Jigsaw Man (38 page)

He switched on a small torch and went out into the hall. Her bedroom was at the front,
directly above the sitting room, he remembered her once telling him. He paused at
the bottom of the stairs, attempting to calm his beating heart. As he tried to visualise
her lying upstairs in her bed, asleep, other faces started bubbling up in his mind,
voices from the past whispering like sirens in his ear.
Adam . . . Adam
. . . He
shook his head and blinked over and over again, until all he could see was Sam Donovan's
pale face. Had she changed? Or was she the same stupid woman he remembered sitting
beside him on his grandmother's best sofa, drinking iced vodka and wanting him to
kiss her. He was so close he could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her body
and her breath on his check as he leaned towards her. She had wanted him so much
. . .

This time there was no thug of a detective to save her. This time it was just the
two of them. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach like dying things, and he smiled
as he put his foot on the first stair.

He took his time, fearful of making any noise that might wake her. Halfway up the
flight of stairs he felt one of the old boards give beneath his foot and there was
a horrible creak. He froze, not daring to move for well over a minute, but there
was no sound from above. She was fast asleep, no doubt dreaming of Prince Charming.
The door at the top of the stairs was open and he stopped on the threshold, dipped
the torch beam low
and gazed inside. The bed stood in the middle of the room, headboard
up against the chimneybreast. He could just make out her shape in the centre, huddled
beneath the duvet. He closed his eyes for a moment. He was so close he could almost
hear her breathing. He had waited for this for so long, rehearsing it over and over
in his mind. Finally he was there. This time, he wanted her fully awake. He wanted
to look into her eyes as he told her what he had done to Claire and what he was going
to do to her. He wanted her to know everything.

He tiptoed over to the bed and slowly and carefully climbed onto it. Ready to grab
her if she moved, he bent down and whispered:

‘Sam. Wake up. It's Adam.'

Forty-five

Tartaglia and Steele stood together at the back of Dave Simpson's hospital room,
watching while Chang and Fuller asked the questions. Simpson lay stretched out flat
under the cover, arms limp at his sides, his skin still grimy with smoke and dirt.
There had been talk of handcuffing him, but it was decided that in his current state
he would be unlikely to run away and a couple of uniformed constables outside the
door were considered to be sufficient security for the moment. Simpson was linked
up to some sort of monitor and his head was heavily bandaged. He was suffering from
concussion, as well as smoke inhalation, but a CT scan had revealed nothing too alarming.
Physically, he was well enough to be interviewed, according to the attendant physician.
He had been cautioned and a solicitor summoned but Simpson was saying nothing, either
to his brief or the police. He stared into space as though they weren't there, the
only response to their questions an occasional blink of his eyes.

Looking at him, Tartaglia felt numb. He recognised Simpson as the man he'd seen at
the house in Castelnau, but he appeared different, somehow shrunken and less significant,
as though his injuries rendered him more human than the cold-blooded murderer they
had been searching for. The so-called Jigsaw Killer. The stuff of nightmares. There
was no evidence on his surprisingly sensitive-looking hands of the cross-like scar
Tatyana had described. Like so much else she had told them, it had been a lie. Was
it his intention to plead insanity? Was he
actually insane? Tartaglia doubted it.
To have carried out the murders as he had done, he had to have been in full control
of his faculties. Simpson had also seemed perfectly normal when Tartaglia had first
come across him in the front garden of Jane Waterman's house. He had certainly been
able to function normally, and maintain some sort of a relationship with Chantal
Blomet, although according to her she had only seen him a couple of times a week,
on and off, and they hadn't been living together. She said that she always felt Simpson
wanted to keep her at a distance.

She had eventually broken down and agreed to tell them what she knew about the murder
of Richard English. She said that Simpson had come to her flat that night, saying
he had nowhere to stay. He had been in a strange, wired state, unable to keep still,
like a wild animal pacing up and down in a cage. Eventually, he told her what had
happened. He blamed English for ruining his life. He had needed to confront English,
tell him what he'd done to him, before he could find peace and move on. Simpson told
her he had used some sort of anaesthetic or tranquilliser to subdue English and
had transported him in the back of a van he had borrowed to the house in Peckham.
A couple of people had seen him half-carry, half-walk a groggy middle-aged man down
the stairs to the basement, but had probably assumed that English was just another
drunk. In that neighbourhood, nobody paid much attention to such comings and goings.
Simpson said how easy it had all been, until English started to come out of it and
tried to attack him, knocking over the stove by accident. The flames had taken hold
so quickly, it was all Dave could do to escape. Minderedes and Wightman had probed
and pressed Chantal mercilessly, but she insisted that that was what Simpson had
told her and she had believed him. She said it had been a
horrible accident. Nothing
the detectives said could change her mind. Perhaps it was the only version she found
bearable.

Chantal had also continued to insist that she knew nothing about what had happened
to Jake Finnigan or John Smart, and in the end Tartaglia believed her. She said that
Simpson used to visit Jane Waterman quite often and that eventually she had given
him a key to her house and he became her lodger. Like Simpson, she had no close family;
she was lonely and liked having people around. They would talk about all sorts of
things, including the restaurant he was going to set up with her help, once the sale
of an overseas property finally came through. He used to cook for her and do various
chores around the house. In return, she would give him money. He would also take
her out in her car occasionally to do some shopping, or to the library up the road.
Tartaglia imagined how frustrated somebody as talented as Simpson must have felt,
reduced to such a menial role, his bitterness directed at Richard English and then
Jake Finnigan. In his eyes, they were the architects of his downfall. As for Jane
Waterman, Simpson had told Chantal that Jane had complained of feeling unwell and
that he'd gone up to her room one morning with her breakfast and found her lying
in her bed, dead. Simpson said that she looked very peaceful, as though she were
just asleep. With her had died his immediate hopes of resurrecting his career.

Although Tartaglia remained convinced Simpson had started the fire deliberately,
he had initially wondered if Simpson had been at least partially truthful when he
told Chantal that all he wanted was just to confront English. But why then go to
the trouble of taking him all the way to Peckham to kill him? A quick knife in the
back, or blow to the head in a dark alley, would have done just as well. Maybe, as
Simpson had described it, things had got out of hand in the basement
bedroom. Maybe
English had found Simpson's weak spot yet again – there were so many – and goaded
him and, after everything that had happened, in the heat of the moment Simpson had
killed him – or at least left him for dead.

But when Tartaglia thought about Finnigan's murder, calculated and cold-blooded
in every detail, only one thing made sense. From the start, Simpson had intended
to kill English. The reason for taking English all the way to Peckham was to string
it out, to make him pay for what he'd done. Perhaps Simpson was also a man who liked
to make things complicated. Perhaps that was what gave him satisfaction. Simpson
had kept a great deal from Chantal, it seemed. Tartaglia remembered how Ellie Simpson
had described her husband as a loner who kept things bottled up inside. It was easier
for somebody like him to compartmentalise things and act completely alone.

Simpson was still saying nothing and had closed his eyes, either asleep now or pretending
to be so. They were all tired, they were getting nowhere and, listening to the occasional
interjection from Simpson's brief, Tartaglia could see the insanity plea looming
large on the horizon.

Steele got to her feet. ‘Let's take a comfort break, everybody. I need to make some
calls, and we could all use some refreshments.' She looked meaningfully in Simpson's
direction. ‘We could be here all night, and tomorrow if need be. Hopefully, Mr Simpson
will be fit enough by then to accompany us to the nearest station. Lying in bed doesn't
really help focus the mind.'

There was no sign that Simpson had registered any of it. Wightman switched off the
recorder and Tartaglia watched them all file out of the room into the corridor. He
hung back.

‘You coming?' Steele asked, from the doorway.

‘I'll catch you up in a minute.'

Once she had gone, he turned to the bed, bent down and whispered in Simpson's ear:

‘This is Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia, Dave. You're not being recorded and
there's nobody in the room except you and me. You don't need to open your eyes. Just
listen.' Simpson's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady. There was nothing
to suggest that Simpson had heard him but he didn't wait for a response. ‘I can understand
why you killed Richard English. I imagine you thought about it all the time you were
in jail. It must have been eating away at you. I know you meant to kill him right
from the get-go and what you told Chantal was a pack of lies, but it doesn't matter.
There are those who'd say English got what he deserved. Same goes for Jake Finnigan.
They both ruined your life. I guess John Smart was just collateral damage. He poked
his nose in where it wasn't wanted and threatened the new life you'd made for yourself
in Barnes. We don't yet know who the fourth victim is, but I have my suspicions.
I think he's the Polish gardener, Marek Nowak, and you killed him – same as with
John Smart – to silence him, to stop anybody finding out what you'd done. All of
this I understand, even if I can't sympathise with you.' He paused, studying Simpson's
thin, boyish face for a reaction. But there was none. In a way, he didn't care. ‘What
I don't get is why you killed Jane Waterman. You didn't have to. She offered you
a home. She was kind and you meant something to her. She wanted to help put you back
on your feet and rebuild your life.'

He paused again, but there was still no indication that Simpson was listening. ‘We're
waiting for DNA confirmation,' he continued, ‘but when it comes through, you'll be
charged with her murder too. Is that really what you want? Doesn't the truth mean
anything to you?'

There was still no sign of life from Simpson. Tartaglia straightened himself, flexed
his tired shoulders and made as if to go.

As he turned, Simpson opened his eyes and grabbed hold of Tartaglia's wrist.

‘I didn't kill Jane.' His voice was hoarse and strangely high-pitched. ‘I killed
the others, but not Jane.'

Donovan watched Adam from behind the door, saw him creep into the room and slowly
climb onto the bed, straddling the inert human shape she had created in the middle.
He bent down over the mound and she heard him whisper her name. Hate filled her and
she rushed forwards, a low growl erupting from her throat. He turned and, as she
swung the baseball bat, he tried to duck. The blow glanced off the side of his head.
He stared at her for a moment then made as if to get off the bed, lurching forwards
like somebody drunk. He stretched out a hand to the wall and tried to steady himself,
putting his other hand to his head and touching the place where she had hit him.
He stared for a moment at the blood left on his fingers, as though he couldn't believe
what he was seeing. Was it enough? Had she struck him hard enough? She held the bat
ready to do it again.

‘Sam?' He sagged forwards, then fell onto the floor in a heap. She switched on the
overhead light. He lay there motionless, eyes closed. It looked as though he had
passed out, but she didn't trust him. A small, black rucksack sat on the floor beside
him. Careful not to get too close, the bat in her hand in case he should try anything,
she grabbed the rucksack by one of its straps and pulled it towards her. Quickly
unzipping it, she tipped the contents out onto the bed. Along with a bottle of small
white tablets, handcuffs and a gag, there was a pistol, which she recognised as a
Glock. She put down the bat and
picked up the gun. It had no safety catch, she remembered
from her firearms training. Not knowing if the trigger pull had been lightened, she
would have to be extra careful not to touch it until she was ready. With the gun
in one hand, she clipped the handcuffs around his wrists. He didn't stir.

‘Get up,' she shouted, kicking him as hard as she could between the shoulders. No
reaction. She kicked him again, this time in the small of his back where his kidneys
were, and he moved slightly and groaned. ‘Get the fuck up.' Still he didn't stir.
Had she overdone it or was he faking? She was sweating, shaking from head to foot.
Careful not to get too close, she bent down and pressed the muzzle of the Glock hard
against his temple. ‘Can you hear me, Adam? This is
your
gun pointing at your head.
Can you feel it?' She shoved it harder into his skin and slowly he opened his eyes.
‘I found it in your rucksack, along with all the other disgusting stuff you like
to use. If you don't get up, I will kill you.' Even though his hands were secured
behind him, she still didn't trust him not to try something. She watched every movement
as he struggled to roll over onto his back.