A greyish but sharp glare streamed through the window of the BMW as Tartaglia and Minderedes headed out of London on the M3 towards Winchester. Tartaglia flipped down the sun shield, but it made little difference. He sank deeper into the passenger seat and closed his eyes, letting the innocuous sound of Rihanna’s ‘Diamonds’ wash over him. He was exhausted. The sofa he was sleeping on at home was comfortable to sit on, but it was far too narrow for him to spread out the way he liked to do in bed. It was also on the soft side and several inches too short. He couldn’t work out where to put his feet. Around three in the morning he had given up and put the seat and back cushions on the floor as a makeshift bed. He had eventually rolled off them and woke up with a stiff neck and a headache.
He’d got up and left the flat early that morning, with only time to grab a quick cup of black coffee on the way. Donovan was still asleep. They had received a tip-off about a fire involving a human body. It had been dressed up as a Guy and placed on top of a bonfire at a fireworks party in a small town outside Winchester. A follow up call to Winchester CID had established that the body was not in one piece. The head had rolled off into the crowd at the party and the officer described how the legs and arms had also fallen off as the rest of the body was being removed from the fire ‘as though they weren’t properly attached’. The similarities were sufficient to warrant further investigation, particularly as two witnesses had seen a man acting suspiciously around the bonfire. Apart from the ID for Jake Finnigan, there was still no word back from the lab on the DNA samples taken from the other body parts in the Sainsbury’s car park fire. He hoped to get the results later that day.
As he dozed, head against the cold glass, a jumble of images spun through his mind: night-time and the dimly lit bedroom in the Dillon Hotel, Claire lying across the bed; the fire in the car park, the charred fragments of body in the car; snake-eyed Tatyana; Chris, the man with the cross on his hand who doesn’t want sex, Jake Finnigan . . . Why wait six months after killing Finnigan to set fire to his body? Wealthy Richard English missing for two years, his wallet and keys on the ground by the car, the homeless man known as Dodger . . . Were they one and the same? Lisa English, Ian Armstrong, so much to gain financially. Spidery red letters carved into Claire’s thighs. What I am, you will be . . . What I am, you will be . . . What I am . . . Who am I? Death. The Dead. The words spooled round and round. Claire is dead. You will be too. Who was ‘you’? Who did the killer mean? Were the words there for a reason, or was it just a tease . . .
‘We’re here, Sir. Sir?’
Minderedes’s voice jolted him awake. He opened his eyes and saw that they had pulled up in a parking lot beside a large brick building, signed Recreation Centre. He glanced at his watch. The journey had taken the best part of an hour. He stretched and watched as Minderedes got out of the car and went to greet a stocky middle-aged man who had emerged from a nearby car. The DI from Winchester CID, Tartaglia assumed. They exchanged a few words, then came towards the BMW. As Tartaglia got out, the man came over and introduced himself as DI John Ramsey, based at Winchester.
‘I understand there was a fireworks party,’ Tartaglia said, once the basic introductions were out of the way and they started walking towards the playing fields behind the building.
‘Yes. Happens every year,’ Ramsey said. ‘They usually get about a thousand people, or so. Sometimes more. They start with a big procession down the high street with torches and candles, then they come down here. The bonfire’s at the bottom of one of the fields over there.’ He jerked his head in the direction. ‘Anyway, they set light to it. It’s soaked in kerosene so it doesn’t take long to get going. They’re all standing around watching it go up as usual, and then Guy Fawkes’ head falls off. It lands on the ground and some little boy sees it and realises it’s not a bloody dummy, then people start screaming blue murder, you get the picture.’
‘Where does the Guy usually come from?’ Minderedes asked.
‘The local school. There’s a competition each year.’
‘And who puts the Guy on the bonfire?’
‘There’s a rota of volunteers from the school, plus locals, but again, because it’s a weekday, they had to use whoever offered. Somebody went to the school yesterday to get Mr Fawkes but was told he’d already been collected, although nobody can remember who by. Next thing he’s sitting on top of the bonfire. Nobody asked any questions about how he got there and nobody’s seen anything suspicious.’
‘Any witnesses?’ Tartaglia asked.
‘The boy I told you about saw a man in the crowd acting suspiciously. Somebody else – a woman on one of the catering stands – said she saw a man hanging around earlier in the day who seemed a bit odd. That’s about it, I’m afraid.’
‘What about the rest of the body?’
‘Gone off with the head to the mortuary.’
‘OK. I’ll need to speak to them when we’re done. In the meantime, you’d better show me where all this happened.’
The area beyond the car park had been cordoned off and they signed in with a uniformed PC. Ramsey led the way, Minderedes following, picking his way gingerly through the muddy ground in what looked like a new pair of shoes. Fields and rolling hills stretched into the distance, with woods beyond. The grass was dotted with abandoned stalls and marquees, left where they stood the previous night. They followed a line of trees down a gradual incline towards an open space at the bottom where the charred remains of a huge bonfire sat in the middle.
‘We had to get the fire brigade to put it out,’ Ramsey said.
‘How did they get access down here?’ Tartaglia asked, looking around. As far as he could see, there was nothing but a narrow, well-trodden, muddy track.
‘There’s a lane just over there behind the hedge. It runs between the two fields. They use it to bring in the wood and stuff for the bonfire. It was all stacked under those tarpaulins over there to keep it dry until the actual day. Whoever brought the Guy must have come in the same way. You wouldn’t want to be carting something heavy, let alone dodgy, all the way from the car park.’
Tartaglia nodded. ‘And nobody saw the Guy brought in?’
‘Nobody’s come forward so far.’
‘Who uses these sports fields?’ Minderedes asked.
‘People from the town and the local school. Whoever did this had local knowledge.’
Tartaglia nodded in agreement. ‘I’ve seen enough for now,’ he said. ‘I’d like to talk to the witnesses as soon as possible. We have an E-FIT of a suspect we’d like to show them.’
‘Right. I suggest we start with Liz Hallion. She runs a sandwich shop in the high street. I told her we’d be along. The boy – Josh – may be at school. I’ll get one of my colleagues to check and if so, tell him to go home. We can go and see him after.’
‘Do you celebrate Guy Fawkes night in Scotland?’ Minderedes asked Tartaglia, as they started to walk back up the hill towards the car park.
‘We have Bonfire Night, with lots of fireworks. It’s really an excuse for a mini Hogmanay. Nobody cares that someone once tried to blow up your king . . .’
‘Your king, you mean. Wasn’t he Scottish?’
Tartaglia laughed. Although third generation Italian, he had been born and brought up in Edinburgh and counted himself as much a Scot as an Italian. ‘OK, then. Your Houses of Parliament.’
‘And you a Catholic, Sir. You should be on the side of Guido Fawkes.’
‘Yes. I was forgetting that that was what it was all about. Religion has a lot to answer for.’
Donovan heard the sound of the front door banging shut and a moment later, Sharon Fuller bustled into Tartaglia’s sitting room, carrying a large shopping bag and an umbrella. ‘I’ve brought you some groceries,’ she said. ‘I’ll just go and put them away.’
‘Thank you,’ Donovan replied from the sofa, wondering why Tartaglia had given Fuller a key. ‘But I don’t need anything.’
Fuller appeared not to have heard her and was already heading towards the kitchen. Reluctantly, she got up, turned off the television and followed behind.
‘It’s just a few bits and pieces,’ Fuller said, starting to unpack the contents of the bag onto the counter. ‘I noticed the fridge was empty yesterday. Mark’s too busy to worry himself about such things at the moment.’
Irritated at the intrusion, along with the assumption that she couldn’t deal with “such things” herself, Donovan watched from the door as Fuller put the various items away in the fridge and nearby cupboards. When she was done, she went over to the sink, washed her hands quickly, then turned to face Donovan. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Been out somewhere?’
‘No.’
‘Your cheeks are pink and you’ve got a leaf in your hair.’ She pointed.
As usual, she missed nothing. Donovan ran her fingers through her hair and found the dead leaf, which she scrunched up in her fingers. ‘I just went out for a quick walk around the block, that’s all. Needed some fresh air.’
‘Let me make you a cup of tea? I could do with one myself.’
‘OK,’ Donovan said grudgingly. She hadn’t the energy to argue. Simpler just to let Fuller go through the motions, then she would be gone sooner. She sat down at the table.
Fuller switched on the kettle and took out two mugs from the cupboard. ‘Are you managing to sleep OK?’ she asked, dropping a teabag into each of them.
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t true but there was no point explaining. The pills seemed to take for ever to kick in and, when they did, they only knocked her out for a few hours. It wasn’t enough. She had been back to see her GP, but he had refused to give her anything stronger. Whether it was the pills or the lack of sleep or both, she felt disorientated and could barely string two thoughts together, let alone a sentence. How was she going to be of any use in her current state?
Sharon was looking at her with concern. ‘Are you alright, Sam?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired.’
‘Are you hungry? Can I make you anything to eat?’
Donovan shook her head. ‘I don’t feel hungry.’
‘What about some cereal, or I could make you a sandwich?’
‘No.’
‘OK. You just let me know when you need something.’
‘I just need time on my own,’ Donovan said, but Sharon had already turned away, busy pouring water into the mugs. She prodded them vigorously with a spoon, muttering something under her breath as she dropped the teabags in the bin and added a drop of milk to each mug.
‘Here you go,’ she said after a moment, coming over with the mugs to where Donovan was sitting and plonking herself down opposite. ‘Have you thought any more about seeing a counsellor?’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t see the point.’
‘I know, but it really helps a lot of people.’
‘I’m not a lot of people. I don’t want to talk to anybody about what’s happened. It won’t do any good.’
‘I understand. I just thought maybe—’
‘And I don’t need looking after.’
Sharon peered at her over the rim of her spectacles. ‘Yes, you do, Sam. I know you better than most and you’re not looking after yourself. You look dreadful, if you don’t mind my saying. Even if you’ve lost your appetite, you need to force yourself to eat, and you need to drink or you’ll get dehydrated. However terrible you feel, you’ve got to try and make a bit of an effort.’
Donovan bit her lip and glanced away into a far corner of the room. Sharon was right, of course, and was just trying to be kind, but she felt sick, her stomach a tight knot. There was so much she ought to be doing, people she should be talking to about Claire. Looking through Claire’s iPad, she was struck by what different lives they had led. Different friends, different taste in music, in books, in their choice of work, and in men. What was it about Claire that had attracted the killer?
‘I know you probably don’t feel like cooking,’ Sharon was saying. ‘Would you like me to drop some more food over for you later? I made a great casserole last night and there’s some left over. I could stay and heat it up.’
‘Thank you, Sharon, but I’m just not hungry. Really.’
‘As I said, you’ve got to force yourself.’
‘I’ll pick something up from the shops when I go out. Or I can get a takeaway.’ It was clear from Sharon’s expression that she didn’t believe her, but Donovan didn’t care.
‘Is there any news about your dad?’ Sharon asked, after a moment.
Donovan shook her head. Hopefully her mother would call again later. She, too, was up all hours of the night, getting what sleep she could on a bench outside her husband’s room, unwilling to leave the hospital even for a minute in case he took a turn for the worse.
She took a sip of tea. It was good and strong, but Sharon had put sugar in it. She put the mug down and stared at Sharon. ‘You said you’d tell me what’s going on with the investigation,’ she said. ‘You said you’d find out. Is there any news?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Something must be happening. There must be some progress.’
‘I can ask again, but they won’t give me the sort of details you want. You know that.’
Donovan shook her head. It wasn’t true. If Sharon wanted to find out, she could. They would tell her. It wasn’t just Sharon either. They were all keeping things from her, important things, the details that mattered, the details that would help her find out who had killed Claire. They thought they were doing their best for her, protecting her from the truth, but they were treating her like a child. There must be another way to get the information she needed . . .