Just after eight-thirty that evening, Tartaglia decided to call it a day. He put on his jacket, shouldered his rucksack and walked out of his office into the corridor. Hannah Bird was just coming out of the ladies room. She looked different. Looking closer, he noticed that she was wearing her hair loose for a change, and had put on make-up. It suited her.
‘You off out somewhere?’ he asked, picking up the scent of some sort of fresh, flowery perfume.
‘Just meeting a friend for a quick drink, Sir.’
‘You look nice. Have fun.’
‘Thanks.’ She gave a self-conscious smile.
‘See you in the morning.’
A drink was just what he needed, he decided, as he turned towards the main stairs. Thinking of his conversation earlier with Isobel Smart, he decided to head for the Sun Inn, which was just up the road. It seemed silly going there when he could drink at home, but Donovan would be at the flat and he wanted to be on his own for a while longer, undisturbed. Also, the general buzz of background noise in the pub somehow made it easy to switch off.
‘You going home?’ Chang asked, jogging up the stairs towards him with what looked like a takeaway dinner in his hands.
‘Drink first,’ he said, hoping Chang wouldn’t try and join him. ‘Thought I’d try the Sun Inn. Haven’t been there in ages.’
Outside, he paused on the steps and lit a cigarette. The atmosphere at the briefing meeting that evening had been electric, with almost the entire team packed into the small room. Minderedes had just got back from Winchester, where he’d attended the first hour or so of the post-mortem on the Guy Fawkes remains. Based on a cursory examination, the pathologist had confirmed that the Guy had indeed been assembled from multiple body parts belonging to what appeared to be two adult males and a female. Luckily, the local fire brigade had been on hand at the Guy Fawkes event and had managed to put out the fire relatively quickly. The body parts salvaged from the bonfire were in a better condition than those retrieved from the Sainsbury’s car park fire. Neat, regular stitches were still visible in certain places where the flesh had been laced together with what looked like twine. As with the Sainsbury’s fire, the bones had been sawn through at the joint with a serrated blade. Samples of the twine had been sent off for analysis, and the DNA results from the body parts would come through the following day. They would then be compared with those from the burnt-out car, as well as with the DNA of Richard English’s son. The key question was whether these remains were from the same bodies as before, or whether they were looking at a new set of victims. In the meantime, they had a few hours of peace before the media frenzy would begin.
The news that the Guy Fawkes bonfire appeared to be linked to the Sainsbury’s fire changed everything, as well as complicating the picture. What looked like two multiple killings with a similar MO, in different police jurisdictions, was an operational nightmare for all those involved. Steele had gone to see her superiors at Homicide West Command at the Peel Centre in Hendon, and high-level discussions were now underway between the Metropolitan Police and the Hampshire Constabulary to determine how a joint operation would be run, with a formal press briefing scheduled for first thing the next morning. There was no standard procedure for such circumstances, and Tartaglia wondered what the outcome would be and how it would affect him and his team. In the meantime, it was business as usual, except that there was now an additional fly in the ointment: Melinda Knight, a reporter he knew who worked on the crime desk of one of the tabloids, had been trying to get hold of him urgently and had left several messages. She hadn’t left any details, but it was clear she knew more than she should. Although curious, he had so far resisted the urge to call her back – the less he said to anyone, the better – and she could obtain her information at the briefing the next morning, along with everyone else.
As he crossed the nearly empty car park, he checked his watch. The post-mortem would be over by now and he wondered if there was any further news. He called Ramsey’s mobile and found him at home, sounding a little shell-shocked from the events of the day.
‘It’s definitely a series, then,’ Ramsey said gloomily. The Winchester area was hardly a hotbed of violent crime and at most he probably saw a handful of suspicious deaths in the course of a year. Serial killings, with the attendant media circus, were clearly a new experience for him and it sounded as though he didn’t relish what lay ahead.
‘Looks that way,’ Tartaglia replied. ‘Parts of the London body belong to two men who were reported missing in the last year. So far, it’s the only common link. I’ve emailed you over the E-FIT I showed you this morning. It’s quite possible your man’s beard is a disguise and someone might recognise him without it. We’ll also try re-jigging the E-FIT to see if adding a beard makes any difference. You might want to try both versions. Once we get them over to you, flood the place. Shops, cafés, pubs, B&Bs . . . Somebody somewhere will have seen him, plus he must have local knowledge, to do what he did with that Guy and get away with it.’
Tartaglia heard the clatter of plates in the background and a woman shouting Ramsey’s Christian name. He ended the call and went out through the main gate into the street.
An old white TR6 was parked on a double line just beyond the entrance. As he walked past the vehicle, he was aware of somebody getting out. He heard the clunk of the door, followed by the click of heels on wet pavement just behind him.
‘Hey, Mark. What kept you so long?’
He recognised the husky voice and turned to face Melinda Knight. ‘How’d you know I was here?’
‘You’re not at home, so . . .’
‘Are you spying on me?’
She tapped her small nose. ‘Just an informed guess. Can I have a quick word?’
Short and pretty, with a deceptively girlish face and a mane of crimson-red hair, she was dressed in an ancient-looking fur coat thrown over skin-tight black leather leggings, and ridiculously high-heeled ankle boots. It wasn’t a look that suited most people, but she wore it well.
‘It’s never quick with you and I’m busy.’ He turned and started walking towards the green.
‘Come on, Mark,’ she called out behind him. ‘Give me a break. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.’
He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt into the gutter and turned around again. ‘I’m not exactly keen to talk to you, Melinda. Last time we spoke – off the record, you said – you got me into hot water.’
‘That wasn’t me, Mark,’ she said, catching up. ‘You know what it’s like. My editor insisted on putting that stupid quote in. I don’t burn my contacts. It’s one of my golden rules.’
‘But it came from you. I guess you must have told him in your sleep.’
She waved the remark away, saying, ‘That was over ages ago. I’m single again, if it’s of any interest.’ She gave him a meaningful look, but he knew not to read anything into it or to react.
‘It’s not,’ he said firmly. They had almost gone to bed together on a couple of occasions, but something had got in the way each time. It was unfinished business that would probably remain that way, if he were at all sensible. ‘I’m only interested in going home. Alone.’
‘Oh come on, a few moments’ll do. I won’t spill any beans you don’t want me to spill.’
‘There are no beans to spill and I’ve got nothing to say.’
He turned away and started heading towards the Sun Inn, although he knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.
‘Please, Mark. I think you’ll find it’s important.’
He kept walking. She clearly knew something; more than she should, no doubt. But how much more and about what aspect of his case, was the question. No doubt he would soon find out.
‘I know you were in Aldford today, Mark,’ she called out. He heard the swift tap-tap of her heels behind him. ‘Don’t you want to talk to me about it?
Not wanting to react and too tired to feel really surprised by anything, he hunched his shoulders against the non-existent wind and kept walking, wondering how she knew. If someone had talked, was there more? He needed to find out, but Melinda usually played her cards close to her chest and was a master at reading body language. Rumour had it that she had played poker professionally in her twenties and had once won a huge sum of money, which she’d used to buy her house. Whether it was true or not, he’d learned not to trust her, nor to trust himself with her. The trick would be to find out what she knew without giving anything in return. In his current state, he didn’t rate his odds.
‘I know all about Mr Fawkes and his remarkable face,’ she shouted. ‘Poor little boy must have got quite a shock. Must have been just like Halloween.’
It was worse than he’d anticipated. He swung around to face her, hoping his expression didn’t betray his confusion. Where the leak had come from wasn’t clear, but that didn’t matter for the moment – it wouldn’t be the first time that things had leaked during an investigation. Press briefing aside, if she knew about it, it would be all over the papers by the morning.
‘Who else did you have to screw to find that out?’ he shouted back.
She laughed. ‘Nobody. Look, I’ve just got a few little questions,’ she said breathlessly, trotting towards him. ‘It won’t take a minute. Honest. Then I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘I don’t want to talk to you, Melinda.’
‘Yes you do, Mark. You always do. Come on, let’s go and get a drink and we can have a nice little chat. Off the record. And I mean it this time. Promise.’
He could smell her perfume. It was strong and spicy and he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. Her heavy silver bracelets jangled as she swept a lock of hair off her face. Her black-lined eyes sparkled. He hadn’t the energy to fight. Also he needed to find out what she knew.
‘Just a very quick word, then.’
She was still smiling. ‘Guide’s honour.’
‘As if you were ever in the Guides. You’ve changed your hair colour again, I see.’
‘I got bored of being a blonde.’
‘I preferred it black.’
‘Yeah, but I kept getting mistaken for Amy Lee, which got really annoying. Every time I went out for a pack of fags, I’d get pestered for my autograph. Who’d be a celebrity, eh?’ She looped her arm into his and they crossed Barnes High Street and walked into the small front garden of the Sun Inn. In summer it was a suntrap and always packed, whatever the hour. But on this damp, late-autumn evening it was deserted, apart from a young couple having a smoke and what sounded like a row under one of the patio heaters. They went inside and up to the bar.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘It’s on me.’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t let a hack like you buy me a drink.’
‘Post-Leveson paranoia getting to you?’
‘I don’t want to be in your debt, however small.’
‘Alright, I’ll pretend we’re on a date. Vodka and Slimline please. Make it a double. I’ll go and get us a quiet corner.’
‘No. We can stay at the bar. I want this to be open and above board, plus this is not going to be a long session.’
She made a face. ‘OK. But let’s sit outside. Please? I’m dying for a fag.’
He watched her go, noticing the easy sway of her hips, the flash of her heels, and feeling annoyed with himself that he had allowed things to get this far. He ordered her drink and a single malt for himself. While he was waiting for them, he glanced around the room. He could understand why it was popular with the locals. It was a nice, cosy place to sit and enjoy a drink, with its old wooden floors, comfy leather sofas and low lighting. The food wasn’t bad either. He wondered if any of the people dotted around at various tables were Jim Adams and Tony Boyle, John Smart’s old drinking buddies. There was no point approaching any of them with Melinda at his heels. In any event, before they were interviewed the next morning, he wanted to spend more time reading through the Missing Persons report on Smart’s disappearance, as well as Smart’s diary, both of which were now in his bag. Just one quick drink and then he’d go home.
The barman slid the two glasses towards him and handed him his change. He carried the drinks outside and found Melinda sitting on a bench against the wall, under a heater. She took a cigarette out of her bag and put it to her lips. He lit it for her and sat down opposite.
‘Cheers,’ she said, holding up her glass.
‘This is not a celebration, nor is it a date. Let’s get down to business.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘It’s really nice to see you too, Mark.’
‘What do you want, Melinda?’
‘OK. I know about the Guy Fawkes body, or bodies, should I say? There’s no point asking me how I know.’
‘I didn’t for a minute think there was.’
‘Do you have IDs for them yet?’
‘No comment.’
She was watching him closely. ‘I’ll take that as a “no”, then, but we’re talking about a serial killing, of course, and you know how everyone loves a serial killer. Now, the fire in the Sainsbury’s car park, that has many similarities, doesn’t it? There’s this ex-con, plus two others. The killer assembles them a bit like a jigsaw puzzle—’
Tartaglia slammed down his glass and stood up. ‘How the fuck, Melinda! You’ve gone too far. Where did you get this from?’
‘Why is it too far? I just know what you know, more or less. It’s only what you’ll be feeding everyone else at the briefing in the morning, isn’t it? What’s wrong with my knowing a few hours early?’
‘It’s not yet decided how much will come out at the briefing. How did you get that information? Who did you have to pay?’
‘Stop being so high and mighty and sit down. I didn’t pay, and you know full well that as a journalist, I can’t and won’t reveal my sources.’ She reached over and grabbed his hand. ‘Anyway’ she went on, ‘why the hell should we have stuff dribbled out to us as and when it suits you? The public have a right to know.’
‘But somebody on the inside sold you that info.’
‘Not true. As I said, I didn’t have to pay. Please will you sit down? Pretty please? There’s more.’ She opened her blue eyes wide.
How much more, he wondered, pulling his hand away. He needed to find out. Then he would call Steele. Reluctantly, he sank down in his chair. Why, if she seemed to hold all the cards, was she there? What did she really want from him?
‘Who’s been talking? Is it a member of my team, someone I work with?’
‘It doesn’t matter, but no, it’s not, if that makes you feel better. What matters is that people are going missing. They leave home one day and don’t come back. Loved ones are left waiting, hoping . . . Hoping that the ring of a phone or the sound of a key in the lock is the person they’re desperately missing. But they’re not coming back, are they? There’s a nutter on the loose and he needs to be stopped. How many more victims do you think are going to be taken off the streets, killed and set on fire? How many?’
He took a mouthful of whisky. ‘Save the purple prose for your rag. This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘But it’s all true.’
‘When is this tripe hitting the front page?’
‘Tomorrow. We’re calling him the Jigsaw Killer. Do you like that?’
‘Jesus. Can’t you give the hard-bitten journo act a break for once? You’re in danger of becoming a cliché.’
‘It’s what our readers want, Mark. I’m just doing an honest day’s work, same as you.’
He shook his head wearily. ‘Honest doesn’t come into it.’
There was a softer side to her, a side that he really liked, but those moments were fleeting and seemed far away. He’d often wondered what she would have been like in a more caring profession, but in the end he couldn’t imagine her doing anything else. Like so many hacks he had met in the course of his work, she lived on the adrenalin buzz of making a discovery. In some ways, she was no different to him.
‘Why are you telling me all this? What’s the point?’ he asked.
‘Because I want your input. What do you think of it all? Surely even you must find it weird?’
‘Murder is weird.’
‘Are the killings random, do you think?’
He said nothing, just shook his head again and stared down into the dark yellow depths of his drink.
‘OK. At least you can tell me who’s going to run the operation. I’m assuming it’s the Met. I mean, the Hampshire Constabulary have no real expertise in serial killings.’
He held up his hand. ‘Just stop right there. Nice though it is to see you, Melinda, and it is nice, or it would be in other circumstances, you know I can’t tell you anything. You’ll find out all the answers you need at the press briefing tomorrow.’
‘Let’s talk in general terms, then. I’m fascinated by the psychology of it. I mean, what point is the killer trying to make?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘What about fire? Is it symbolic, do you think? Are we talking the eternal flames of punishment or purification?’ She frowned. ‘Problem is, I don’t get it. I just don’t get the point of it. Why . . .’
‘You’ve been doing this long enough to know that things don’t often make sense.’
‘Well, it bugs me.’ She took a drag on her cigarette and leaned back in her seat, narrowing her eyes as she blew out a series of perfect rings. ‘Will you get a profiler involved?’
He shook his head. ‘Come on, Melinda . . .’
‘OK. I know profiling’s not the flavour of the month these days. Too many bloody cock-ups, I suppose.’
He gazed at her for a moment, wondering why she was talking such a load of drivel. She was never one to waste her breath and it struck him that she was trying to hide what she really wanted in a cloud of less important things. There was definitely something else and he decided to make her work for it. ‘Right. I think we’ve covered everything. I’m tired and I need an early night.’ He knocked back the remainder of the whisky and made a move to stand up.
She put her hand on his sleeve. ‘Wait, Mark, please. Just one more little thing.’
‘Sorry. Gotta go.’
‘This is the last thing, I promise.’
‘What is it?’
‘Say I’m the killer, murdering people, cutting them up, reassembling the bits . . .’
‘You’re making him sound like Dr Frankenstein.’
‘He is a bit like Frankenstein, you’re right. I didn’t think of that. But if he’s Frankenstein making a monster, why set fire to the poor monster, and why stop at two fires?’
He sighed. ‘Why do you expect any of this to be logical? You know better than that.’
‘But think about it. Even if I only kill a few people, I’ve got enough spare parts to—’
‘Get to the point.’
‘OK. Do you think there’s been another fire somewhere?’
He stared at her for a moment, but it was useless trying to gauge anything from her expression. Her face was blank, as though she were asking a simple, unloaded question. But it was far from that. The same question had been popping up in his mind like a nagging Jack-in-the-Box ever since seeing Dr Moran. The basic screens had yielded nothing so far, but maybe they needed to dig a little deeper. He wondered if in fact she knew more than he did. Maybe she had uncovered something – it wouldn’t be the first time. Or was she just fishing?
‘Another fire?’ he asked guardedly.
‘Another body – another collection of body parts – on a fire. You know what I mean.’
‘Been, or will be?’ He tried to sound uninterested, forcing his spiralling thoughts away.
She was looking at him just as intently. ‘Either, I guess. I mean, somebody like this doesn’t just stop, do they?’
She was right and he felt the inexorable pressure of her words. It was the race against time beloved by the media. Cold-blooded serial killers like the one they were hunting kept on killing until either they were caught or they died. The nightmarish fear of every detective was failure to find them in time to save another life, but he couldn’t let his worry show. ‘You said “been”. Past tense. The future is hypothetical. We can all theorise endlessly about that.’
‘Don’t be such a bloody tease. Is there a third fire? Come on, you must have had the same thought, surely? Yes? Or have you . . .’ Her eyes flicked up to a point over his shoulder and she stopped speaking, mouth slightly open.
He looked around. DCI Steele was standing immediately behind him.
‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ she said to Tartaglia, with a glance at Melinda.
‘Not at all.’ He stifled a sigh of frustration. Her timing couldn’t have been worse.
‘Justin said he’d seen you heading this way for a drink and then I spotted you two sitting out here.’
Melinda stood up. ‘I’m just going.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and knocked back the rest of her vodka in one. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mark.’ As she picked up her bag and turned to go, she made a phone sign and mouthed the words ‘call me’ to Tartaglia. She then blew him a kiss.
‘You two looked rather cosy,’ Steele said, as Melinda Knight exited through the garden gate.
‘Hardly.’
‘What’s it about then? Or is that a stupid question?’
‘Work. And it’s bad news, I’m afraid. Can I get you a drink? I certainly need another.’
‘Diet coke. I’m driving.’
They went inside and up to the bar. ‘A diet coke and a Lagavulin,’ he said to the barman. ‘Actually, make that a double. On the rocks.’
‘Not driving?’ Steele asked.
‘No.’
‘Where’s the Ducati?’
‘In the garage for a service. I haven’t had time to pick it up.’
‘How were you getting home?’
‘Unless it starts raining again, I thought I might walk. I need to clear my head.’
‘I’ll go and find us another table,’ she said. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather sit inside.’