. Why hadn't she mentioned the air
con to him, if it was something significant? He stubbed out his cigarette, went into
the hall and knocked on the bedroom door.

‘Sam, can I have a quick word.'

‘What is it?' she called out.

‘What do you make of the air conditioning in the room being on low? Why is that important?'

There was a small pause before she said, ‘Because he doesn't want sex.'

‘So?'

After a moment, the door opened a crack and he saw her shadow behind it. ‘Because
he gets excited in other ways,' she said. ‘Because he knows he does. He's a real
pro. If I'm right, I'm telling you, this was all very carefully planned.'

‘Go on.'

‘You got no DNA hits from the room.'

‘No. But as I said,
we
think he's a first-timer.'

The door opened wider and her small, pale face peered out at him. ‘Or he's already
on the system, which is why he's so careful not to leave any. Killing's a contact
sport, or at least it is for him. He likes to get real close. He's probably clothed
head to toe in something to stop himself shedding, but he can't cover himself up
completely or it will spoil the fun. He's got to see what he's doing, talk to her
as he's doing it. That's all really important. That's what turns him on.'

‘What you're describing is a serial killer. Somebody who's done this sort of thing
before.'

‘I'm telling you he has. Imagine him on the bed with Claire . . .' She paused, still
holding his gaze. He said nothing, trying not to think about it. They shouldn't be
talking about it. ‘She's lying there drugged, totally out of it, thank God. He's
on top of her, straddling her, hands around her neck, looking down at her as he strangles
the life out of her. He's hot and the more excited he gets, the more he's going to
sweat. The air con being on as low as it will go when it's practically freezing outside
means he knows the score, he's been through it all before, and he really cares that
you might find something.'

‘But we found nothing.'

‘Maybe he was so damned careful there's nothing to find.
But maybe, just maybe, you
weren't looking in the right places. You need to check if he sweated on her. Particularly
check her face, her eyes, her mouth . . .'

‘Her face and mouth were tested for semen and saliva but nothing was found. And the
grip areas were negative for DNA. The only profile that came back was hers.'

She said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘So you haven't actually profiled the
tapes from her face?'

‘I don't know. Look, it's not my case any longer, Sam.' Even as he spoke he realised
how empty it sounded and he saw her expression harden. He couldn't be expected to
follow the detailed ins and outs of the investigation, particularly given the fact
he was working flat out on another case. But even if he had been stretched in fifty
different directions, it still would have been a lame excuse. He owed her more than
that. He also had failed to fully understand how desperate she must feel being stuck
on the side-lines, even if it was the best and safest place for her to be. It was
stupid to expect her to wait around passively, doing nothing. She would not rest
until Claire's killer was found and, in her shoes, he would have been no different.

Her description of what might have happened seemed just about plausible, even if
the look in her eyes made him question her sanity. But she had a point. It was easily
possible that after everything else had tested negative, the tapes used to take samples
from Claire's face and neck hadn't been prioritised for DNA profiling. They might
not even have been sent off yet. It was a detail that should be followed up as soon
as possible, if nothing else to tick the box and reassure her. ‘I'll talk to Steele
first thing in the morning,' he said, hoping to placate her. ‘I'll make sure it's
done.'

‘Good.'

Before he could say anything else, she closed the door.

Thirty-one

Adam parked Kit's battered old VW Golf in the little street in Hammersmith by the
river. It was one in the morning and he had been on a round trip, via Ealing, to
see his grandparents' old house. He had set it on fire before leaving the UK a year
before and it was boarded up, standing like a blackened, rotten tooth in an otherwise
perfect mouth. He was still technically the legal owner but there was no chance of
his ever being able to reclaim it. No doubt the council would eventually take possession.
Sitting outside in the road, looking up at it and remembering the events that had
led up to his escape abroad, he had felt extraordinarily detached. The thirty-plus
years he had endured there, both with his grandparents and then after their deaths
on his own, along with the final, absurdly dramatic denouement, meant nothing. He
was dead to it all and everything it represented. It was as though the house embodied
somebody else's foul history rather than his own.

Checking that there was nobody around, he got out of the car and locked it. It had
been raining and as he walked along the street, his footsteps echoed on the wet pavement.
A cat scuttled away under a car, the only sign of life. The houses were small and
low-built, traditional two up, two down. What estate agents referred to picturesquely
as ‘cottages', trying to turn their mean proportions into a virtue. He had never
been to the house before but he had memorised the address and he remembered what
she had told him a while back about the layout when he had asked her to describe
it. Sitting room and
study on the ground floor, with a kitchen at the back. Two bedrooms
and a bathroom on the first floor. It had been a pleasant enough dinner, until she
had later spoiled it.

He stopped in front of the house, on the opposite side of the street, and looked
up. It was dark inside, the curtains on both floors still open. She slept at the
front, he remembered her saying. So she wasn't back home yet. He had the keys in
his pocket and for a moment he fancied letting himself in and having a snoop around.
But he wasn't ready yet. He wasn't quite there. Fucking Gunner was putting him off
his stride, making him feel unusually nervous. No point in doing something spur
of the moment and risk ruining things. He would come back again when he was better
prepared.

Thirty-two

At ten o'clock the following morning, Tartaglia and Minderedes stood in Choumert
Road, Peckham, outside the boarded-up house where the unknown man had died.

‘You take Leonie,' Tartaglia said. ‘I'll speak to Mrs Tier.'

She lived on the ground floor of a small housing trust block, just across the street.
Her front windows were set back only a few feet from the pavement and she would have
had a good view of the comings and goings opposite. As he approached the door to
her flat, he heard the deep bark of a large dog inside. He rang the bell. More barking.
Wondering if he had drawn the short straw, he heard the sound of several locks being
unclicked. The door opened a fraction, on the chain, and a pale, elderly face, framed
by artificially red hair, peered out. He heard snuffling behind her, followed by
a deep bass growl.

‘Back, Max,' she bellowed in a surprisingly loud voice, he assumed to the dog. ‘Get
back.'

He held up his warrant card. ‘I'm Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia, from the Met
Police. May I have a few words with you about the fire across the road?'

‘Will this take long? I'm not dressed.'

‘Just a few questions, that's all. I've already read the statement you gave at the
inquest.'

‘I'll just go and put Max in the kitchen.' She closed the door behind her and locked
it again, returning a couple of minutes later. This time, she opened the door a few
inches, without the
chain. She had put on a dressing gown and slippers, as well as
a slick of red lipstick.

‘Poor man,' she said, through the gap. ‘They never found out who he was, did they?'

‘That's what we're trying to do.'

‘A journalist came by the other day asking questions about what happened.'

‘I know,' he said, wanting to short cut the process. ‘I just need to ask you a few
more things. The dead man was in the room normally occupied by a man called Spike.
From what we can tell, he was quite a bit older than Spike. Did you ever see anyone
like that going down to the basement flat?'

‘I wasn't out spying on them, if that's what you think. I've got better things to
do with my time.'

‘Of course. But was anyone else living down in the basement with Spike? There must
have been at least two rooms.'

‘I can't really say. Leastways, he was the only one I saw coming and going through
the basement door.'

‘Do you have any idea who the dead man was?'

‘I'd have told the inquest if I had. My husband was a policeman, Inspector. I know
how important these things are. They said he was middle-aged, but I never saw nobody
like that go in the house, unless it was people from the landlord trying to talk
to them squatters.'

‘But you knew Spike?'

‘Oh, yes. He was a decent enough sort, compared to the rest of them.'

‘How would you describe him?' Although he had the journalist's notes, he wanted
to hear it for himself.

‘Thin as a rake. No meat on him, to speak of. Mid-brown hair in a ponytail. He always
had a ponytail. And he was always in those dark glasses. Couldn't see his eyes.'

‘What about his clothes?'

‘Nothing special.'

‘Did you notice if he had any scars or tattoos or any other distinguishing marks?'
he asked, thinking about what Tatyana had said about the man who had called himself
Chris.

‘Not that I noticed. Sorry.'

‘Was there anyone else in the house he was particular friends with?'

She shook her head. ‘He was a loner. He'd speak to the others but he didn't have
much to do with them. Can't say I blame him, neither.'

‘Could you take a look at this image and tell me if the face is at all familiar?'
He passed a copy of the E-FIT Tatyana had helped them put together through the gap.
He saw her hold it out in front of her, squinting. She turned it to one side, then
the other, as though unsure.

She sucked in her breath, then looked up at him. ‘Is this supposed to be Spike?'

‘I'm asking you if you recognise the person in the image.'

There was silence for a moment as she peered at it. ‘It's not a great likeness. The
hair's different and a bit darker. He wasn't a ginger. And I told you, I never saw
his eyes. His face was thinner and longer. But it
might
just be him.' He could see
the doubt in her eyes as she handed him back the paper.

People often said things just to try and be helpful. But ‘might' was nowhere near
good enough. Computer-generated images, like the old-fashioned artists' impressions,
were only as good as the input and the intermediary. It had been late evening when
Tatyana had helped to put together the E-FIT. Tiredness aside, memory was a tricky
thing and having to describe somebody – even somebody you knew quite well – didn't
always translate fluently onto the screen. Maybe Tatyana hadn't
remembered Chris
clearly enough for the image to be a good representation and he started to have doubts
about using it. They should get her back in for a second attempt.

‘Tell me about Spike. When was the last time you saw him?'

‘A couple of days before the fire.'

‘What was he doing?'

‘He was off on his bicycle. Don't know where.'

‘Did he have any other form of transport?'

‘I saw him in a white van a couple of times, but I don't know if it was his.'

‘Did you ever see him after the fire?'