Jigsaw Man (33 page)

‘So, you haven't seen him since?'

She shook her head.

‘Do you have any idea where he was staying when he came out?'

‘No. Sorry.'

‘When did you find out he was missing?'

‘A while ago, I guess. Someone told me, although I can't remember who. Is he dead?
Is that why you're here?'

‘It's possible,' he said, getting to his feet. She looked at him curiously, but he
couldn't fathom what was behind it. London had more than its fair share of disappearances
and suspicious deaths in any one year and there was no reason for her to make any
connection with the Jigsaw killings. It was too early to say if Simpson was linked
to the killings, although like Richard English, John Smart and Jake Finnigan, he
too had gone missing. Was he the unidentified male victim, or would parts of his
body turn up on another fire at a later date? Or could he be the bearded man they
were looking for? He needed to get hold of a visual of Simpson right away.

Transferring her shopping bags into her left hand, Donovan unlocked the front door
of her house. It was warm inside, almost uncomfortably so after the fifteen minute
walk from the Tube. The narrow hall smelt musty and unused. It had been barely a
week since Claire had died and yet it already felt
like somebody else's house. It
had taken the best part of the night to tidy up and, as far as she could, she put
everything back the way it had been before the police had searched the place and
stripped it of various items belonging to Claire. It had always been Claire's house.
She had bought it ten years before and even though Donovan had subsequently bought
a half share in it and contributed equally to the mortgage, without Claire it no
longer felt like home. Everything reminded her of Claire: the blue flowery curtains
in the sitting room, the beige patterned carpet upstairs, the endless china ornaments
dotted around the house, the clothes that overfilled her wardrobe and chest of drawers
so that they barely closed, the smell of her perfume that still lingered in the air.
There was little that Donovan could claim as her own, apart from what was in her
bedroom. She hadn't minded before, but all Claire's things suddenly seemed lost and
purposeless without their owner. When her mother and father eventually came home
from Australia – her father was now conscious and his condition improving by the
day – they would know what to do with it all. She carried the bags into the kitchen
and started to unpack. The house would be sold, but she felt no regrets. Nothing
really mattered any longer, now she knew who had killed Claire and why.

She laid the various boxes and packets out on the counter, making sure that she
hadn't forgotten anything, then switched on the kettle. She hadn't eaten since the
day before, but she felt so pumped up and high that a cup of tea was all she could
stomach. Just as the kettle pinged, the phone rang. It had been happening every few
hours since she had moved back into the house. After five rings, the answer machine
kicked in and she heard Claire's voice, followed by the sound of the dial tone as
whoever it was hung up. She
didn't bother to dial 1471. The number would be withheld.
He was checking to see if she was there. She would answer later, when she was ready,
and let him know that she had finally come home.

‘What have you got?' Tartaglia asked, looking up at Sharon Fuller, as she came striding
into his office, grinning from ear to ear.

‘I think I've found the connection, Sir, or at least one of them. Finnigan and Simpson
were both in Pentonville at the same time and in the same wing. And there's more.
Simpson was transferred there from Dartmoor so he could see his wife and child.'

‘I thought Finnigan was in the Scrubs?'

‘He was. But he was only sent there following an incident.'

‘Go on.'

‘Well, Finnigan and a few of his mates assaulted a couple of the other prisoners
in the showers. One of the men was so badly beaten he had to be hospitalised. He
was also raped by Finnigan. That man was David Simpson.'

He felt the adrenalin rush, his heart pumping. Fingers steepled against his lips,
he leaned back in his chair and exhaled. At last things were starting to fall into
place. ‘Well done,' he said, jumping out of his chair and starting to pace around
the small room as he thought it all through. The report on David Paul Simpson lay
open on his desk. The tissue samples found in the hospital fridge, which had been
taken from the Peckham fire victim, had been confirmed as belonging to Richard English,
and the body in the pauper's grave was due to be exhumed that night. Steele was busy
breaking the news to Lisa English and Ian Armstrong, although for the time being
no details would be released to the press connecting English's
death with the Jigsaw
killings. Melinda would have to wait a little while longer for her scoop.

Was Simpson the Jigsaw Killer? He had been eliminated as being one of the other victims.
They had checked his DNA profile stored on the system against the DNA profiles of
the body parts from the two fires, but there was no match. He had a motive for killing
Richard English, who had put him in jail, and also one for killing Finnigan, for
what had happened to him once he was there. However, it wasn't completely clear cut.
There was no connection so far with John Smart and, although Simpson was nearly six
feet tall, the photographs on file showed a Billy Idol lookalike, with a plump, boyish
face, a thick neck and short, gelled, bottle-blond hair. He was certainly overweight
at the time of his arrest and he could have easily have changed his physique in a
gym, but he wasn't an instant fit for the man known as Spike. More importantly,
even though the MO for the English and Finnigan murders was different, both killings
had required a significant degree of organisation and forward planning. He struggled
to see how somebody with Simpson's volatile personality and problems could have executed
the murders, in particular Finnigan's.

He turned to Fuller. ‘Who were the other prisoners involved?'

‘Finnigan's two mates are both still safely under lock and key, as is the other victim.
None of them have been out since the attack.'

‘Get back on the phone to the prison. I want to know who Simpson was close to when
he was inside, if he had any other enemies, and who visited him. Every single person.
Don't forget we still have two unidentified bodies to account for, one of which is
a youngish male. While you're at it, speak to
Simpson's probation officer. See if
they have a record of where he was living when he came out of prison and get contact
details for whoever he gave as his next of kin. I have a feeling he's the key to
unlocking all of this.'

Thirty-nine

Tartaglia followed Fuller out of the room into the corridor and automatically stopped
at the coffee machine. He pressed the button for black, still pondering the connection
between Finnigan, Simpson and English and the two still unidentified bodies. As he
waited, his phone rang. Checking the screen, he saw it was Hannah Bird.

‘I've just been to see Marek Nowak's ex-girlfriend,' she said. He heard the noise
of traffic in the background and gathered she was driving. ‘She doesn't have any
idea where he went. She didn't see him for several days before he disappeared as
they'd had a row. Apparently she'd told him she was seeing somebody else and he was
very upset. She assumed he'd taken off because of that, although she said she didn't
believe he'd stolen anything. It's more or less what she said to CID when the theft
was reported. What else do you want me to do?'

‘That's enough for now, I think.'

‘I've also managed to get hold of Rosie, John Smart's daughter. She's in London
for the day and I've arranged to meet her in twenty minutes in the high street. I'm
on my way there now, if I can only just get over the bridge. The traffic's murder.'

‘I'd like to see her. Where are you taking her?'

‘I thought we'd go to the food gallery.'

One of the many disadvantages of their office in Barnes was a lack of interview rooms.
It wasn't set up like a normal police station, with areas for public access, and
if they wanted to make it formal they had to go to a station somewhere else and borrow
a room. However sometimes a more relaxed atmosphere was better, and at least there
were several good cafés and pubs nearby. ‘I've just got a few things to do, then
I'll meet you there,' he said, tipping the foul black liquid away. He could do with
a decent cup of coffee to keep him going.

‘I've explained about the two fires,' Bird said to Tartaglia as he slid into the
seat next to her half an hour later. Rosie sat opposite, her hands tightly cupped
around her cup of coffee as though she needed the warmth. He recognised her immediately
from the photos Smart had taken of her.

‘Good. So you understand why we're here?'

Rosie nodded. ‘It's about Dad. I know he's dead. And I now know he's part of these
Jigsaw killings that have been in the papers.' Her voice was soft and a little breathless
and she winced as she spoke, clearly finding the subject painful. Dressed in a big,
baggy, colourful jumper and gypsy skirt, with a lot of silver jewellery, she looked
nothing like Isobel, Smart's other daughter.

‘Then you'll know that he wasn't the only victim. We're trying to find out what was
going on in his life in the few weeks leading up to his murder. There's nothing in
his diary that raises alarm bells, but somewhere, somehow, he came across the person
who killed him. Based on what we know, it's likely to have been shortly before he
disappeared.'

Rosie brushed a wisp of dark hair from her face. ‘I can't really tell you very much,'
she said, putting the cup carefully back in the saucer. ‘And I didn't know for weeks
that he was missing. Nobody thought to tell me.' She started to ramble on about how
horrible Isobel Smart had been to her.

‘But you know now when it was he went missing?' Tartaglia interrupted.

‘Yes. The last time I saw him was about a week before he disappeared. We went to
see a film, then we had a quick bite to eat before I had to catch my train. He seemed
completely normal, nothing at all wrong. We were talking about his coming down to
my cottage to stay for a weekend, if only he could square it with Isobel. He didn't
want to have to lie to her, but he hadn't quite plucked up the courage to tell her.
I wanted to spend some time with him, get to know him a bit better. And my mother
also wanted to see him. She's widowed now and I thought maybe . . . Well, he certainly
appeared quite keen on the idea of meeting her again, even after so many years. I'm
not sure how I'm going to break all this to her.' She started to describe how her
parents had met and about their affair and how she had discovered who her real father
was.

‘Is there anything else you remember?' Tartaglia asked, wanting to keep her on track.

Rosie sighed. ‘We talked about his work. He was doing a play on the radio the following
week. There was somebody in the cast he couldn't stand and he told me some pretty
funny anecdotes about them. I'm pretty sure it was a woman, not a man. And he wasn't
that keen on the producer either, but Dad was a bit like that. He could be tricky
sometimes.'

‘You don't remember their names?' Bird asked.

‘Sorry.'

‘It's OK,' Tartaglia said. ‘We can easily find out. Is there anything else?'

She sighed again and hugged herself. ‘It's so difficult trying to think back. Half
the time I can barely remember what happened yesterday, let alone two years ago.'

‘Just tell us what you can. It all helps.'

He didn't want to push her, make her feel guilty for not being able to remember anything
significant. It was quite
possible John Smart wasn't aware of any potential danger
to himself or, if he was, that he hadn't told her about it. But maybe there was something,
buried under the sea of little memories.

‘Well, I was just so happy to see him. We didn't get to spend much time with each
other, what with my living out of London and Isobel trying to keep him on a tight
rein. She was so bloody jealous.'

‘But he seemed fine to you? He didn't say he was worried about anything? Even something
small?'

She looked at him blankly, then shook her head. ‘He looked well, I thought. He'd
lost a bit of weight and seemed on really good form.'

He saw tears in her eyes. ‘Do the names Richard English, Jake Finnigan, or Dave –
possibly David – Simpson mean anything to you? Do you remember your father mentioning
any of them at some point?'

She frowned, then shook her head. ‘Sorry. I'm pretty hopeless, aren't I?'

‘There's no reason why you should have heard of them. I just needed to check. If
you think of anything else, however trivial, please call me.' He handed her his card
and stood up. ‘DC Bird will drop you back to the Tube if you want.'

‘It's OK,' Rosie said. ‘I'm going to pop over to the Sun Inn now, before I leave
London. It's where I used to go with Dad and his mates. I think I'll raise a glass
to him, wherever he is now, God bless him.'

Forty

‘Is Peter there?' barked the deep voice at the other end of the phone.

‘Peter?' Adam replied.

‘Don't be a plonker. You know who I mean.'

‘Who wants him?'

‘Stop dicking around and go get him. I haven't got all day.'

Adam slammed the kitchen phone back in its cradle. It was the third fucking call
for Gunner he'd had to answer that morning. The previous time, when the caller had
asked for Peter, he'd replied ‘Peter who?' and the caller had said ‘Don't be so fucking
stupid. I know he's there.' The voices were different, but they were similar in
tone and rudeness. They all sounded like clones of Gunner, aka Peter. He couldn't
think of him as Peter. Gunner suited him much better.