Sam Donovan paused outside Detective Chief Inspector Carolyn Steele’s door, her hand raised ready to knock. It felt odd being back at the office in Barnes. She had worked there for a couple of years before quitting. Now, only a few months on, stepping into the building and walking up the stairs to the first floor, it seemed like an alien world and she felt unexpectedly nervous. The official view when she had announced her departure was that she simply needed a change. Everybody had wished her well and appeared to understand. That it had had as much to do with Mark Tartaglia as anything else, was something she had refused to acknowledge to anybody, although she knew there had been talk. Sharon Fuller was sharper than most and had certainly guessed the truth. With the benefit of hindsight, what had happened between her and Tartaglia felt less relevant now, and certainly a lot less painful than before. Maybe she had acquired some immunity, or perhaps the official view was right: all she had needed was a change.
She heard voices along the corridor, a man and a woman coming her way. As she listened, she recognised the man’s as Justin Chang’s. It sounded as though they had stopped by the coffee machine. It had been a while since she had last spoken to him, when she had broken off their relationship. He had taken it badly, refusing to accept the simple explanation she had given about needing to be on her own. Deep down, she still had mixed feelings about it and wondered if she had made a mistake. At times, particularly late at night when she’d had a drink or two, she felt lonely and she missed him. But it wasn’t enough to warrant getting back together. She certainly didn’t want to see him now, not in her current state. She felt too raw to cope with his sympathy, let alone anything else he might say . . .
She knocked on Steele’s door and heard the DCI say ‘Come in.’
Again she hesitated, but Chang’s voice was coming closer. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and went inside. Steele was sitting behind her desk, back to the window, reading some papers. The room was small, and tidy to the point of emptiness – none of the personal clutter most people gathered around themselves at work. Steele had been in the Barnes office for just over a year, yet it was as though she had just moved in and all her things were still in boxes somewhere, waiting to be unpacked. It was already dark outside but she hadn’t bothered to draw the blinds. Lights were on in the terrace of low-built houses opposite and Donovan heard a loud bang from somewhere close by that made her jump, followed by childish screeches of excitement. A rocket cut through the sky, sending a shower of red and gold across the horizon.
‘Yes,’ Steele said impatiently, eyes down, still reading.
‘It’s me. I hope you don’t mind . . .’
Steele looked up. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sam. What are you doing here?’ She got up from behind her desk and came over to Donovan. Broad-hipped and broad-shouldered, she was dressed in her normal combination of dark trouser suit and plain shirt. It was a uniform she rarely varied, as though she couldn’t be bothered to think of a different outfit, or wasn’t interested. ‘Come and sit down, will you?’ She motioned Donovan to the small sofa against the wall by the door, pulled up a chair and sat down opposite. Her short black hair gleamed under the overhead light. As usual, she was wearing a minimal amount of make-up but her brows and features were strong and she didn’t need much help to look striking. Aware that her own appearance left a lot to be desired – hair soaked and flattened by the rain and no make-up to cover her swollen, red eyes – Donovan consoled herself with the thought that at least the coat she had helped herself to from Tartaglia’s wardrobe was so large on her that it easily disguised the motley array of garments underneath.
Steele crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in her chair. ‘So, Sam, what can I do for you?’
‘I want to know what’s going on. Is there any news?’
Steele shook her head slowly. ‘Sam, I’m really not sure I—’
‘Please. I’m feeling a lot more together now, and I need to know what’s happened. I don’t want to have to read about it in dribs and drabs in the papers.’ She looked into Steele’s strange yellowy-green eyes, willing her to give a little.
For a while Steele said nothing, looking at her equally intently, as though trying to read her thoughts. The only sound in the room was the machine-gun popping and whizzing of fireworks coming from outside. Eventually Steele sighed. ‘I can understand where you’re coming from, Sam, and I guess in your shoes I’d want the same thing. But if I fill you in, will you be able to leave it there? I don’t think so. You’ll want to be a part of what’s going on and you can’t be. I know it sounds harsh, particularly after what’s happened, but you’ve left this world behind.’
‘I know, but Claire’s my sister. I promise not to get in the way. I just want to feel in touch. Not shut out. Do you understand? It’s horrible being in the dark.’
Again Steele was silent, her eyes still on Donovan.
‘Please,’ Donovan said. She felt it was her last chance.
Still looking intently at Donovan, Steele put her head to one side and scratched her lip thoughtfully. ‘If I give you some info, do you promise to leave it alone?’
‘Of course.’
‘You must stay out of things, you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were a good detective and I wish you were still working for me now, but you will have to keep your detecting instincts under lock and key. You’re not part of this investigation. Is that understood?’
‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
‘Alright. And this is not to go further than this room.’ She waited until Donovan nodded her assent before continuing. ‘From the little we’ve been able to piece together from Claire’s emails and what her phone provider has given us, she was having some sort of an affair with this man – the man she went to meet in the hotel. It appears that they met by chance and it all started up quite recently, only a few months ago.’
‘When exactly?’
‘The first text from her is a thank-you for lunch. It was sent on the twenty-ninth of August.’
Donovan thought back. The date meant nothing, but she would look in her diary. She’d been in Bristol at that time, trying to sort out digs and other things in preparation for the academic year ahead. She had barely seen her sister, and when she had it had been pretty rushed. She noted that Steele had left out the details of exactly where and how Claire had met the man, and hadn’t mentioned the flowers he had sent her. Did she think it was unimportant, or had she decided to give Donovan just the very bare bones? Probably the latter, but if she asked about it and let on that she had spoken to Nicola, the shutters would come down and Steele wouldn’t tell her anything more.
‘Can you trace him from the texts and emails?’ she asked.
‘I was coming to that. He told her he lived in Manchester, but the address he gave at the hotel is false, as, I’m sure, is the name Robert Herring. The phone chip he used is untraceable. However, both the emails he sent her and the calls he made to her, came from in and around the London area. West London, to be more precise.’
‘So, he lied. There’s a surprise.’ She felt a surge of anger and tears flooded her eyes. She wiped them away quickly with her sleeve, but they kept coming.
Steele got up and went over to her desk. She opened one of the drawers, took out a bottle of Rémy Martin and a glass and poured a large measure.
‘Here,’ she said, coming back to where Donovan sat. ‘This should help.’ She passed her the glass, together with a box of tissues, then sat down again. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this, Sam? We can save it for another time if you like.’
Donovan blew her nose forcefully and took a slug of brandy. It caught on the back of her throat, making her cough, but the instant warmth felt good. ‘It’s OK. I’ll be fine. Please go on.’
‘There’s no identifiable geographic pattern, unfortunately.’
‘As though he knew someone might look for it.’
‘Maybe. That email address and phone chip were only used for contacting your sister, nobody else.’
‘So you’re suggesting he did this deliberately?’
‘It’s looking that way.’
‘But why?’
‘It could be a simple explanation. He’s married, or lives with someone. Whether he meant to kill her, or just deceive her, is another matter. It’s very possible things just got out of hand in the hotel room.’
‘Do you believe that?’
There was a momentary pause before Steele replied. ‘Difficult to tell at the moment. There are a number of conflicting possibilities. Say he’s married, wants a bit of fun on the side, a bit of romance. He gets himself a throwaway phone and an email address and tells her he lives out of London to explain why he’s not always available. According to the texts between them, they met several times and had had dinner twice before. Your sister books the room, thinking she’s in for a lovely, romantic evening, then something goes wrong. There’s an almighty fight. He ends up killing her and then he legs it, just before one in the morning.’
‘But you must have found his DNA, surely?’
Steele shrugged. ‘It’s a hotel, and the room’s been occupied more or less without a break ever since the hotel opened a few months ago. There’s no sign of sexual contact, if that’s what you’re getting at . . .’
Donovan frowned, trying to think it all through. What had Claire been doing there?
‘Maybe he’s a client or a business contact . . .’
Even as she spoke she remembered what Nicola had told her and realised her error, unless of course Claire had lied to Nicola. But why would she? Claire could have explained away the flowers any number of ways. If only she could get rid of the fog in her brain, maybe things would become clearer. She took another large sip of the brandy, letting it warm in her mouth before swallowing. No sexual contact. What was the point of the hotel room then?
‘That’s very odd,’ she said after a moment, as dispassionately as possible. Steele looked at her and said nothing. ‘I mean,’ Donovan continued, ‘what man would lure a woman up to a hotel room if he didn’t want sex?’
‘I agree. Maybe things got out of hand very quickly and there wasn’t the chance.’
‘There’s another way of looking at it,’ Donovan said, after a moment. ‘Maybe from the outset he meant to kill her.’
‘OK, but if that’s what he wanted, why go to so much trouble? If he wanted her dead, there must be so many easier ways to do it. And, anyway, why would he want her dead? He’s not some ex-lover gone berserk, she barely knew him. The texts from both of them make it all very clear. We’ve checked the system and there’s no record of anything similar happening anywhere else in the country, which is why I feel that, for some reason, it all went pear-shaped up in the hotel room.’
Steele spoke in her usual quick, clipped manner. She seemed to be talking frankly, but Donovan was sure it was an edited version. The strange, little, quirky details were missing. They were what mattered, what made all the difference, but there was probably no way of prising them out of her. Donovan decided to crosscheck everything Steele was saying with Tartaglia later. Maybe she could also use what she had learned as a lever to persuade him to be more open.
A series of loud explosions shattered the quiet and the sky through the window was filled with another burst of multi-coloured light. She folded her arms and sat watching the arching trails of green and red mingled with gold. Shimmering splashes of white stars, like giant sunflowers, took their place, accompanied by more explosions. She needed to go home, get some sleep and think it all through again in the morning. Hopefully, the mist would lift and she’d be able to see clearly once more.
* * *
Tartaglia pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and started to unpack the contents of Chapman’s rucksack, which he’d laid out on a plastic sheet on the floor of his office. Chang sat beside him making an inventory.
‘One pair blue denim GAP jeans size forty, one pair Primark navy tracksuit bottoms size XXL, one pair black Adidas shorts XXL, one pair Nike trainers size forty-eight and a half—’
‘Forty-eight and a half?’ Chang exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell! Didn’t know they made them that big.’
‘Goes with the rest of him,’ Tartaglia replied. ‘You’ve seen the photos. He could have given Shrek a run for his money. One wash bag containing toothbrush, razor, Lynx Africa body spray . . .’
The list went on, a collection of unremarkable personal items and clothes, most well-worn and in need of a good wash, no items of any value other than a very scratched iPod. The side pockets yielded little of interest until he found a pocket inside another pocket, which was zipped shut and held together with a small combination padlock. They broke it open and found Finnigan’s passport (expired) inside, along with just over two thousand pounds in cash, a very sharp knife with a retractable blade and a bundle of letters rolled up and held together with a rubber band. Tartaglia unfurled them and began quickly skimming through the contents of the various envelopes. A couple of letters and postcards were signed by Chapman, with a few from one of Finnigan’s children, as well as a birthday card and a bunch of letters from his mother, sent from an address in Nottingham. Reading the letters, a mother’s blind, unwavering love came through loud and clear: in spite of everything, Finnigan had been her blue-eyed boy. They would have to organise someone from the local force to go and see her as soon as possible in order to break the news of her son’s death.
In amongst the pile, he found a letter from a woman called Tatyana. Written on cheap lined paper, the sort found in any local newsagent, the English was poor and the handwriting childlike. It revealed nothing about how they had met, but she talked about having been to see Finnigan in prison and ‘liking very much’ what she saw. The gist of it was that she couldn’t wait for him to get out and that she was going to send him some ‘very special pictures’ of herself. He hadn’t come across any photos in the bag, so either Finnigan had got rid of them or carried them with him, possibly in his wallet. It seemed very likely that she was the woman he had gone to meet. There was no address on the letterhead, just a date a few weeks before Finnigan was released from jail. The date corresponded to the postmark on the envelope, which showed that the letter had been posted in South West London.
‘Call the prison. She will have had to produce ID and a proof of address to see him. I’ll carry on here until you’re done.’
While Chang went off to make the call in the next-door office, Tartaglia finished unpacking the rest of Finnigan’s possessions. When he was sure there was nothing else of any interest, he began folding up the clothes and putting them back carefully in the bag with the other items. Finnigan’s mother would probably want her son’s things. He was just finishing the last few entries on the inventory when Steele poked her head around the door.
‘Busy?’
‘Yes. Justin’s gone to make a call. With any luck, we may have found one of the last people to see Jake Finnigan alive.’
‘OK. I’ll get someone else to run Sam back to your flat, then.’
‘Sam?’
‘Yes, she’s in my office. She wanted to know a bit more about what happened to Claire. I could see she wasn’t going to give up on it so I gave her the basics. I just left out the material details. In case she asks you when you see her later, I’ll fill you in before you leave.’
As she disappeared from view, Chang came back into the room. ‘She’s called Tatyana Kuznetsova and she lives in Kilburn. I’ve got the address. Do you want to go over there now?’
‘No. I’ve got things to do. Call the local station, see if you can get an interview room, then you and Nick bring her in. I want to make this formal. When you’re there with her, call me.’