Jigsaw Man (36 page)

‘Simpson's back,' he told Minderedes, who was standing below, stamping his feet up
and down on the ground trying to keep warm. ‘You stay here and cover the back. When
the
ladders arrive, climb over and come in from the rear. Text me if you see anybody
come out.'

Tartaglia ran back through the meadow and out of the entrance onto Castlenau. The
road was still busy with traffic from the tail end of the rush hour. It all looked
perfectly normal. Hopefully, Simpson hadn't spotted anything amiss. He joined Wightman,
Chang and the other two officers at the front.

‘He's definitely inside?' he asked.

Wightman nodded. ‘He was in the front room a minute ago.'

‘OK. Let's go.'

They followed him into the garden of Jane Waterman's house. Lights were blazing in
the room to the right of the front door and the TV was on, but there was nobody inside.
He turned to Chang.

‘Wait here in case he tries to come out the front. The rest of you come with me.'

It took a single blow from a sledgehammer to force open the front door. Wherever
Simpson was, he must have heard the noise. Tartaglia paused in the hall and held
up his hand, listening. He thought he heard the distant sound of running footsteps,
although it was difficult to tell over the noise coming from the TV. ‘Stay here,'
he said to one of the officers, ‘and you check in there,' he said to the other, pointing
towards the kitchen. ‘Dave, you'd better go and make sure Chantal doesn't escape.
She's upstairs – on the first floor, I think.'

He went into the large, threadbare sitting room. It was empty. There was no other
door to the room and the windows were closed. He returned to the hall and tried the
door opposite.

‘David Simpson,' he called out from the bottom of the stairs. ‘This is the police.
We have a warrant for your arrest. Come out
now.' He waited for a moment. Still nothing.
He called out again but there was no answer and no sound of movement anywhere in
the house. He went into the kitchen.

‘Nobody came this way,' the officer said. ‘The outside doors are locked. I've checked
them all.'

‘Did you see anyone in the garden?'

‘It's too dark.'

‘There must be some lights for the garden somewhere.' He hunted around but couldn't
find any switches for external lights. Hopefully the floodlights and ladders would
be there soon. As he turned to go, he heard the sound of a whistle from the front:
the alarm signal. He rushed outside.

‘There's smoke coming from down there,' Chang shouted, pointing to a ventilation
grill set into the brickwork of the house, just above ground level. There must be
some sort of basement or cellar, Tartaglia realised, although he'd seen no sign of
a door.

‘Call for backup. We'll also need the fire brigade and an ambulance.'

He ran back inside. He could smell burning now. ‘Fire!' he shouted, visions of the
Peckham house and the explosions springing to mind. Was it a diversion, or was Simpson
trying to destroy evidence? ‘Fire!' he shouted again. ‘Everyone out of the building.'
He heard a woman scream, followed by the thud of footsteps above, then Wightman shouted.
Chantal Blomet flew down the stairs towards him, Wightman just behind. She was wearing
a dressing gown and little else.

Tartaglia was blocking the bottom of the stairs and grabbed hold of her as she tried
to push past him. ‘Where's Dave Simpson?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Is there anyone else in the house, apart from you and Dave?'

‘Let go. You're hurting.'

‘I said, is there anyone—'

‘There's no one.'

‘What about upstairs?'

‘No,' she shouted.

‘Are you sure? Where's Jane Waterman?'

‘Nobody's here. Just me.'

‘Where's the door to the cellar?' he shouted.

‘I don't know. Let go of me.'

He increased the pressure on her wrist until she screamed. ‘Where is it?'

‘It's in the garage.'

‘How do I get to the garage?'

‘Over there.' She jerked her head towards the corridor.

He pushed her forwards. ‘Show me.'

Tartaglia and Wightman followed Chantal through the kitchen into a small utility
room that ran along the side of the house.

‘It's behind there.' She indicated a curtain at the back of the room.

‘This leads to the garage? And the door to the cellar is through there?'

‘Yes,' she screamed.

‘Is there any other way to get in there?'

Crying, she shook her head, but he wasn't sure if he believed her.

‘Once she's dressed, take her outside and caution her,' he said to Wightman. ‘A car's
on its way.'

He tried the handle, but it appeared to be locked from the inside. The smell of burning
was stronger than ever and smoke was curling through the gap at the bottom of the
door. He turned to one of the officers standing behind him. ‘Get the sledgehammer.
Let's try and get in around the front, through the garage.'

Outside, he heard the distant sound of sirens from the direction of Hammersmith
Bridge. The garage doors opened outwards, but the wood was dry and rotten in places
and it took only a single blow to break the lock. With two more attempts, they managed
to smash the doors completely off their hinges. Smoke billowed out and Tartaglia
stepped back. As he wondered whether Dave Simpson had some sort of escape route,
he heard shouting, followed by whistles from the back. ‘Get the side gate open,'
he shouted to the officer with the battering ram. Within thirty seconds they were
through into the garden. As he looked around, a floodlight came on from the top of
the back wall and for a moment he could see nothing in the glare.

He heard Minderedes shout, ‘Over there, Sir. Behind that bush.'

As Tartaglia turned, the ground beneath him shuddered, the air exploded with a deafening
bang and he fell hard onto the grass. For a moment, he lay there unable to move.
At least he was still alive, he told himself, feeling and testing each limb in turn
to make sure everything still worked. He felt bruised but there was no real pain.
Gradually, head spinning, a strange ringing in his ears, he pushed himself up into
a sitting position. The sirens were getting louder and he heard the screech of tyres
outside in the road. He gazed up at the house. Flames were rising up through the
windows on the ground floor and smoke was billowing out into the night air. He looked
around the garden and saw Dave Simpson stretched out motionless on the grass amidst
broken glass and debris, only a few metres away. Was he unconscious or just faking?
Tartaglia staggered to his feet, heard somebody call out behind him and, as he turned
towards the dazzling light, saw Minderedes and a uniformed officer running towards
him from the back of the garden.

Forty-three

Sam Donovan got out of the bath and dried herself quickly. A bath was normally something
she found relaxing, particularly at the end of a long day. She would often take
a cup of tea or a glass of wine in with her and spend a good half-hour or so soaking
in the water, reading a book or a magazine, or just letting her mind go blank. But
tonight she couldn't switch off. She put on her dressing gown and went into her bedroom.
It was dark outside and she had drawn the curtains. Before turning on the light,
she pulled back the edge of the curtain a fraction and glanced out at the street
below. A car had just turned into the road and she watched it pull up almost outside.
With relief she recognised her neighbour's car and a couple of minutes later saw
her climb out, carrying a load of heavy-looking shopping bags. She tottered along
the pavement to her front door, fumbled with her keys for a good minute, then disappeared
inside. Donovan continued to gaze out for a few minutes. The street was quiet, most
people happily at home, watching TV or on their way to bed. It struck her again how
lonely she felt.

She put on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a pullover and went downstairs
to the kitchen. She didn't feel like eating anything. She longed for a drink, a brandy
maybe, or a whisky, but she needed her wits about her. She checked the room again,
making sure that the back doors and windows were securely locked and that everything
was ready. Then she went into the sitting room and turned on the television. She
flipped through the channels until she found a film that had just started, a rom-com
she'd never heard of, with Cameron Diaz. It wasn't her cup of tea, but it didn't
matter. It would keep her mind off things for a couple of hours and make the time
pass more quickly.

Hannah Bird sagged heavily against Adam's shoulder, mumbling something unintelligible
as he tried to manoeuvre her, half lifting, half pushing her through the narrow entrance
of the wine bar into the street. He had to get her out of there quickly before somebody
twigged.

‘Sure you don't want me to ring for an ambulance?' the manager called out after him.

‘It's fine. She's had a rough day, and she's had too much to drink, that's all. I'll
see her home and she can sleep it off.'

‘If you're sure . . .'

‘I'm sure. Thanks. It's not the first time.' He raised his eyebrows meaningfully
and the manager gave him a sympathetic nod, then turned back towards the busy bar.

He had been in two minds about what to do with her. Part of him couldn't be arsed
to deal with her as he knew he ought to. He felt strangely weary and there would
be no real pleasure in it this time – his thoughts and dreams were elsewhere. He
could have easily let her go home to her lonely bed and stew. There was no risk in
it from his point of view. But she had been in a funny mood, far less amenable than
before, and downing a couple of drinks in quick succession, had started to ask some
pointed questions about his background, where he lived and what he had been doing
abroad. She had caught him out in a couple of inconsistencies with the little he
had told her before. They were nothing material and he soon recovered himself, but
he saw an irritating, questioning look in her eyes that
hadn't been there before.
Maybe she had been lied to in the past and was particularly sensitive. He didn't
really care about her history and how she felt, but she had clammed up and he had
failed to get any new, useful information from her. He had eventually decided that
she was a loose end that shouldn't be left lying around.

Mixed with the cosmopolitans she'd been drinking, the GHB had taken effect far more
quickly than he'd anticipated. One minute she was droning on about a stupid film
she wanted to see, the next she could barely sit up straight, let alone string a
sentence together. She looked baffled by what was happening to her. So much for her
detective abilities. Kit's car was parked only a short block away, down a quiet side
street next to a row of lock-up garages, but each step was taking an age and he hoped
they would make it to the car before she passed out. He looped his arm tighter around
her waist, lifting her up and propelling her forwards along the pavement. He would
carry her if he had to, but he didn't relish the thought.

As they turned the corner, the cold air seemed to intensify the effect of the drug
and alcohol mixture in her system. She was moaning now, eyes half closed, head lolling
forwards like a broken doll. They almost reached the car, but as he felt in his pocket
for the blipper, her legs gave way and she collapsed forwards onto the pavement.
He
had
to get her into the car before anybody saw. He popped the locks and opened
the rear passenger door as wide as it would go. Locking his arms around her under
her armpits, he dragged her the last few feet, her heels bumping and scraping along
the tarmac. He was sweating heavily, cursing her as he struggled to heave her inert
body onto the back seat of the car. Her feet were sticking out and he noticed she
had lost a shoe somewhere along the way, but there was no time to retrace their steps
to look for it.
He went around to the other side, opened the door and pulled her
across the seat onto her back, until her head was level with the door. Then he slammed
it shut and went back to the driver's side. He checked his watch. The plan had been
to drive her to a quiet spot and deal with her there, where he could enjoy her final
moments in full, but she would soon lose consciousness and he was running out of
time: he had other more important things to do that night. But he had to go back
to Kit's house first. He quickly scanned the road, but there was nobody in sight.
It was as good a place as any. Bending her knees, he pushed her legs apart, climbed
into the car on top of her and closed the door behind him. If anyone ventured down
the street in the next few minutes, they would think they were just a couple having
sex.

‘Where is Jane Waterman?' Minderedes shouted at Chantal Blomet. ‘Is she dead?'

Her cheeks were wet with tears and she mumbled: ‘I don't know. I never met her.'

‘Speak up, please,' Wightman said. ‘For the recording.'

‘I never met her. I swear.' She sat hunched in her chair, eyes huge, like a rabbit
caught in headlights. She had changed out of her work clothes and was dressed in
jeans and a T-shirt, with what looked like a man's navy blue cardigan. He noticed
a small gold crucifix on a chain around her neck, which must have been hidden underneath
her uniform earlier.

They were in an interview room at Hammersmith police station, on the north side of
the bridge from Castelnau. Tartaglia and Steele were in an adjacent room, watching
the interview through a one-way glass wall. The process had been delayed by the late
arrival of Chantal's brief, Keith Whitely, a balding, middle-aged man in a crumpled
work shirt and suit
trousers, who looked as though he'd been woken up in the middle
of the night, even though it was only just past ten o'clock.